Life Affirmations on the Side of a Mountain

I was out for a stroll with Peter the other day when I spotted another mother toting her own little baby boy. We approached each other warily, kind of like when dogs sniff one another’s butts, trying to determine friend? Or are you the kind of mother who is going to want to make me slit my wrists due to my own inadequacies? After exchanging niceties and complimenting one another on the beauty of our sons, she mentioned something about how this was her first child and she was just enjoying being a mother so much.

“I loved my boys from the first second I saw them,” I told her. “But I think being a mom is really, really hard. Especially when they’re under a year.”

She looked at me, kind of cocking her head and arching her eyebrows with her mouth all twisted up as if she’d just sucked on a lemon, as I waited for her to say, “What dost thou talk about evil baby-hater mother? And can I call Child Protective Services on you because it has been approximately two minutes since we started an adult conversation and you have not interacted with your son! He will surely grow up to be a retarded mutant riding the little bus to school!!!”

But instead, she let out this long deep sigh that made it seem as if she’d been holding her breath since she gave birth three months earlier and she said, “You’re the first person who told me this was hard!”

And that was all it took. For the next 40 minutes, she barely took another breath as she talked about getting up a hundred times in the middle of the night, and having to go back to work after only four weeks because she couldn’t afford to stay home anymore, and she was glad she was back at work because she thought she was on the verge of losing her mind, but she felt really guilty about it and the fact that she hadn’t sat down to eat a meal since her son was born, and she thought breastfeeding was really hard, and she was so tired, and sometimes her son cried and cried and cried and she couldn’t get him to stop so she just let him cry it out and did I have any tips to get him to calm down and she didn’t really like babies very much and did that make her weird and she missed talking with her husband and going out with her friends and when was this going to get easier? Does it ever get any easier?

And ladies, I looked her straight in the eye and I told her the truth: Nope. It doesn’t get any easier at all.

The difference is you get better at it.

We parted ways, never having even exchanged names, just two moms of very young children, passing one another in the midst of our busy lives. But the conversation we had was more than just passing small talk. It was an affirmation from one mom to another that being a mom often isn’t very rewarding and it can be isolating and physically and mentally draining like nothing you’ve ever done before.

I spent the first 15 months of Mike’s life depressed and lonely and overwhelmed and wondering what the hell I had done. I desperately missed my life pre-baby – my life that involved lots of travel, and interesting, uninterrupted conversations, and eating in good restaurants. I also spent a lot of time wondering what was wrong with me because every single mother I met told me how much they loved being a mom and how rewarding they found it and how much fun (fun?!) babies were.

I wish that one mother had taken me aside and said, “You know what? It’s o.k. that you’d rather have a root canal than go to the park. And it’s o.k. if you think to yourself, ‘I have wiped more than enough poopy butts for the day.’ And it’s all right that you can’t motivate yourself to teach your baby sign language or to sit down and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ for the one-hundredth time today or that without naptime, it is very possible you would commit yourself.”

It took me a long time to meet some mothers who were honest about being moms, and once I found them, my life as a mom got a little better, a little brighter. These women freely admit to losing their tempers, spanking their children, and ordering pizza instead of making whole wheat crust for their little darlings. They also talk about how the monotony of child-rearing, such as reading the same book thousands of times or playing with sidewalk chalk, isn’t as intellectually stimulating as, say, coming up with a plan to save the world/company/community as many of these women did pre-baby.

The most important thing I’ve learned is that admitting all of this doesn’t mean that you love your child any less. That bears repeating: You don’t love your child less just because the thought of another glitter art project makes you want to flee the country. You don’t love your child less because you like going to work. You don’t love your child less if you oh-so-occasionally put your needs before your child’s.

The most affirming thing I’ve ever heard from a mother came from the motherlode of mothers – my own mom. Last year, when I was going through an especially difficult time, my mom told me, “Sometimes I’d get in the car to run an errand after dropping you kids off at grandma’s and I would just think to myself that I could just keep driving and not come back.”

Because if we’re honest, we’ve all thought about it. Maybe just for a second and I’m sure we probably felt guilty afterwards. But we thought it. Maybe we all need to start being a little more honest with one another and telling each other that being a mom is hard in so many ways. Maybe we could lean on our own friends and our co-workers a little more instead of pretending to be skipping through motherhood whistling “Zipadeedodah.” Maybe then, we wouldn’t need to get our motherly affirmations from complete strangers we meet on a hiking trail.

Peter - 9 months

Dear Peter,

A few days ago, you turned nine months old. It seems as if you've been around forever, while simultaneously seeming as if you just got here. As I went through your newborn clothes to put them in the basement, I couldn't believe that you were ever small enough to actually fit in them. Granted, you wore that newborn size for about three days and you were never really tiny. I remember walking with you down the hall at the hospital and some guy said, "There goes a big 'un." I assumed he was talking about you, or at least I hope he was. But looking back and holding up these clothes (especially in comparison to the 18-month size you're sporting now), you were tiny -- actually, absolutely miniature compared to your giant triple-chinned 9-month old self.

Now, as I said before, no one is ever going to accuse your mother of being a delicate lady and it is becoming more and more apparent that you and I share the same body type -- right down to those chins and the roly-poly thunder thighs, which actually look quite adorable on you. But you can also pack it away like I do, eating as if every meal is in preparation for a marathon -- across the world. Since I last wrote, you started eating solid food and to say that you eat with gusto would be something of a serious understatement. For example, for breakfast this morning, you ate two eggs, a blueberry pancake, AND a bowl of cereal. You shovel food in your mouth using both hands and it doesn't seem to matter too much what it is -- sliced avocado or banana, grilled cheese, chunks of sweet potato -- today, you ate a slice of pizza and on vacation, you hungrily wolfed down a s'more, even going so far as to lick everyone's s'more covered fingers and faces.

With your brother, we were so careful about everything he ate. We followed the books to a "t" with introducing foods, waiting a few days and then introducing another food -- and always making sure everything was without any kind of seasoning whatsoever. I think he was over two years old before sugar or a processed food was allowed to pass his lips. Well, now we all have to endure watching your brother eat, or not eat, which is more to the point. And let's just say that we're doing things differently this time around. So if you want a s'more, let me go get the marshmallows and chocolate bars, kiddo, because a s'more is what you're going to get.

With size often comes physicality and you, Peter, are such a physical child. Before you could crawl, you just seemed to be this pent-up ball of energy, desperately wanting to be able to move around on your own. And by about six months, you had started your own crawling method, where you basically pulled yourself army-crawl style from place to place. This worked magnificently in our house, which is nothing but hardwood floors and tile, but outside, as you pulled yourself across sidewalks, wooden decks, and gravel pathways, it looked like a fairly painful experience.

Then, while we were on vacation, I turned my back for a minute and when I looked again, you had pulled yourself to a standing position. At first, I thought it was a fluke; you weren't supposed to do this for months to come after all. But after doing it once, well, let's just say, you were not exactly content to drag yourself across the ground anymore. You'd pull yourself up and then cruise along furniture or look desperately for someone to take your hands and walk you where you wanted to go. I was fairly certain you'd be one of those kids who was walking by eight months, skipping the crawling stage altogether. But without doting grandparents around to walk you from one end of the earth to the other, you had to give crawling a try. Now, when I go into the kitchen, I know it's only a matter of seconds before I hear the "slap slap slap" of your little meathooks as you come in as fast as you can behind me.

Your sudden mobility also resulted in your near-demise. One afternoon, I sat you on the floor in the living room while I went to help your brother with the potty. I heard you start to cry and was trying to hurry your brother along, which is about as easy as stopping a herd of buffalo using a butterfly net. Your crying got fainter and fainter so I ran out into the living room, looking for you, thinking you had gotten snaggled by the couch or the bookcase. I called your name and then just heard, "Boom BOOM BOOOOOOM!" as I watched you bounce down our practically vertical stairs and land face-first onto the hardwood floors. Blood was everywhere. Your brother stood frozen with his pants down and started screaming. You were screaming. I picked you up and ran with you into the kitchen to try to determine where all the blood was coming from.

What looked as if it would necessitate a call to 911 and a ride in the ambulance turned out to be a few rug burns that bled profusely. You also had a giant knot in the middle of your forehead that, over the next few days turned from a lovely shade of dark purple to a fairly putrid yellowish-green. Yes, you looked a little rough for about a week, and you still have a scar under your right eye, which I am sure will be the first of many. But you survived. A few lessons learned: 1) Apparently, you can climb stairs; 2) It is entirely possible your brother is worse in a crisis situation than I am; and 3) Babies are much more durable than they appear. Thank goodness.

So you and your brother -- quite a duo. Mike may spend the bulk of his day telling you "No Pee-tah!" and ripping each and every toy you pick up out of your hands, but still, you are fascinated by him. And, just when I thought he would spend the rest of his days completely ignoring your existence except when he remembered you were smaller than he is and therefore easy to torture, he took a bit of a shine to you. Maybe it's because you're more mobile; maybe it's because you're more interesting all around. But, in spite of his very best efforts, Mike suddenly likes you. Granted, he does take every opportunity possible to tell me how much he doesn't like you or to scheme on how to get rid of you (sending you to Michigan to live with Grandma is his latest idea), but I think you're growing on him. When you two sit together, you both laugh and you squeal with delight. If you're stuck in your playpen while I'm getting dinner ready, Mike will stand next to you and play peek-a-boo and show you a wide range of trucks that he doesn't want you to touch.

The abuse from your brother and your lot as second child is definitely helping to you to become one of those people who just lets a lot of stuff roll right off your back as you plod through life. Whether it's your brother taking toys from you or me dumping you in your playpen or Mr. T hissing at you when you pull his tail, your feathers just don't get ruffled. I've always wished I was someone who could say, "Whatever!" and mean it and I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I've wished your brother was like that. But your ability to roll with the punches just makes you such a fun little guy to take so many places -- from speeding as fast as possible in a boat to swimming in a lake for hours to hiking up the sides of mountains -- you always seem to be up for just about anything.

Mike may be a lot bigger than you, but that doesn't stop you from going after him. A couple of times now, I have watched him take toys out of your hands only for you to crawl right over the top of him to get the toy in question back. I will admit this here for you to read when you're much older, but really, I cannot even begin to express what delight I take in watching you physically overpower your brother and take back what is rightfully yours. I hope that you never let anyone get in the way of what you want.

After spending a few hours at our house, a friend of ours said that Mike was going to grow up to be a lawyer or an actor, following some kind of profession where he could use his fairly amazing ability to talk incessantly. But after watching you maul everyone and everything in sight, you, our friend said, would be a star with the World Wrestling Federation. While I'm hoping for something a little more cerebral, your manhandling, mauling, pulling, twisting, and pushing is just part of what makes you Peter. Now, the days just don't seem complete without your brother yelling at you to get off of him or your dad asking if you have drawn blood.

When we were in Chicago, I took an afternoon and evening to go meet some friends and have dinner downtown. I hopped the train out in the suburbs and felt this sense of relief at having some time alone -- a real dinner in a real restaurant without having to feed you or listen to your brother prattle on and on and on about construction trucks and outer space. But a few rows ahead of me was a couple with a baby who was about your age. They were trying to get her to sleep and she was reaching up and playing with her dad's mouth, which is one of your tricks as I'm trying to get you to sleep. Of course she was gently playing with her dad's lips while you consistently try to see if my mouth is removable by grabbing ahold and pulling as hard as you can, but still -- it made me miss you, even though I'd only kissed you goodbye about 15 minutes earlier.

And that just seems to be the way my life is now -- I am raring to go and do my own thing and then some little thing makes me think of you or your brother and I am so glad that I get to come home to you and Mike. To smell your peach-fuzzy little head as you fall asleep in my arms. To listen to your brother belt out the "Star Spangled Banner" in the shower. To watch you shovel food in your mouth as if the last meal you ate was seven months ago. To see both of your easy smiles and to get slimed by your drool-laden kisses. To be your mom.

Love,

Mama

I Bet You Wish You Had One

This picture features the latest in noodle necklaces. Please note the fine detailing and exquisite craftsmanship, as well as the excellent color combinations of the penne. I am especially fond of the macaroni clasp.

Mike started preschool this week. For months, whenever I would mention to someone that Mike was heading off to preschool in the fall, people would get a concerned look in their eye and ask, "So how are you doing with that?"

Fine, I would tell them, which was true. Mike was ready for this new challenge. For the first time, he is interested in the company of other kids. He needs a little more structure than we provide at home. Going to school a couple of days a week with kids his own age is the perfect solution.

On the first day, the parents were invited to attend. We painted, listened to a story, and had playtime. Then the teacher put on the clean-up song and something miraculous happened -- my son cleaned up! Note to self: FIND CLEAN-UP SONG.

At the end of the morning, Mike and I walked hand-in-hand to the car together.

"Next time, dad will drop you off and you get to stay at school all by yourself!" I told him, trying to make it sound as if staying at school would be as much fun as going to the fire station and driving the ladder truck while eating chocolate ice cream with sprinkles.

"You know what, mom?" Mike asked. "I can't WAIT to do this all by myself."

I had my doubts. Brent and I were ready for the tasmanian devil to be unleashed the next school day. But when the big morning came, Mike got dressed in his brand new school clothes and his brand new shoes. I helped him get his backpack on that he would hang in his little cubby. Then I gave him a hug and a kiss and he was out the door with his dad.

"Bye mom!" he said over his shoulder. "I love you."

I stood on the porch holding onto Peter as Mike waved out the car window at me. And then he was gone - off to school, his first big adventure all on his own.

I hate to admit this, but suddenly, I wasn't doing so well with the idea of him going to school. It seems like such a cliche, but how could this little tiny boy, who not so long ago was crawling and babbling like his baby brother, be going off to school? And without me!

My mom once said to me that parenting is the funniest job because your whole goal is to love these little people with all of your heart and soul and to teach and guide and direct them so that they don't need you anymore -- so that they can make their way in the world without you.

So far, so good -- for Mike, anyway. I always tell people that I can't wait until Mike grows up and moves out of state to attend Harvard on a full scholarship. But now, just these few hours a week that he is gone make Harvard seem awfully far from Montana. And if the next 15 years go as fast as the last three have, well, let's just say that I think he could get an outstanding education at the University of Montana over in Missoula.