Well, we enter a new phase of reality tonight. My parents are now reading my blog. My mom's response on the phone tonight was "Why would you want to have a journal on the web?" which made my father yell from the background, "She's got a blog!? She's a blogger?" Mom, read the archived entry "You're So Vain" for clarification, such as it is. It was, after all, your idea (well, and Kym's) that I ought to start writing again. I just got a bigger notebook this time around... a way bigger notebook as it turns out!
I hope the expanded audience doesn't make me censor myself. I need practice writing what I want, regardless of who may be reading it, so it's probably just as well to start doing it now. I always said I couldn't write my novel until my grandparents weren't around to read it... just in case I wanted to use swear words or write something really controversial and inane. Well, no excuses left I guess. Let the radical-wacky-ridiculous-cuss-word-fest begin!
So yeah, I'm a blogger. Welcome Mom & Dad. And everyone else as well. I'm glad I'm writing again. I hope you will be too!
I don't even know how to start writing this entry. There are so many reasons I want to address this topic, that it's hard to decide where to begin. Okay, first: I have two children, both of whom were born via c-section, and both of whom I would have preferred to birth vaginally, with as little intervention as possible. For a variety of reasons, which I will enumerate later, I was unable to have the exact birth experiences I would have chosen. I am, however, intensely grateful for the gift of my children, and for the way I was treated both during their births and afterwards. In the situation I had, I could not have asked for more support or better care.
And second, I am about fed up with this notion that where you rank on the mama hierarchy is all about how your children get to you. Birth is a vital part of mama-ing, sure (for the lucky ones of us who get to carry our babies inside our own bodies), but why do we waste so damned much time squabbling about whose kind of birth is best?
I'm gonna rant here, because I am worn out with carrying this all inside:
I have two friends who have given birth most naturally, roaring and grunting and pushing their babies out into the world at home. They were attended by loving women, well-skilled midwives, and their experiences, I'm sure, were profound and holy ones. I honor their choices. I salute their successes. And I thank the universe for their beautiful children, who are a gift to me as well. I have other friends who have given birth in hospitals, with no drugs & the most limited intervention a hospital can provide; and still others who were induced or chose epidurals, or pushed their babies out "through sheer force of will" when a c-section seemed inevitable. I am proud of their triumphs too. But I also have friends, who like me, brought their babies into the world with a little more help, and a whole lot fewer choices, and I am damn tired of our stories getting dissed, devalued, and otherwise just set aside.
Sure, there are women whose surgeries are "elected." Having had two sections, I'm not sure why anyone would just arbitrarily choose to be cut open, scooped out like a cantelope, and then stapled or superglued back together, but I'm also not sure I'm willing to judge that call. In technical terms, my section with Matthew (the second one) is listed as elective -- even though I wanted to VBAC -- so I'm not sure the research on how many women "choose" sections is accurate to begin with... but I'm really more concered with those of us who would have preferred a different outcome...
And I'm not willing to see myself as the victim of a medical conspiracy, or even just a casualty of some chronic obstetric incompetence. Because I did all the things you're supposed to do to have a "natural" birth, and I still ended up with staples in my belly and a morphine drip. But listen, here's the important part: I don't need your pity! All I want is a little validation: a little acknowledgement that what I did is real, that it counts as birthing too, that the choices I made, such as they were, might just be as good as any of yours who birthed at home, with no drugs, choosing the best for you and yours.
Going back a few years now: In many ways I was not a terrific candidate for pregnancy in the first place. I was, and am, a short fat woman, with slightly elevated blood pressure and a job that kept me on my feet all day. Over the course of 9 months, I had to do three 24 hour urine collections to rule out pre-eclampsia and two glucose tolerance tests to rule out gestational diabetes. Clearly, a home birth was not a terrific idea, even if I'd had friends around to support me. With no friends (literally none) and slowly but steadily rising blood pressure, I chose what seemed most logical at the time: I would give birth in the local hospital, un-induced, with no epidural and the least amount of intervention possible. The labor and delivery classes we took were amazing and I felt very empowered. I knew what my body would be doing, I knew what I needed to do, I had a superbly supportive coach and a hospital staff that was committed to making my birthing plan a reality. There would be no shaving, no enemas, no catheters, no medications unless I asked for them. I was nervous, but not afraid, and I knew the birth was something Tim and I could do together.
When my water broke early on the morning of October 27th, I arrived at the hospital ready to do it all by myself. I was at 5 cm, well effaced, and dilating rapidly. My contractions were strong and regular and everything seemed to be going well, except the belly monitor was having trouble keeping track of the baby's heart rate. Since I'd had blood pressure problems, the monitor was more important and after four tries on the external monitor, we had to have an internal monitor inserted. The baby threw that off three times, but we finally got situated and suddenly, after only an hour or so of labor, we were in transition and the contractions were hard, intense, and unrelenting.
But the baby wasn't heading for 0 station... we were changing positions, we tried the rocking chair, we tried the birthing ball, we tried the squat bar... still no movement closer... At 9 a.m. I was dilated to 8 cm. The pit crew came in with their draped table of instruments and their big lights. They turned on the warmer where they would weigh and measure the baby. Things would surely be happening soon. My doctor came in, was pleased with the progress, said not much longer now... Then I was at 9+ cm. Just not quite enough to push, and the baby still didn't want to head on down... (or legs on down or bottom on down...). Now it's 10:30 and the contractions just aren't letting up. I'm heading from one to another with no break. It's too late for an epidural, so we try some NuBain, just to take the edge off. So now I'm stoned and in incredible pain. But no progress. We try the rocking chair again, the birthing ball, the squat bar... And now it's 1:30, and I'm back down to 9 cm. Then it's 2 p.m. and I'm down to 8 cm... And I'm almost incoherent with pain that's just not stopping...
At 2:15 my doctor recommended a section. My cervix was swelling shut, the baby was not moving through the birth canal... clearly we had a failure to progress. So we suited up and headed to the OR. Where, once the spinal block was in, I became my usual delightful and hilarious self again (I was apparently a massive pain in the ass for most of the earlier portion of the day). One of the nurses said, "You're so cheerful, that's really good!" I asked her why. "Well," she answered, "lots of women who end up with sections are really sad or depressed, like they've failed or something..." I remain on record as the most entertaining c-section birth ever in the history of the FMC.
My daughter was born at 2:34 p.m. and she was beautiful and perfect. We started bonding immediately, and her daddy was with her through all her brief stay in the nursery. When I was returned from recovery, I found my new family waiting for me in the room we shared for the next two days. Aside from some vital checks, we were now wholly in charge of our daughter. No one gave her a pacifier. No one gave her a water bottle and I had excellent nursing support both in the hospital and after we had headed home. The three days we had together in Room 210 (and those I spent two years later in the same room with Matthew) are among the most idyllic moments of my life thus far.
So imagine how much it pisses me off to hear that my experience is not "natural" enough to rank on some dumbass poser super mommy of the year scale! Hear this, and hear it well: I am NOT a victim of medical malpractice. I am not a failure, a less concerned parent, a maker of bad choices. My birth plan started out as natural as I could make it, and I was informed, strong, and ready to go. My body and to some extent my babies made my heart and brain choices irrelevant. If she (and later her brother) hadn't had such a big old head, maybe I would have gotten her (and him) out all by myself... If I had lost weight, got a different job, had more friends to make me less anxious, not freaked out when my MIL showed up at the hospital against our express wishes, maybe I would have gotten her out all by myself... but it doesn't really matter in the end.
What matters is that I am a damn-fine mother now. My kids are healthy and happy and well-loved NOW. I am lucky to have them. I am lucky and so very grateful that I was able to carry them each in my body for nine glorious (gut wrenching, back-aching, feet swelling, peeing all night) months. But even that doesn't matter really. Because mothering is not really about the birth. It's about what you do and who you are after that child is in your arms.
If you were able to birth at home, I am happy for you, and proud that women are strong and brave and capable. If you were able to birth your kids drug-free, I cheer for you too. If you have a different birth story entirely, I hope it was a positive one in all the ways you needed, and I send you empathy for every moment of fear, pain, indecision, regret or sense of failure you may have felt. I wish all women could emerge from the birthing process with a feeling of immense triumph, joy, & love.
And I wish all you "more" successful mamas could try, just a little, to recognize that there is honor to be found in every woman's birth experience. Every pregnancy is different, every birthing story is unique. But when you place your story above mine, when you hold your choices up as more valid, more mothering, more real, you take honor away from me again. I am proud that I could find joy in so much of birthing my babies, even though I never got to push. But every time you give a lecture on what nobody's gonna make you do at that hospital because you're gonna have your kids at home, every time you tell how just the mention of a section was enough to make you push the baby out alone, every time you imply that every mama should have made the choice you did, you inflict some pain unnaturally.
So please, you mothers who were lucky enough to see your choices through, have some compassion for those of whom others will try to label as failed. Recognize, please, that we are not victims, we are not losers, we did not try less hard than you. We are mothers. We are lucky. We deserve some honor too. Your experience was different, but not necessarily better than mine. And acknowledging that doesn't have to make your story any less amazing after all.
Everyone around here is beginning to flinch when they hear this phrase, but can I just tell you a thing? In specific, it's a thing about me -- just one -- that I like a whole whole lot...
Some days I am invincible. Okay, today was not a day for total invincibility (since we spent a good two hours on the couch watching videos), but here's the cool part. If you have been following this blog at all, you'll note some changes -- not huge things, but important just the same. The colors are different, some of the fonts have changed, I've added links and thrilling new categories to the sidetitles... and I did it all by myself. Now, you have to understand: a week ago, I knew virtually nothing about web design, and now I'm tinkering with my blog almost fearlessly.
So the thing I like about me, for today, is my conviction that I can do anything if I really set my mind to it (and so can anyone else!). Okay, that has a couple of qualifiers obviously -- there are some things that are physically impossible for me to accomplish (grapevine-ing for example) and finances are often an obstacle, and if I didn't have my senses and motor skills intact everything would be more challenging -- but most importantly, I can read. And I figure anyone who can read can do just about any old thing she wants to do!
The web page stuff is just an easy example. I decided I wanted to learn more about this stuff, and after feeding the small people, we all headed for the library and found a big stack of books to bring home and explore. (Note: for next time, bring small chewy toys for young teething boy to enjoy instead of nasty library book spines).
But I did the same thing with replacing a toilet when we first bought this house -- and the toilet itself was only the beginning! I ended up removing the old toilet, repairing the rotted floor boards, replacing the toilet shut-off valve, re-installing the new toilet -- in addition to installing new flooring and new sink hardware for the vanity. And I didn't know much of ANYTHING about plumbing in March!
I just get so frustrated with people, particularly women, who are sitting around waiting for stuff to get done for them (usually by boys) because they have too little confidence to take it on themselves. In our house, I am the power tools parent: I built the bookcases and the entertainment center. I am the sewing parent: I made the futon cover and the curtains and lots of our clothes. I am a demolition, repair and interior decorating parent: I fixed the gutters and tore down the panelling, chose the paint and decided where all the pictures should hang... (those are not related, but I did do all of them). I'm also a cooking, baking, lullabye-singing, dish-washing, laundry folding (but rarely putting away) parent. And that's just the beginning of my many skills!
See, I spent my childhood in bizarrely lopsided gender-divided household. My dad did the laundry, cooked many of our meals, did all the ironing (never ask my mom to iron anything, she loathes ironing and it shows), but he was also in charge of all the "man stuff" my mother claimed she couldn't do. Now, I will cut her some slack by admitting that my mama has worked HARD for most of her life -- for all of my life certainly -- but she spent a ridiculous amount of time waiting for Daddy to get stuff done for her. I mean, it's a hammer for heaven's sake! Drive the stupid nail in for yourself! Get a book and figure it out already! So here is this incredibly competent woman who could have been doing any of the things she kept complaining that my father wouldn't do, but her only response to "why not do it yourself" was that she was not raised that way. Well, my kids are growing up different, and I'm gonna show them how! (even if I have to get a bunch of library book to help us do it!)
We are already a delightfully balanced and gender mixed up family -- another fact that I love about us. Tim is the baker, often the dishwasher and launderer, he sings a mean lullabye (not literally, but remind me and I'll post the lyrics to "Hush Says the Possum" and you'll wonder how my kids ever sleep when it's my turn to do bedtime), and he's great for make-believe and other silly games. Most days he is a better stay at home parent than I am, his outside job just makes more money than any of mine... So they're growing up all gender blended, learning new skills without so many labels (I hope) and that makes their mama so proud!
Go enjoy the changes to the blog. And remember, I did it all by myself. So there's a thing I'm proud of today. Yay me!
A bad thing happened at the mall today and I've been pondering it all afternoon and evening. I'd love input, if anyone has comments...
I took the kids to get their pictures done at Sears (that's not the bad thing; that's just why we were at the mall). Matty fell asleep in the car on the way there and would not be wakened. Even the transfer from carseat to stroller was ineffectual, and that usually does the trick every time. So he slept and slept and Mari and I decided to get some Taco Bell (that's also not the bad thing; we were just hungry and that's what she picked to eat, and ate it all up too).
So we're sitting there, in the food court, eating our tacos and beans, and I notice a guy sitting at the next table. He has on a cowboy hat, big (really big) black boots, and a very offensive shirt....
Now this is not your ordinary offensive shirt. There are no "bad" words on it; the shirt appears to be clean and, from this distance away at least, it does not smell. In fact, this shirt has the look of a favorite, well-cherished garment. It's even ironed for pete's sake! But depicted across the back of the shirt, and across the front too, as I later discovered, is a full-length view of a large breasted woman, wearing only a tiny black thong and a cowboy hat. Great quantities of blonde hair spill over her shoulders and her head is thrown back in apparent ecstasy. Her body is arched around a vertical pole, the kind you see in movies featuring strippers, and is shown in 3/4 profile, to better enhance the uplift of her breasts and width of her bottom. Her face is not visible. The shirt says, in a fancy script, "Dragonfly" probably advertising a strip club, and it's obvious this guy loves it real bad.
And as I am just beginning to be offended -- in a kind of slow motion reaction -- I realize that my daughter, my not-quite four year old, my largely innocent female child, is turning around to look in this guy's direction. She is going to see that shirt. She is going to see that woman's body all splayed out and nasty and available... So very calmly, the way you would tell a child to back away from a rattlesnake, I asked her to turn around and finish eating her lunch.
But I can't take my eyes off this guy. He has an earpiece in his ear -- it's unclear whether it's a walkman or some other device -- and the big black boots seem designed more for kicking people in the kidneys than riding in a rodeo. He's not a big guy -- actually fairly scrawny -- but he looks mean and vaguely dangerous. Which naturally makes my inner debate more difficult.
Because the feminist mama in me wants to march over and deliver an articulate and highly coherent, albeit outraged, lecture on why this shirt is unacceptable for wearing to the mall. On the fine line between personal taste and what is just outright offensive in public. On how I will gladly support his first amendment right to wear whatever damned words he wants across his chest, but his porno photo shirts he ought to just keep the hell at home. And it's not even that I'm particularly opposed to porn -- I just don't wanna be looking at it in the mall. And moreover, I don't want my KIDS to have to look at it at all!
But the mama in me, the hellishly vulnerable now that I have kids person inside, just chickened out. I worried about the earpiece, the big boots, the mean and confident look on this otherwise scrawny guy's face. I worried about my kids and how they might react to a violent response. And frankly I just didn't want to get punched in the face, especially right before I got my kids pictures done at Sears.
So now I am wondering what I should have done. Should I have marched into the mall office and demanded to know more about their dress code policy? (Because this is a tiny conservative town, and I'm pretty sure our private property mall -- they're big on letting you know it's wicked private -- has some kind of rider about offensive attire, if only to pull out in case of dangerously individual teenagers wandering around unchecked) Should I have said something to this guy anyway, regardless of what he might have done?
I have trouble convincing myself that I did the right thing by leaving him alone. On the one hand, I don't want my kids traumatized by seeing me get beat up or yelled at or otherwise abused. And I also wonder if yelling about it wouldn't have just drawn Mara's attention to it more indelibly... But I hate that I lacked the guts to do anything at all. I hate that having kids makes me feel so vulnerable and alone... I'm still not sure what I should have done. If I had had my mama posse along, there is no question. We would have circled the wagons (or strollers) and ridden him down. It would have been a triumph for feminist mamas everywhere. But it wasn't. Which makes me wonder if I can only be an activist when I travel in a pack... And I really hate having to ask that question of myself. I also don't know what I would have done if I had been there alone, without the kids along. I used the kids as my excuse, and a valid one I think this time, but not knowing what I would have done alone is making me a little nuts. I thought my feminism was just a little more predictable than this!
Comments here would be appreciated -- what would you have done?
In other news, pancakes were again demanded, but easily deflected with the cinnamon toast switch. I think tomorrow I'll lure them with cheesy eggs... And the pictures turned out beautifully. Maybe I'll eventually post them.
Either Tim is asleep again in front of the television, or he has finally decided to worry about hair loss in a truly pathological way. Because the blaring "paid endorsement" I hear from the LR has just announced that we'll be hearing next from the "international leader in surgical hair restoration technology" Ugh. I married a guy with a big ole forehead, I was prepared for eventual hairlessness. After all, most of my best crushes have historically been bald. And, in the words of Richard Figge, it is after all only a sign of raging testoterone at work... Argle bargle.
I should go wake him up, but I still feel bloggy and he'll try to make me go to sleep instead. I don't wanna go to sleep right now! Though I will clearly regret this decision in the morning when Mara marches in and demands breakfast. "Wake up now Mommy, Matthew and I want pancakes!" I've put her off for three mornings in a row... Mean mommy I'm sure, but I hate making pancakes. Don't much like to eat them either. Really hate the way the house smells after... Perhaps cinnamon toast will appease her? We'll try it and see.
Do you ever feel like you peaked already and it's all downhill from here?
I used to think I peaked in high school. I was brilliant in high school. Cute too. (okay, I didn't KNOW I was cute at the time, but photographic evidence suggests there was a definite adorability present -- if only someone had let me know!) I did everything in high school. I was huge fish in a tiny tiny pond and moving off to college really kicked me in the ass. I was profoundly depressed and bored silly that first year, spent most of it sleeping and reading Ayn Rand (cheery stuff that was), ruining my 3.98 average with a single dreadful class...
But my second year of college was superb. I did great work that year. Took an academic overload, actually participated in extra-curriculars... met two of the most influential not-related-to-me-by-blood people of my life (with nods to Dick & Susan) and decided to go to Scotland in the fall. So Junior year was amazing too. I learned so much about myself, read literally hundreds of books, wrote fabulous words, and took care of me in ways I hadn't dreamed possible.
But senior year -- now, that was crucial. Women's Studies Seminar taught me about teaching, made me realize I was a teacher at heart, and about leadership and introduced me to Mary. I.S. was almost everything and the most fun and hardest, best work I have ever done. There were delicious flirtations and hundreds of cups of coffee (and I don't even DRINK coffee) and finding Tim and losing Mary and realizing my strength and happiness and intellectual freedom... Phi Beta Kappa didn't suck either, and since they keep sending me their magazine, I assume I didn't dream that secret handshake after all.
But it really seems possible that I got stuck there. Am I still just 22 inside? Have I spent the last 12 years just spinning my wheels? Some days it seems painfully likely. I had these jobs, decent jobs, but thought they weren't right for me... Graduate school, the first two times, was mostly grim. (Never go to grad school without a grant or at least your tuition paid. I'm 40 grand in debt, and I still cannot figure out what it got me besides 40 grand in debt...) The third time around was great. Funded grad work is significantly better on all fronts than grad work with three jobs and a stack of loans... At Indiana I realized again how strong I am when I am teaching, so curriculum and instruction may well be where I actually belong. It's so hard to see from here.
Whine whine whine. The television channel has changed, so he must be awake again. I'd better go to bed. This level of self-reflection is just becoming maudlin after all. Whatever comes next will come, and welcome. I only hope I still have enough brain power left to recognize it once it's here! Pray for the efficacy of a cinnamon toast bribe, because I am too wigged out for pancakes anyway.
A miraculous thing happened today -- I realized I am actually going to be at home, finally, in this new house. I send thanks to book group, but especially Jodie, who hadn't seen the devastation of moving and the subsequent demolition I've been trying to repair. Beautiful Jodie beamed at me and loved my house, and it struck me, in a flash: our house is finally becoming home.
We have worked so hard all summer -- priming and painting almost all the rooms, pulling out carpet, polishing the hardwood floors we found underneath, tearing out tacky press-board panelling, pulling down (which sounds so much easier than the reality of what happened) layers of wallpaper and paint on walls and ceilings, replacing plumbing and repairing floors, just trying to decide where all our stuff would go... And suddenly it's paying off. Sure, there's plenty more to do. I would love to get the sleeping room (as opposed to the playing room) decorated for the kids by Mari's birthday. The upstairs bathroom needs plenty of repairs and tweaks... the downstairs bathroom still needs another coat or two of paint... and there's so much more stuff to go through, organize, toss, put away...
But looking through Jodie's eyes, I see (again) the possibilities. And that's an amazing development. After so much work, I thought I'd never feel at home. It was beginning to feel more like another endless project than a home to love. Like nothing would ever be finished, never be the way we dreamed. So thanks everybody, for loving my house enough for all of us! Next time you come over, I'll make sure I've got the dishes done!
A dear friend of mine had a much-anticipated, already very much loved baby today, in the house that used to be my home. Rosemary Athena arrived at 4:51 p.m., after approximately 8 hours of labor and 17 minutes of pushing, to the delight of friends and family all over the country (and possibly the world). She weighs 9 pounds, 8 ounces, is 21 inches long, and has a beautiful head of dark brown hair and the cutest squashy nose in the history of babies everywhere. And she was born with the help of midwives at home, which her mama wanted so very much and worked so very very hard to make possible...
The struggles that preceded Rosemary's birth are too many to number-- battles with insurance companies, icky jobs to pay for the midwives, frustration over a tiny apartment with no room for a birthing tub -- and that's really only the beginning. But Rosemary's mama is no ordinary mama! When she sets her mind to achieve, you best get out of the damned way or expect to reap the whirlwind. This is a determined woman. And I could not be happier for her in a million zillion years. I am thrilled that we have a new girlfriend to love, I am thrilled that the birth went so smoothly, I am thrilled that mama and bebe are safe and strong, that all their best birth dreams are coming true.
Make no mistake about it -- because I love these people hard and fast and long. I would have helped move mountains to make this birth story turn out just the way it did. I cannot wait to learn this little girl -- to take her into our fold, to be a fairy godmother to her, to hold her in my arms and help her love the world.
But at the same time, I feel a tiny tug inside. Because as much as my babies were anticipated and loved, as much as the world rejoiced to see them born, they emerged into a different world than Rosemary will know. Our group of friends, this vital group which is so a part of my life and who I am right now, did not get formed until after both my kids were born. Oh it was soon after, and I have no doubt that they feel all kinds of love. They are children of the pack and loved by all. But Rosemary was born into our group in such a different way. We have anticipated her since before the stick turned blue -- okay, that's bad poetic license, really it was since before the second stripe appeared, but that doesn't sound as good. In any case, we've known she would be part of us since before she even WAS. At every stage of her development, we have imagined her arrival, dreamed about who she might be -- this whole group of women has rocked through the pregnancy loving this kid and she wasn't even here yet. Because we knew she would partially belong to us, even while she remains entirely her mother's (and her father's and big brother's too).
All over town the calls back and forth -- what's the progress, how's she doing, when will that baby finally GET here? We lit our candles, put on our solidarity bracelets, sent waves of positive energy out to welcome this baby to the world. I love that we are those kinds of friends. I love that we wrap each other in such joy and warmth and love.
But part of me, so selfishly, is saddened that I will never know that love in quite the same way. Our family seems finished. Our foursome feels complete. And yet, I want to revist those moments of early baby love. I want to be that most special person again -- back in Room 210 at FMC, where both my kids spent their first new hours -- I want the frustration of morning sickness, the exhaustion, the first flutters and harder kicks, the thousand late night trips to the bathroom, the backaches, the sore feet... Even the third c-section I know I'd have to have seems like a tiny price to pay to capture that moment again... that moment when the baby is finally here. Finally in arms and everything around you stops, diminishes, fades in the amazing, and temporary, silence of a sleeping newborn child.
I want my friends to call, to organize a visiting schedule, to bake casseroles and fill my freezer with love. I want a baby who knows their voices from hearing them through nine long months inside... And I think, again so selfishly, that I feel a little cheated, having had my kids too soon. So many of today's events were absent from my life in '99. When Mara was born there were no friends to visit, no one here to call. We were so alone, even in our joy. When Matthew arrived two years later, my one dear friend did so much, but still it's not the same... And he grew up so fast! I felt a little cheated even then...
But today, especially, is all about the joy. It's not likely that we will have another child, and while that saddens me some days, at least I have my friends. I look forward to many more birth days like today -- when we welcome other babies for us all to love. I feel confident that each will be embraced as one of OUR babies, even if the next ones aren't mine. There is a special added bonus in the fact that Rosemary was born in the house that was all too recently my own -- a house that her family has made a very special home to welcome her. She sleeps tonight with her parents in the room we shared with Matthew when we first came home. Whatever happens next, Rosemary and Matthew will always have their first home in common, and I love how life makes things like that exciting. She is a baby of our world in so very many ways!
So welcome Rosemary Athena, we're glad you're safely here at last. We can hardly wait to meet you!
It's late, I should go to bed, but my kid has no clean underpants... And I've had hours to do the laundry. Really. Hours.
Laundry is one of those tasks that always threatens to overwhelm me. Some days I'd like to just load it all up and take it to the laundromat. I'd put it in seven or eight washers, dump in detergent, pack quarters in all the slots and read a trashy magazine while my stuff got clean. But that's the dilemma, isn't it? Because when I was using the laundromat out of necessity, I never really felt like my stuff WAS clean. And what about the cool Goth girl who just re-dyed her wardrobe black in the machine I picked to wash my favorite (un-black) clothes? The majority of the dirt gets out, but nothing ever smells right once it's gone through the dryers, regardless of how many fabric softener sheets you use.
The dryers are, in themselves, a whole separate issue. Nothing ever ever ever gets really dry. It just gets warm and wet, then hot and very damp, then very hot and slightly damp (and also often smaller than it was in the first place). No amount of quarters will ever REALLY dry your laundry at the laundromat. There's just too much steam in the air. Too many driers venting into the same behind the dryer space... so you go home, $20 poorer, with damp towels and cleaner, but maybe not quite CLEAN clothes.
Then there's the problem of folding. You can go home with a trunk full of smashed and permanently wrinkled (still slightly damp) clothes and iron them all -- or just wear them wrinkled like I usually do -- or you can take them home folded, which means you have to fold your entire wardrobe while everyone watches. And I don't know about you, but I never felt quite right about dealing with my big ol' underpants out there in front of god and everyone. Oh sure, god is probably watching me fold underwear at home too, and I'm reasonably sure my big ol' butt is no great secret, but I like having that part of our relationship be private, just the same.
So here I am, instead, at home, doing the laundry one load at a time, which takes just about FOREVER, since I can't keep up with small loads accomplished throughout the week. It was a good day, for the most part. For that, and for the privilege and luxury of being ABLE TO CHOOSE to do my laundry at home, I am grateful. So with gratitude, for many things, big ol' butt included, I will sign off now and go down to swap my loads. Mara will have tiny panties galore by morning, and by next week I might even have it all folded. But don't count on it...
The subject of blogs came up today with a small group of friends. One has a blog already, one is publishing a zine, and the third, upon hearing that two of us were blogging, wondered -- loudly -- why on earth we would bother. A blog seemed, to her at least, the height of vanity. And that made me think... why AM I blogging?
The reason I gave this afternoon was my need to write. "But why," she asked, "can't you just keep a journal? Why does it need to be on the web? Why does it have to be so public? What makes your thoughts so important that they need to be on the web?" And I didn't really have an answer.
I'm still not sure I do. In part it's about accountability. The blog is here -- Kym and KWK took the time to get me set up and so I might as well use the blasted thing. I'm fairly sure I wouldn't feel the same about a paper journal. The hundred or so 1/4 filled blank books littering the house can attest to the veracity of this idea. So I am proud of myself for not buying the very expensive journal I almost got at B&N last week, even though the tiny tiny ruled pages and buttery suede cover were incredibly tempting.
But it's also about voice and audience. This blog is like the letter I can't quite manage to write for all the people I ought to write to regularly. I don't really know who's reading/listening right now, but I have a couple of ideas and hopes for a particular few who might accept my invitation to enjoy. And I'm willing to bet that if you asked some of them, especially those who have received voluminous correspondence from me in the past, they'd tell you how much this web log sounds like me. With a few notable exceptions, I write the way I talk. And for the most part I talk the way I think -- maybe with a little more polish and a little less blather, but not much. This is pretty much the real me.
So maybe there are people who have missed hearing from me, who have despaired of a long letter, who still wonder what's going on in my life. And for them, in part, I write and post this blog. But mostly it's just for me, it doesn't really matter if anyone is reading it at all.
Is that really a fair assessment? I'm not sure. Maybe I am just incredibly vain? But in any case, I think the web is big enough to encompass a whole lot of vanity, and if you don't care to read, just don't. Suits me, I'm easy.
Welcome to the blog. I wanted to say a few things, just quickly, about who I am, and where I got the title for this site.
I'm Katye, aka DangrMom, a feminist mama with two cool kids and a super spouse. I'm also a writer mama, a power tools mama, a crafter mama, and (always) a drama mama. I have been many things in my 34 years, and I'm sure that I'll eventually enjoy other incarnations, but right now I am SAHM, SAHM I am -- with all the joy and heartache and occasional boredom that role entails. Thanks to an amazing group of friends, I am finally realizing that I can still be me in the midst of being my kids' mom, and it's made an enormous difference. I'm a better parent when I have a stronger sense of myself and my own needs, so here's the blog to help with clarity, or something.
My parenting philosophy is trite but true: moderation in all things, also, be careful what you wish for. Asking for smart, strong, clever, beautiful children sounded pretty harmless and reasonable when we were pregnant... Now I'm not so sure. I wouldn't trade Mara & Matthew for anyone else, but I'm not sure I'd be so cavalier about who I suggested they might be if I were doing it all over again. Smart, strong, clever and beautiful is one helluva combination after all! Makes for more difficult mommy days, especially when you're determined not to say "Because I'm the Mommy, that's why!" But what a lot I am learning!
The title of the blog comes, with grateful thanks, from a Dar Williams song called "If I Wrote You," which is one of my favorites. If you don't already know Dar's work, find her CD's and catch up. It would be enough just to hear her beautiful voice, but her lyrics break my heart and patch it back up again every time I hear them. They remind me of who I am and why I am and how I got here and what it all means. Listening to her songs I am transported back to poetry group at Hume-Fogg in 1986-87 -- it's like hearing the words of a dear friend and being amazed at the talent you didn't realize existed in people you thought you knew well. Start with The Honesty Room and just move on from there, because all her albums are amazing.
Here's the lyric I borrowed:
"And the way I left was not the way I planned,
but I thought the world needed love and a steady hand..."
And maybe the world doesn't need this blog, but I do, and if the rest of you get something out of it too, then hurrah for us all. I am just glad to be in the world again, in some form, while I do this essential thing for my life and the life of my family. Welcome. I hope you enjoy my journey.
Katye
I sometimes forget how randomly wonderful life can be. Case in point, the present moment: Matthew is sleeping (in his bed, no less), Mara has just finished two beautiful watercolor drawings and is getting ready to play playdough on her new table, and my kitchen floor is sparkly clean and smells deliciously like just cleaned floor. The dining room is vacuumed and I finally got the ugly shelf unpacked and removed from the space where the kids' table was going to go.
My vision of this house is slowly becoming more than just a fantasy and I even have a moment to sit and write this. In my life right now, a moment to THINK is a valuable commodity, especially a moment that didn't have to be wrestled away from somebody else. And, having worked all morning on cleaning, I even feel almost guilt-free. Sure, there is a counter full of dishes again, but I'm waiting for the floor to dry so it's not like I could be there washing them in this particular moment (right?)
And tonight is ballet class for my almost four year old girl. Class #2 and she is so proud to be practicing her plies, hands on her tiny hips and knees bent...
Hooray for the moment. And time to get the baby up it appears. Ah, life moves on, and maybe that's the smallest, most important miracle of all.
Ever have a life when everything seems ready to collapse, just when you thought you had finally gotten it all in working order? Because that's where I've been for the past couple of months.
We bought a house in April -- actually we moved IN to the house in April. We bought the house at the end of March after the fastest house search / loan approval / closing date in history. I kinda like the way the first part of this story happened, so bear wtih me while I re-live it all over again:
The first weekend in March was Latin Convention -- and my spouse, who is an amazing teacher and also the devoted sponsor of the Latin Club was off judging projects, chaperoning hormonal teenagers and wearing the fabulous red linen tunic and toga I finished for him the night before (it has gold metallic threads in the trim, not that it's particularly relevant to our story, but this is how my brain works). In any case, he wasn't here, but my two kids and I were and they needed to nap, which is how I came to pick out our house without any input from the Magister.
So we're on our way home from the library and the kids are starting to fall asleep so I keep driving, glad that I have a book to read when they finally conk out for real. These are kids who won't fall asleep at home and can't be moved from the car when they eventually succumb to the gentle vibrations of the road, so it pays to have a book handy at all times. Anyway, I'm driving around and around, periodically checking in the handy "are both kids asleep yet" mirror clipped to my rear-view. Finally they're sleeping and I realize I've turned down a street I've never really seen before. And it's a very nice street. Cute little houses, neat yards (though in early March it was pretty grim here in central Ohio), not a busy street but still conveniently located... Virtually ideal. And smack in the center of this row of nice houses is one for sale -- and not just any house, the very one I would have chosen from the entire row. It really felt like a kind of magic: the kids sleeping so peacefully in their carseats, the sun finally emerging from its February hiding place, a warm soil-smelling breeze on the air, and the perfect house on the perfect street just suddenly appears...
Now, before you start thinking there's some kind of Narnia experience going on here, it's probably important to know that my town is FULL of weird little streets that seem to go nowhere and end up someplace even more strange. And when the kids need to nap, I have a tendency to just wander around -- albeit in the car. We frequently drift through neighborhoods, up and down streets that seem to appear from nowhere and disappear just as rapidly. It's a feature of our town that I find very endearing (and there are few enough of those otherwise).
And I realize, with blinding clarity, that this house appears (from the outside at least) to be exactly what we've always wanted in a house of our very own. After 10 plus years of marriage, all of which was spent renting or in married student housing, the idea of a house had become big and complicated, and frankly not a little daunting. But there it was. Not too big, not too small. Great street with virtually no traffic, big deck in the back, maple tree with branches for swings, fireplace, two storeys, big enough yard for playing, but not too big for our people-powered push mower, sidewalks for riding bicycles or skating... In short, ideal.
Speeding up our story a little.... I called the realtor, discovered the house was in our price-range, took my best buddies to see the place the next day (thanks for having my back on that one ya'll!) and fell in love as soon as Debbie (the realtor) opened the door. T. was back on Sunday night and I dragged him through on his lunch period Monday. Tuesday night we wrote a bid (this was March 10th by now) and by March 28th we were closing.
It was a whirlwind courtship and with good cause (on the part of the sellers anyway). We moved in, or rather got in and started working, only to find a faulty toilet & rotten floor boards in the bathroom, decaying carpet in the hallway, a basement that leaked everytime it rains hard, dog hair in all the HVAC ducts, and an appalling stench of cat in the laundry room. Never, and I repeat never, buy a house that has a large number of "Stick-Ups" in the basement. LOOK FOR THEM! The number of repairs and renovations needed before moving in meant that I spent all of T's spring break working on the house 24/7 while he had the kids and nothing got packed. Our friends arrived to help us move and discovered they had to pack us up too. Yes, that was me. It was so humiliating.
And we could not have done it without them -- Diana (the powerhouse mover who even wore out the guys eventually), Kym (master of kidwatching who took on all the little monsters at once and also packed up all my food), Sarah (our force of motivation, who never said "dammit, they are never gonna be out of this house" until moving day was long over and I was almost sane again), Gene (who neglected to tell us he had a hernia until AFTER he'd helped move the washer and dryer, not to mention a zillion boxes and furniture), Bill (who showed up after a full day of work and still helped with multiple truck loads), Melanie (who overcame all her librarian training long enough to just shove books in boxes without caring that they all fit neatly) and everyone else who put up with me during the time of exhaustion and insanity.
So here we were, and the house -- our brand new dream house -- seemed ready to fall down around our very ears. T. was back in school, the kids just wanted to find their stuff and make towers with the boxes, we were all sleeping in one room on the floor (because our box-spring wouldn't fit past the curve of the stairs and besides, the kids' room looked like Bosnia with the cheap crappy panelling down, a thousand gaping nail holes in the plaster and the ancient peeling wallpaper half off and half on), and I didn't know where ANYTHING was. Nightmare! Nobody was sleeping well and I just couldn't find things that I really really needed (like tampons, for heaven's sake).
We were rescued again, so many times, by the above mentioned life-savers. And after a long summer of hard word, not forgetting to add thanks to my folks, who came for Matthew's birthday and spent the whole weekend working like dogs, my sister Meg and her husband Dan, who showed up for two weeks of hard labor instead of taking their belated honeymoon, sent me straight to bed and then made me get up again and organize the kitchen (all the while taking charge of the kids and actually keeping them entertained so the rest of us could work), the house is finally beginning to really BE our dream house, but really has been hella hard.
I'll save the details for another entry, because they are worth telling and there were unexpected plusses too, like the whole downstairs being hardwood floors under the nasty carpeting, but the real point of this whole entry is that just when KWK had this blog ready to go, my computer decided to take a mysterious vacation to crash land. So instead of blogging all weekend, I've spent most of it reformatting and trying to figure out what was up with this ASS computer. Which only goes to show that nothing is certain in the world and just when you think it's all set, something else will go wrong. It's enough to make me turn cynical all of a sudden. But stay tuned, I think things are headed for an upswing. I might even get my thoughts (and my belongings) organized at last.
Welcome to my ramblings. Thanks for tuning in, and thanks to KWK for setting me up, Kym for hosting {{ KYM }}and Sarah for getting me back to writing. (Look for her 'zine Fit Pitcher in distribution now!) Links are coming eventually, but in the meantime, check out Kym's thoughts at Talk Talk