It's not a job, it's a career

New parents are so funny.

I was one once, and I didn’t know at the time that I was funny. I think back to ALL of the time spent planning the nursery, scouring for the perfect crib set, stocking up on size 1 diapers and carefully piling them up into a narrow skyscraper of diapers in the diaper stacker. The little booties, baby socks and massive collection of bibs with clever sayings on them.

Now, of course, I realize that 90% of that stuff is completely unnecessary. At 4 am, when the baby wants to eat and needs to be changed for the fourth time that night, you don’t give a crap whether the crib sheet matches the quilt. Booties? They never get used. Socks? Same thing, unless you’re taking them OUT to a party or something and you feel that, somehow, that little stretchy sleeper is inappropriate attire for a baby. (I never understood those people, either. Taking a baby to a party? I became a recluse for the first few months of my son’s life. I think he was 4 months old before I became brave enough to venture out to Target with him in tow.)

The bibs? Well, I used those. My son was a massive drooler.

Anyway, you plan so furtively for the baby’s arrival with all of these organically soft, personally embroidered THINGS, that you don’t realize what you’re going to need the most aren’t things at all. Hell, if I knew how isolated and overwhelmed I was going to feel, I would have returned all of the things that I received and cashed them in for sessions with a therapist (and a reliable babysitter).

So, I know. I know what it’s like. I know what new parents are in for, in spite of all of their careful planning and registering, and for that, I offer up prayers (or chuckle evilly to myself, depending on my mood).

But one thing that has always mystified me: after a couple has their first child and you read their first e-mail or newsletter announcing the big event, 9 times out of 10 they’ll say, “We can’t remember what our lives were like before little Pooky came along!”

When I used to see this years ago, before marrying and becoming a parent myself, I thought, really? You can’t remember what your life was like pre-child?? I would think of my own life, in my own apartment, where I could come and go as I pleased and sleep as late as I wanted, and think to myself you know, I think I would remember this. I would remember my blissfully sleep-full nights when I’m up pacing the floor at 3 am with a crying baby. But what do I know… I’m not a parent yet.

And now, as a parent, having experienced the incredible joys of having children and the meaning that they give your life, I think to myself…

REALLY? You can’t remember what your life was like before you had kids?? Because I sure can. And it was wonderful.

So then that makes me wonder if I’m doing something wrong. Am I supposed to forget my life before I had children? Why can’t I?

I’ve always thought I was missing some kind of fundamental mommy chip. Shortly after I became a mother, I remember meeting a friend of my mom’s and she asked me, a big smile on her face and in a knowing voice as if she already knew the answer, “Do you love it?” I remember it taking some effort for me to swallow, smile politely, croak out a “Yes,” and wondering if I actually was ever really going to believe that.

As the years passed, I became better at the mothering thing, more comfortable and less concerned that I was going to drop someone, but those fond memories of my life ALONE seemed to become more and more bathed in this ethereal golden light every time I recalled them. Every so often I would briefly think about returning to work, but that terrible mommy guilt would besiege me before I could truly consider it. And so it went. Too many days, when I felt I should be attending mommy & me classes, going to storytime at the library or conducting Martha Stewart-esque craft classes in my family room, I found myself instead watching the clock and willing the time to go by until my husband came home.

Like I have so many other things, I imagined being a stay-at-home mom so different than it turned out to be. I mean, my feelings for my children have far surpassed what I thought they could be. On the other hand, our daily lives together are a far cry from what I’d envisioned so long ago – me puttering around a sun-bathed kitchen while my child ate breakfast in a high chair and watching Sesame Street. On a weekday morning. Imagine that! When you work, you just long to be home. And when you’re sick, or taking a mental health day, and you actually ARE home, you have this exhilarating sense of freedom and luxury. I’m home! On a WEEKDAY! What do I do with myself? Watch Regis and Kelly… or take a nap? Go out for breakfast? The possibilities are endless… decadent, even.

And yet, when you have a small person to care for, that decadent feeling is gone. You’re not working at a regular job, yet you have new responsibilities, bigger ones than you had before. It sounds like such a cliché, but it truly is the hardest job I’ve ever had. (Or maybe I’ve just had ridiculously easy jobs.) But when a job swallows you up so completely, it’s easy to lose sight of everything else, including yourself. Suddenly my peripheral vision disappeared and tunnel vision took its place, framing the face of my little angel. (But not any cooking, laundry or cleaning of any kind – they weren’t in the picture. Just my son.) Not living near any family and being thrust into this new job where you can’t ever clock out, my old tendency to withdraw suddenly reared its head again. Every day, all day, it was just me and him, as we both seemed inmates of this little prison I’d created for us, our cell dotted with stuffed animals and musical toys that flashed lights and played the alphabet song.

Looking back, more objectively, I wonder why I didn’t just scoop him up, throw him in the car and get out to visit a friend or family member even just once a week. I did, eventually, but not soon enough and not often enough. I do remember at the time being obsessed with his naps, which I steadfastly adhered to. I can appreciate keeping that routine, even now, but I do realize that I could have bent the rules a little more often than I did for the sake of my sanity.

Now, I haven’t exactly morphed into the mom I always imagined I’d be. A chilly day will often still give me permission to hole up in our warm family room instead of venturing out to the aquarium or going on a playdate. I begin watching the clock around dinnertime with frequent time checks until my husband calls to let me know he’s on his way home, and I still find it difficult to get down on the floor and enjoy another riveting game of that damn never-ending Chutes and Ladders. And, often, I recall with great fondness what my life was like before my two little angels came along. Still, I have come to accept these things about myself and I realize they have no effect on the all-encompassing, almost shocking love I’ve come to experience. I know that I’m doing the best that I can, that it’s ok not to be supermom, and that a bad day will eventually end. And as long as my bosses give me the feedback that they always do, I’ll know that I am, in fact, doing a good job.

Pick your battles, pick your eaters

I originally wrote about 90% of this over a year ago. Better late than never. ;)

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Dinner isn’t ready yet. It will be soon.”
“I can’t wait. I think when dinner is ready, I’ll just… eat the whole thing and there will be no more food.”
So whined my 5-year-old son. Over and over for the better part of an hour. The kid eats and eats and eats, and when he’s not eating, he’s talking about food. He (and I) were waiting not-so-patiently for dinner to be done. As I am so innately creative on rainy Mondays in January, I had whipped up the “cheesy chicken casserole” printed on the back of a creamed soup can. I was pretty pleased with that, too. After a whole day of child rearing and shuttling my pre-kindergartner to and from school in a downpour, it’s lucky that I actually cooked anything at all. Many of our dinners lately are comprised of a can of chicken and stars soup or scrambled eggs. I find that by 6 pm, any creativity I may have had in the morning has long since disappeared and it certainly does not manifest itself in the form of a fabulous dinner.
So, dinner was finally done. This meant not just cooked, but spent sufficient time in the refrigerator cooling off so that I wouldn’t get complaints of it being too hot. My son sat down to his Thomas plate and started drinking his watered-down apple juice… for far too long.
“Honey, eat some of your food now, don’t drink all of your juice at once,” I told him between bites. This is something he’s guilty of quite often.
“I’m not eating this,” Alexander announced.
I stared at him. “Why NOT? It’s chicken, it’s cheese, it’s rice, carrots… all good stuff!” I said.
“I’m not hungry.”
This coming from the child who just 15 minutes earlier was nearly writhing in pain from his growling stomach. “Are you kidding me? You went on for an hour about how hungry you are!”

“Not for this,” he sniffed.
And I present to you my GOOD EATER.
My picky eater, on the other hand, started screaming the instant she caught sight of her plate as I was strapping her in to her booster seat. I knew she wouldn’t eat any of it, but with every dinner comes fresh hope that she might nibble something and surprise me... and herself. I thought, well… the chicken is really tender! And it has CHEESE on it, which is her main food group. And rice! I’ve seen her eat rice before. What month was that again? In any event, I know I’ve seen her eat it.
This is why, most nights, I choose not to cook. Why bother? My husband doesn’t get home until 8 pm, my daughter won’t eat 98% of what I put in front of her, and my son would be just as happy with a sandwich and soup as a home-cooked meal. But usually, he at least eats it, and will very generously makes lots of yum-yum noises, at my request, in an effort to get his sister to at least take one bite.
Still, I feel I must make the effort. I’m a stay-at-home mom, and isn’t this part of the job description? Wait, IS there a job description?! Because I never got my employee handbook, actually. And of course it goes without saying that there is no pay (and therefore no raise), and my bosses treat me like the lowly underling that I am. I’m at the bottom of the ladder and they are perched precariously on top (usually trying to reach cookies or something else they’re not supposed to have).
I do get bonuses, though. The random “I love you,” the bear hug that hits me (literally) out of the blue and nearly knocks me over, and even the odd compliment that I never would have guessed I’d hear. (A few days ago my son told me that I’m the best cook in the world. Granted, he doesn’t eat at many five-star restaurants, but he DID compare my culinary skills to my husband’s and I still won, which is saying something. He may be six, but I trust his judgment. If you knew him you’d understand what I mean.)
So, for now, it appears that my cooking adventures have been halted until a later date, until my picky young children turn into… picky teenagers? I’m not deluding myself here. Well, at least by then maybe I won’t care so much. ;)