Archive for April, 2007

In Just Spring

April 29, 2007
First Ice Cream

Sometimes, all you can do is take a picture, knowing that you’ll forget the feel of the sun on your shoulders, the smell of the lake and the ice cream and the hot dog stand nearby, the sound of her giggle, the delighted squeal – eye ceem eye ceem eye ceem! – and the feeling of the whole of your being expanding, your heart rising up out of your chest, your lungs bursting with cheers as you watch your baby greet spring with all of her joy. You take a picture, and you store it in your heart.

Sometimes, that’s enough.

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Recommended reading (extra credit): Habla espanol at Mama Said Check This Out. Get in a Toronto state of mind at MommyBlogsToronto. Re-live the mother of all showers at Shower Me, Baby! (Round-up post going up later today! Prize-winners announced! World peace achieved!)

Love, Fear, Memory

April 27, 2007

Long before I ever got pregnant – long before I even knew that I would one day want a baby, desperately – one of my very, very dearest friends told me this:

When you have a baby, the one thing that you must never forget is that you WILL forget. You’ll forget how scared you were, how anxious, how tired, how frustrated. But you’ll also forget how tiny she was, and how she smelled, and what she sounded like and how she looked at you. So always, always – in each and every moment – try to commit what you’re experiencing to memory. Remind yourself that you’re going to forget the details, and that you will miss the details, desperately. Remember that no matter how tired or afraid you are, you are one day going to wish, hard, that you could have those moments back. Even the scariest moments, the hardest moments – you’ll want them back. Never forget that. Try to cherish each and every one of those moments for what they are, and hold on to them as long as you can.

I’ve never forgotten that. Those words (which exist in my memory only in paraphrase) echoed through my mind and heart during all the long, wakeful nights of the first weeks and months with our new WonderBaby, during the first, excruciatingly painful and frustrating weeks of breastfeeding, during our first trip to the ER with our feverish infant, during the first bad fall, the first tears of anger, the first flailing of tiny, furious fists. During the depression. During the highs, and the lows, and all of the in-betweens, I remembered this: that I would, one day, forget, and that I would regret, to the bottom of my soul, that forgetting.

And so I struggled to commit everything to memory. Every sniff of her wee head in the dark of night, every sharp tug on a ravaged nipple, every bite, every giggle, every paralyzing moment of fear, every overwhelming instant of insecurity – I stopped there, in each of those moments, and tried to preserve them. I tried to really feel them, to really live them. So that I could remember them, all of them.

It didn’t work, of course. As promised, I can no longer remember exactly what it felt like to be woken in the night by her plaintive cries. Nor can I remember the fresh new scent of her head, or what it felt like to have her mouth on my breast. But I can remember what I felt. I can remember that I paused, and that I let myself feel. I can remember thinking, and feeling, in the moments of my greatest fear or anxiety and in the periods of my darkest, most inexplicable sadness that these things bound me to her, and that they were woven tightly into the tapestry of my life with her, and that one day I would try to search out those threads, try to identify those threads and tease them out so that I could remember. I can remember thinking: you’ll want these moments back. And I do.

But you can never get those moments back. You can only live them. And you only get to live them once, all of them, the good and the bad.

So love those moments. All of them. Don’t be fearless: feel the fear and embrace the fear (and the anxiety and the sadness and the frustration) and pay attention as it weaves its way into the tapestry of this new, extraordinary life with this new, extraordinary love.

This, now, only echoes of a memory in my heart.

This post is dedicated to Liz and Christina and Tammie, on the occasion of their baby shower, and to fearless (or, better, consciously fearful) mothers everywhere.

Because you all know.

(Check out links to other dedicatory shower posts here, and the Mother-Talk Fearless round-up here. And read more about fearlessness here.)

(And prayers to Tammie, please, because she’s started her tapestry already, and it’s been difficult so far. Good wishes that there’s not too much fear for her to embrace.)

The Devil Came Down To Toys-R-Us

April 26, 2007
(Edits and addenda below!)
Yesterday, Her Bad Father and I had a disagreement. About child-rearing. Which, of course, he has a say in, even though much of the time I try to pretend that I have sole authority on all matters WonderBaby.
Most of the time, we agree entirely on the terms and conditions of WonderBaby wrangling, and on matters pertaining to the day-to-day care, feeding and amusement of WonderBaby he leaves things entirely to me. This is not because he does not participate in the day-to-day care/feeding/wrangling – he absolutely does, to a greater degree than most fathers with his kind of schedule (unless a project interferes, he always does the morning and evening routines with her. And then he cooks me dinner. Which is to say, none of what I’m about to say should in any way be interpreted as complaint.)

But one matter that never fails to provoke an unsolicited opinion from him is this: any and all displays of real or perceived consumerism. Baby consumerism. Specifically, consumption of garish plastic thingamabobbies marketed to mothers of babies who are desperate for distractions and who are a little quick on the credit-card finger. More specifically, my consumption of garish plastic thingamabobbies that are marketed to me and my (allegedly) itchy credit card finger.

Once upon a time – before WonderBaby joined our happy household – Her Bad Father and I agreed that we would never – never – allow giant, brightly-coloured plastic kid contraptions to cross our threshold. Never. Instead, our child would amuse herself with environmentally-friendly, hand-crafted toys – fashioned out of wood or refurbished tin or free-range sheep’s wool by happy, well-paid Swedish craftspeople or local artists or perhaps delivered to our modernist living room in the night by the Bauhaus Toy Fairy. That, or she would play with cardboard boxes and read books and frolic in the garden and knit her own hats out of hemp yarn that we would spin as a family on Sunday mornings. Also, she would never, ever watch TV, and would be breastfed until she was old enough to pour her own organic soy milk.

Which, ha. WonderBaby had been in our lives all of eight days when we gave in to my mother’s insistence that she buy our nap-averse infant a giant, hideous motorized rocking bassinet thingy that took up two-thirds of the space in our hitherto minimalist living room. We only tolerated the thing for a matter of weeks before we had it spirited away lest the glowy rotating mock-aquarium at its centre suck our souls away, but it was too late. The Rubicon had been crossed. From there it was a downward spiral into a deep – but brightly coloured – pit of plastic and tinny music and flashing lights from which we only emerge to turn on the television and give her bottles and put disposable diapers on her bum and otherwise contribute to environmental degradation and global capitalism. Our – my – need for respite from the constant demands of a turbo-charged midget overcame our determination to stay the course of the modern, conscientious, overfunctioning parent. It was all over before it even began.

Still, we manage to contain things. We don’t have any giant plastic kitchen sets or kid-sized toy cars or anything, really, that is bigger than WonderBaby. We recycle, we share toys with other parent friends, we do our part to not succumb entirely to siren call of Toys-R-Us. And so we’re generally okay with the level of plasticky clutteredness in our household and with our well-monitored vulnerability to the marketing of such things as contribute to such plasticky clutteredness and the like. Or, at least, I thought that we were.

Yesterday, WonderBaby and I acquired this:

Creepy plastic baby not included.

And Her Bad Father had – how shall I put this? – a reaction. A quiet reaction – some would say passive aggressive (much furrowing of brow; much tightening of jaw; much pointed silence) – but a reaction nonetheless.

When prompted to explain what his glitch was, he said this: “I know that we’ve sort of given up when it comes to letting ugly plastic crap in our house, but when I see my 17 month-old daughter come barrelling out the mall (ed. which, yes, she did; she insisted upon pushing it out of the mall in which we acquired it, along with many pairs of socks and underwear and baby latches and some cheap wine, and I let her because my hands were full of bags of socks and underwear and baby latches and wine and it just made my life easier, okay?) pushing a SHOPPING CART (ed. he did use full caps here) I gotta worry about the whole consumerism- run-amok thing here.”

Or words to that effect.

Which, fine. We do need to watch the consumerism. But here’s my position, as I articulated it to him last night: it’s not as though she came barrelling out of the mall with wee shopping bags and a cell phone and a baby chihuahua under her arm and wee sunglasses pushed back on her head and waving a credit card. It’s a grocery cart. It came with plastic fruits and vegetables. And grocery shopping is only consumerist in the most literal sense: we must acquire foodstuffs to consume, and when we do, we usually put them in a grocery cart. And if credit cards must be involved in this ritual, so be it. (WonderBaby does not have a credit card, outside of those occasions when she steals mine to buy beer, so I think that we’re good on the whole encouraging-responsible-consumption front.)

Besides which, WonderBaby loves pushing things and her beloved toy stroller just crapped out because it was cheap piece of shit from Toys-R-Us and needed replacing with some other pushable thingie so that I wouldn’t be called upon to help her push chairs around every five minutes.

So, I think that he’s unnecessarily projecting his fears about our souls being irretrievably lost to the Satan that rules the unholy dominion of Fisher-Price and Toys-R-Us and all the other circles of Toy Hell onto a relatively harmless toy grocery cart, which in any case – for the extra twenty-minutes of hands-free time per day that it’s giving me – is worth a teeny bit of soul-selling.

I’m right, no? Or this all just evidence that my soul has already been irretrievably lost and I should just start stocking up on Bratz dolls now?

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Still shilling for Blogitzer votes… now, not so much because I am ashamed of my one vote showing, but because I am now determined to give Dooce a run for her money. Her ass is mine.

Or not. If I can even get close enough to hurl some taunts I’ll be happy.

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In a totally different vein… my to-shop-or-not-to-shop problems and Bring-It-On-Dooce projects are the very definition of superficiality in comparison to what our current Basement blogger is going through. She really, really needs your support. Please go visit.

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Late Breaking Addendum: you know that there’s some showering going on, right? Check it. Play games, win prizes, drink liquor. And – most important – write a toast-post for Liz, Christina and Tammie (being induced AS WE SPEAK), and leave the link for me here – it’ll go up on the shower site this weekend. (My post will come later – and it will be soapy as hell.)

If truth is pants, what are shoes?

April 24, 2007
This is a passage from a paper that I graded this morning:

Truth (can be likened) to a set of clothes, made to measure the man. In this way, man’s measurements would be his own personal truth, and the clothes would be a form of living this out. Thus, the pants would be corresponding to his reality, and this reality would be the pants.

And you thought that the life of a philosophy instructor was glamorous. In actual fact, it is a life in which one is constantly quaffing aspirin to ward off the pounding headaches induced by forced exposure to the nonsensical abstractions of the average inattentive undergraduate.

(Add to this life a hyperactive WonderBaby jacked up on Cheerios and apple juice and you have perfect conditions for spontaneous mental combustion.)

If truth is pants, and you lose your pants, have you fallen into a condition of untruth, or have you cast off the oppressive trousers of dogma?
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I just discovered that I was nominated (by the lovely and delightfully promiscuous Ms. Oh The Joys) for The Blogitzer, over the Bloggers’ Choice Awards. Now, I don’t usually go in for blog awards, not least because I don’t like shilling for votes, but in this case I am going to have to be shameless and beg: I only have one vote, and it’s really kind of embarassing. So. Please go vote for me? I’d like to have at least, say, six votes.
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Have you checked out MBT lately?

The Time-Traveller’s Life

April 23, 2007

Travelling can be a little bit like – bear with me here – popping yourself into a sort of time-machine wherein the space-time continuum is temporarily suspended: you get into a big metal flying contraption and find yourself some hours later in a different time and place where you fritter away the hours in a life that is not really your own, not your own real life, before getting back into the flying contraption and returning to the place – and, it seems, the very same time – that you left some measureless time ago. WonderBaby’s hair is a little bit longer and she’s little bit taller and her face is a bit battered from the exuberancies of vacation play, but you don’t notice these things because time stood still while the two of you were away and nothing seemed to change, nothing at all.

The husband remarks upon the injured face and the increased height and the fact that WonderBaby has more words and a clearer voice, and you marvel at how these things seemed to have happened without your noticing, no doubt because they occured under a different sky. And you marvel at how these things could happen, these changes occur, this time pass, while everything at home stayed the same: same husband, same cats, same house. All the same, all so loved in their constancy, in what seems – in this moment, only this moment – their immutability.

And it seems to you, suddenly, that you have two lives: one, here, in the place where you chart and map and navigate the journey that is your adulthood, and where you have set the course for the journey of your family, your own family, your spouse and your child and your collective future. And another life, in another place, in other places, the places of your childhood and your youth, where an older journey continues to unfold, slowly, glacially, in intervals, in the interstices of the present. A life that is not quite a past, because it persists and because when you visit it you do so as the grown woman that you are, but also not a future, because it does not fully carry forward. It is a place governed by sidereal time, where everything is measured against the stars, fixed and secure in an unchanging sky. It is slower there. There, you bask in the warmth of nostalgia, frolic in breezy good feeling, dip your toes in the brisk cool of childish peeves and petty worries, shake yourself off and lay down again in the sun, curling your toes into the hot sand of here and now and forgetting. You forget that time is passing, that time has passed. There, you are far from the shade of diligent self-reflection, far from the wind, the gusts, of forward-momentum and directedness.

There, you are not given to foolishly sentimental reflections on time and the universe, because you are outside time, and so time doesn’t matter, and, also, the sand gets in your keyboard, if only figuratively, and slows the babble. The foolishly sentimental reflections come later, when you’re home, when you’ve gotten off of the plane and returned to your home, your real home, the place with all of the laundry and the sippy cups, and realized that you and WonderBaby somehow slipped outside time, for a time, but now you’re back and time is flying by faster than ever, and that you’d do anything, anything, to slow it down again.

Why does the past creep so slowly behind us, and why does the now race so swiftly ahead of us, and why is it so hard, sometimes, to catch our breath?

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We had a lovely time, outside time, catching our breath (when we weren’t visiting aquariums with sweet friends or bumping into admired writers at airports or bonking our faces on sidewalks), but we missed the now and its much beloved inhabitants. We missed you. We’ll be coming ’round to see you. Soonest.

(Why am I always compelled to include these assertions of affection? These implied apologies of social obligations ill-met? They’re sincere, but complicated – what is it about the blogosphere that demands we make clear our intimacies, however virtual, and remain accountable to those intimacies?)

(Possibly, because you wouldn’t otherwise tolerate me babbling about time-travel. Only among friends, these thoughts, no?)

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FYI, we took a moment outside of time to reflect upon the space-age innovation that is the Overnite diaper. It is very possible that the slowness of the passage of time on our journey was entirely due to the efficiency of our diaper changes. Because, as you know, the space-time continuum is vulnerable to the toilet habits of very small children and the adrenaline levels of their harried mothers.

On a Wing

April 21, 2007
It was a good trip, but we’ll be glad to get home.

We’ve got some recovering to do. A few stumbles and scrapes, and a little bit of bleeding, but nothing that the heart couldn’t handle. Nothing that didn’t make the heart grow stronger.

(Any damage is only superficial. Our time away did our souls good.)

(We’ll back soon. Missed you.)

Mom-101 Guest Post: Worship the Belly.

April 19, 2007

Burlesque blogging? Seriously? That is my assignment as I guest blog for the great Bad Mother. And yet…

Seriously?

These days the closest you want to get this pregnant woman to a stripper pole is an episode of the Sopranos. Nudity around these parts constitutes the 18 minutes it takes for me to get my underwear up over my hips after a shower. And the dirtiest thoughts on my mind? How best to, er…put toilet paper to its God-intended use, considering the unfortunate relationship of my belly size to arm length.

None of which bode well for a good raunchy/dirty/titillating (heh) post, as requested.
Now if HBM had caught me in the second trimester, I was dreaming of orgasmic romps with the likes of Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, and Danny Bonaduce. There could have been some blog fodder in there for sure. But nope. These late third trimester days there is little sleeping, which means little dreaming– of the sexual kind or otherwise.

But just because I’m not dreaming about sex doesn’t mean that people are not dreaming about sex with me.

Yes, I’m talking about Craig’s List, that 21st century mainstay of Whoo, everything goes!

(And HBM, advance apologies for your google searches for the rest of eternity.)

A quick poke (heh) around the CL personals yielded the following very nice sentiment:

I hope to find a pregnant woman who is in need of a casual lover. Your age, race, size, and marital status are unimportant to me, I just want to relish in the beauty of your form, and make love to the goddess that is a woman creating life.

And then there was this:
I think pregnant women are incredibly sexy. If you’re up eating pickles and ice cream while hubby is sound asleep, send me a note. Totally discreet.

Then they started getting weird:
ISO Milky or Preggo Woman for a Good Boobs Massage

Or oddly specific:
asian couple looking to play with girl or possibly couple.she is 5 montth pregnant and very horny.party favor friendly(t).so hurry and lets have fun

Vaguely appealing:
Full-grown man, 42, is looking for a naughty pregnant girl for some fun. I’m good with massage too, in case your feet are a bit sore.

Um:
There’s something about clothes that are too small on a woman I really, really like. A little muffin top spilling out over jeans is hot. A bra over flowing with cleavage puts me over the edge. If you have recently gained weight, are pregnant, or for some reason are just filling out, I would really like to talk to you. I want you to try to fit into your old clothes for me .

Eek, getting scared:
Are your breasts filled with milk? I love breast milk and would like to meet a lactating or pregnant woman for daytime feedings

And my favorite:
ALL I WANT IS TO SEX A PREGNANT WOMAN TONIGHT.

Which, I mean…well, how can you resist?

So breeders present and future, take comfort. You may feel like your boobs are reaching new lows, your scale is hitting new highs, and your stretch marks are getting stretch marks. You may lose your thongs in your ass for days on end. You may be marring your face with streaky tears daily as you look up hemorrhoid treatments and excessive flatulence on the internet. You may be sprouting hairs in places that make you entirely certain of the man-ape connection.

But know that in the beautiful utopia called Craig’s List, none of this matters. For there, you are a hot, sexy, glowing, wanton, wanted goddess of loooooove.

Sniff. Sort of warms the heart.

Or maybe that’s just the acid reflux.

—-

When Liz isn’t here messing up her friend Catherine’s perv-to-real reader ratio, she’s over at her own place, Mom-101. Stop on by for a rollickin’ good time. With your clothes on, please.

R Rated Road Trip

April 18, 2007

Brought to you by guestblogger, Gingajoy…

[SCENE]

The Wife, The Husband, Two Children, Fetid Dog, No legroom. Levered into the car for the four-hour trip to Grandma’s. Forbidden Lunchable snacks have been consumed, messily. The Baby has finally drifted off, and the DVD player kicks in for Big Brother.

For the grownups…this is as close to Couple Time as they are going to get.

The Wife coyly broaches the subject. “So. I’m signed up to do “Burlesque Blogging” next week for Her Bad Mother…..” “I have no clue what to write about. I mean. It’s meant to be burlesque.”

She looks sidelong at The Husband at the wheel. “Well” he says nonchalantly, “you do know that burlesque originally refers to a “literary device for parodic gesture?”

(She didn’t)

“Oh Yes!” She exclaims “And, of course, the burlesque as a performative genre has its roots in the Italian Commedia d’Elle Arte. As you know.” (No need to mention that this little tidbit came courtesy of a wikipedia search earlier that afternoon).

“The thing is,” she says “I think the idea was more in line with burlesque as striptease. You know. Naked girls and big feathered fans and all that. The word HBM used was “dirty.” Actually, instructions were along the lines of ‘make it dirty, dirty, dirty, gals… but feel free to interpret the word loosely.’ But I think she’s thinking along the sex lines.”

“What about that episode of South Park” The Husband warms to the idea now. “The one where Mr Garrison has all the kids listing all the sex positions they know “Missionary, Filthy Sanchez, Glass Bottomed Boat… That was really funny. And filthy”

“There’s definitely some inspiration to be had there” she concedes “But I got the sense that she was thinking something a little more sophisticated, you know, where the narrative can function figuratively as a type of strip—”

“—You know what the glass bottomed boat is don’t you??? And the filthy Sanchez?”

“Uh, hello? Yes! Yes I do, thanksverymuch.”

“You know that with the glass-bottomed boat they use cling wrap to…”

“YES! I know! Blegh. Shuddup!”

An idea dawns on her “Actually, maybe there’s something to that. Sex acts and erotic equipment that make me want to lock it up with a key.”

“I saw an ad for a Flash Light recently” He offers.

“A flash light?”

“A FLESH light”

“Whah?”

“It’s a flash light, with a “female opening” where the light would be. You can choose your own orifice.”

“I don’t get it. Are there handles on the side?’ (She sidesteps the question as to how this device made its way into his purview).

“No. It’s shaped just like a flash light”

“Well. Think about it. That doesn’t seem to be very ergonomically savvy. What a pain in the ass… (Heh).”

She opts to share something. “When we were in Kentucky, HBM and I went into a Sex Shop. For a giggle. It was right by the hotel. There was a lot of stuff like that. Repellent, yet fascinating. I mean I get the vibrators and stuff, obviously, but the female parts…. There was one doll-thing with three erotic openings for your pleasure…”

“Yep” He says. “All three.

“It makes you wonder about all the effort involved, you know?”

She goes on. “A bit like when you need to chop up and blend a bunch of vegetables for a nice spot of soup. You think to yourself ‘Do I get out the Cuisinart? I mean, am I really going to bother with all this equipment I have to clean up, or…”

“Or shall I just do it by hand and save on the mess?” He completes her sentence for her…

It’s moments like this… When they become one.

[CUE MUSIC: “Ooooooh. I Love to Love you Baby. OOOOOOOOH I Love to Love you Baby…”.]

[and fade….]

thankyouverymuch….

Our Dirty Little Secrets

April 15, 2007

When Her Badjesty kindly asked me to blogsit, I was more than happy to oblige her. Seeing as I’m a bad mother in my own right, I figured I’d be able to conjure something up to fill this wonderful space.

But then she told us to make it dirty. And I sort of freaked, because I imagine your hostess’s version of dirty is a bit classier than mine. It’s my dildo to her Dante’. My poopy jokes to her Plato. And my crotch couture to her Confucious. Basically, my raunchy diatribes on pubic hair and blow jobs would do nothing but insult the word “dirty” and its place on this highly intellectual blog.

I did consider providing a sociological comparative analysis of how the word “dirty” means both “unclean” and “sexy.” But, really, who I am to sociologically analyze anything when I’m walking around with two different socks on and a nursing tank with about 12 milk stains and a twisted strap.

Plus, who cares, right?

And so, I figured that instead I would share a dirty secret, something that I have never revealed on my own blog, or the scores of other confession blogs that are permeating the blogosphere (including your hostess’s fine establishment).

I get mad at my 3-month old son for not sleeping and I sometimes lose it.

I suppose it’s not the juiciest dirty secret that could be told, but it’s one that is haunting me as of late. Perhaps it’s because at any moment, particularly during the 14,572 moments in which I’m nursing him in the sling while bouncing on a large blue exercise ball so he’ll actually sleep, I feel like I might jump ship.

For the first year of my daughter’s life, I spent almost every day in a state of confusion, frustration, and then guilt over the same damn thing.

Why isn’t she sleeping? went to
Why the FUCK are you not sleeping? and turned into
Why did I just say fuck to my baby. I’m a terrible horrible mother.

I’ve never actually lost it, persay. I have yelled on a rare occasion and forcefully picked her up and plopped her in the crib (from whence she then jumped out and broke her leg) or the corner, but that’s the extent of my frustration and neverending guilt. I tell myself that so long as these incidents are rare, I won’t be causing any more psychological damage than what’s being caused by us living with my in-laws.

But behold my son. I had high hopes that he would not inherit the “no-sleep-ever-fuck-you-naps” gene passed down from my husband. But alas, I find myself holding a 16lb almost 3 month old in a sling for the majority of my day. In fact, I’m doing it right now as I write this post.

I’ve tried to do the “right” thing — you know, put him down at least once a day on a flat surface so he’ll wake up in 10 minutes kicking around like a pissed off beetle on his back. I’ve done the swing, the stroller, and the bouncy seat.

Hell, even my daughter would nap in the bouncy seat.

To complicate matters, he’s not such a boob man. With my daughter, the boobs calmed the savage beast. Whipping out a boob meant that all would be well with the world. But apparently my son is an ass man and would rather chew on his own hand (or maybe my ass if I’d let him) than nurse. The planets must be perfectly aligned, or he needs to be sweetly tucked into the sling for him to even consider nursing with intent. However, at a whopping 16lbs, it’s clear he’s getting food from somewhere so I need not obsess.

But yet, it’s fun, and hell I wouldn’t be a mother if I didn’t, so I do.

It’s not so much the pressure in my mind that he must sleep without me holding him or I will surely go to Mommy Hell or worse “spoil him and start him into very bad habits that will be difficult to break.” Ack. Thanks Dr. I Never Had Kids Ever and Make Money Guilting Mothers. But it’s that my back and neck hurt. I’m tired of holding him, damnit. I’m tired of feeling like I’m forcing my boob on him. And I’m tired of standing on my head and dancing an Irish jig to get my children to sleep.

My only saving grace thus far has been that his night sleeping and eating has been fairly uneventful. Until last night when for two hours, he laid on his back, sucking his hands, and refused to nurse back to sleep.

And so I sort of lost it. Between the harsh shushes, the tighter cuddles, the harder butt pats, and the loud “I carry you all day I cannot carry you at night” whispers, I almost lost it. It was probably fairly typical, but still not one of my finer mothering moments.

He finally fell asleep, and so did I — sore nipples, leaky boobs, and terribly guilty conscience. And I’m reminded that like everything else in motherhood, the bad and the good shall pass. What worked one day, will surely not work the next — Mother’s Law.

But like my favorite philosopher Anne of Green Gables said, “It’s nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet.”

Thank God for that.

Care to share your dirty secrets? Or commiserate with me?

The Bad Mommyblogger Purity Test

April 14, 2007

Greetings and salutations (first one to name the movie, the speaker of that line, and where I actually saw him in person – I’ll send you a mix CD). I’m Julie, and you can usually find me at mothergoosemouse. (Mix CD has been won by Amy Jo!)

It’s an honor to be here, trashing Her Bad Mother’s pristine blog with all of my trashiness. Frankly, I’m intimidated to be kicking off this burlesque show, as I’ve never even been in a wet t-shirt contest, let alone paraded across the stage of the Moulin Rouge wearing nothing but feathers. Consider me the little trick dog that amuses you. Kristen and Liz and Joy will be here with the feathers soon enough.

——————————

I grew up in the Midwest, and when we weren’t out tipping cows, we were busy raising our scores on the Purity Test (thereby lowering our Purity).

The Purity Test consisted of two tattered sheets of paper that had been copied and re-typed and copied again and folded up and shoved into the back pockets of innumerable pairs of jeans as it made its way around our high school several times over. The 100 questions on the test concerned sexual experimentation, drug and alcohol experimentation, and how much trouble you’d gotten into with both of those. Not only was it fun to assess just how far your own innocence had deteriorated, it was also pretty interesting to guess – based on your friends’ scores – in what ways THEIR innocence had deteriorated. That is, which questions they’d answered yes and which ones they’d answered no.

It’s been at least 15 years since I last took the Purity Test, and now that I’m over 21, with a husband and children, many of the questions seem…well, kind of boring.

But a Bad Mommyblogger Purity Test? Well, that’s another story altogether.

The Bad Mommyblogger Purity Test

Check all boxes for which your answer is “yes”.
The “submit” button is at the bottom.

  1. Do you have a blog?
  2. Have you been blogging for more than one year?
  3. Have you been blogging for more than five years?
  4. Do you contribute to more than two blogs?
  5. Do you contribute to more than five blogs?
  6. Do you comment on others’ blogs?
  7. When commenting, have you ever provided a fake name/fake e-mail?
  8. When commenting, have you ever flamed the blog owner?
  9. When commenting, have you ever flamed another commenter?
  10. Do you post unflattering tidbits about your spouse or SO?
  11. Do you post unflattering tidbits about your in-laws?
  12. Do you post unflattering tidbits about other bloggers?
  13. Did you go to BlogHer ’05?
  14. Did you go to BlogHer ’06?
  15. Did you go to BlogHer Business ’07?
  16. Are you going to BlogHer ’07?
  17. Do you write about poop?
  18. Do you write about pubes?
  19. Do you shave/wax/otherwise eliminate your pubes?
  20. Do you say “fuck” in your posts?
  21. Does your spouse or SO read your blog?
  22. Do your in-laws read your blog?
  23. Do your co-workers read your blog?
  24. Do your kids read your blog?
  25. Does your ex read your blog?

Leave your score in the comments!