A pregnant pause

I had lunch with a friend today; she is pregnant with her first baby. She is in to her
second trimester now and was full of great questions.
Her and I talk a lot and she is a seriously impressive woman – very together, long-
term stable partner, well respected at work. She is funny and warm and poised,
and yet her mothering hormones are coming in full speed ahead and making her
question herself.
What is it about motherhood that makes us do that? Why are we always asking our
selves so many questions? Why can 100 people tell us we will be great moms and
yet we never believe them?

My friend and I were in the middle of a somewhat innocuous discussion about the
pros and cons of your own mother coming to stay after baby arrives when suddenly
her eyes welled up. She looked away and then said quietly, “I worry I won’t be giving
enough.”
That is such a real and truthful emotion and I think it took a lot of courage to say
that out loud. I remember feeling that way, but I had forgotten about it. I remember
my early pregnancy and crying over all the things I had to give up. I was a bit angry
at the thing living in me. So small and yet already so all consuming.
I told my friend to try not to worry too much and to trust in Mother Nature, she
seems to always bring us moms around when it counts. I told her what she is feeling
is normal and that she was brave to talk about it. I told her that her honesty would
help other women by encouraging open dialogue. After all it isn’t always easy to
admit you are worried about your capacity to love your child. It is the opposite of
what most people expect you to say, but often what you may be feeling.

It is difficult to give advice to a pregnant woman; you have to balance honesty with
scaring the life out of them. Everyone says “It’s hard” and “It’s great” but really these
words are pretty empty until it is your own tiny little human that you are looking
at. You don’t want to mislead first-time pregnant friends, and you certainly don’t
want to preach at them, but you do want to try to prepare them. The worry and
the doubt are infinite, and I don’t think they go away. My friend’s eyes looked so
worried today, and she has everything going for her – she will be great. Why do the
same hormones that make us jump in to traffic for our kids also make us so fearful
for their little futures from the moment we even sense their existence?

-Tightrope Mama


[image: etsy]

I LOVE Girls…..

There is a new HBO series named GIRLS that has actually taken me in and spun me around in a tizzy for weeks..Judd Apatow has brought along some amazing female writers to create a weekly space for the subconscious thought.

It is this experience that has led me to a period of grieving….why can't I do this.  Why can't I sit down, lock myself in a room for a year and regurgitate my most inner thoughts and experiences …. And of course create an engaging and thoughtful HIT show.

Okay so the premise… a coming of age series where a 20 something collective struggles with fear, hope, love and sex of everyday life….with lovely outfits and an awesome sound track to boot.  I love mixed tapes!!!!!!  

So here is my thought for all of the momma's out there….lets do this.

Let's start out own collective of narratives, about all of our fears, what we want to be, how we want to love and be loved and how we want to have sex or not have sex. 

I am so tired of the same old…everyone comparing, bragging, prentending…. Lets be who we are ….and share the narratives about what we want to be about and who we actually are and who we can possibly can be.

GIRLS…  

-Gray Mama

Elmo?

One day while shopping, we rounded the corner to find a pile of Sesame Street
books on display. W yelled “El-moo! El-moo!” and voraciously hugged the books.
Every last book got an individual hug.

It was adorable and… confusing. I don’t think my husband and I had ever said the
word “Elmo” to W. We had never watched more than a few isolated minutes of Elmo
here and there on the computer, so I was stumped. Then it hit me – Daycare! They
must be talking about Branded Characters in daycare. I work in Kid’s Entertainment
so this is how I think, “the machine had hold of him”

I am painfully aware of the power of Dora and Cookie Monster and Thomas the Tank
Engine (mainly because they steal all our market share!). I have watched countless
nephews spend hours talking about The Wiggles; I know the slope is very, very
slippery. To the extent that I will purposely rename characters in a story to avoid W
knowing their Brand Name. (I know, over the top behavior).

So, a few days later I remembered to ask the beloved daycare teacher if they talk
about Elmo at daycare. “Oh yes,” she said, “The children LOVE Elmo. We have two
Elmo books and I have to hide them when I am not reading them because they will
fight over them. One is a toilet training book and it makes noise.” She didn’t hide
that they talk about the Branded Character. She was proud of it. Elmo is serving a
purpose – reading AND toilet training. Two things I happen to feel very strongly
about instilling in my boy.

My husband thinks the way W says “El-moo” is so cute he rushed to the store and
bought the toilet training Elmo book AND an Elmo doll that says shapes and colours
when you push where his little monster heart should be. I am not exaggerating
when I say W runs on the spot with excitement at the appearance of these items but
still prefers the book.

In my quest to make myself feel better about this Elmo love, I watched the
documentary; Being Elmo and it made me feel a bit better. Elmo’s job is to share love and make kids feel safe and happy. (I’m paraphrasing but that is the message I took away from the film).

Elmo book is now a part of bedtime routine and as I write this W is sleeping with the
Elmo open book under his face. (I usually sneak in and steal it at some point).
Do I love that W loves Elmo? No. Yes. I don’t care. It depends on the day. And how
tired I am.

-Tightrope Mama

The Diaper: A Mother’s Companion: Part Three

It’s 10:45pm.

Why am I in this bar?

Because the Guppins wakes constantly, and sucks on my tits relentlessly through the
night, and whines and cries, and it is not good. So Sir Dick, in a temporary moment of
utter compassion, sent me out and is doing bedtime with her.

I was ordered to leave the house, go out and get a drink or something.

The first thing I do is a garbage run. You have to pay like two bucks per bag of garbage
in this town. Taxes don’t cover it. Don’t get me started. My mama friends bust a gut
when I describe darting down to the main street under cover of darkness, lurking in the
shadows, avoiding bank video cams as I deposit small garbage bag after garbage bag
of dirty diapers and household debris in half a dozen public cans (with the small holes
which makes it awkward and tense).

Maybe I could go see some friends.

I have no friends in this town. Lie — I have two friends, Ursula and Slink. Ursula has
family night tonight and Slink is out with his girlfriend for dinner. I know this because
earlier I texted him (desperate) and asked if it was cool to drop in. He, of course, said
yes, so I put the Guppins in the stroller, crossed town, peekin’ in the windows full of
settled homes, families with multiple members (that sounds rude), friends around pianos
with oversized clocks on the walls behind them. It’s all cheery and slightly eighties
and tasteful and perfect. I trudge. I push the $5 yard-sale-special stroller uphill (Sir
Dick’s stroller of choice; mine, which she loves, is in my apartment in Toronto), the
Guppins oddly quiet, immobilized in her strapped-in, blanketed state. I pretend she is
a Mennonite and I am a horse, yet still homesick for my life in Toronto (it’s been three
days) so I have my iPhone streaming my favourite CBC radio show of all time in my
back pocket as I trudge, breathe, take it all in, find peace…

Tom Power squeaks though denim, some barely discernable Kingston Trio on Deep
Roots muffled by my butt, my connection to old life staticky at best. We arrive at Slink’s.
Back door opens. I behold his Guilty Boyfriend Face.

“Trina’s here. We are going out for dinner at 7.”

It’s 6:10. Welcome welcome.

A short visit. Slink serves some delicious sweet Asti. (He has a sign on his kitchen that
says “It’s Wine O’Clock.”) His recently deceased mother’s sewing basket sits at the foot
of his stairs, and her beautiful oval dining table rests in his dining room. He is the guy
from Love You Forever, but he doesn’t have any kids, just nephews and nieces who he
adores, who he always has stuff in the house for. And me.

I love Slink. Just never quite enough, if you know what I mean. Just never quite enough.

They decide to walk downtown to the restaurant; it’s on the way.

“I found a pair of jeans in Slink’s closet, only they are about this much longer than my
legs”

Trina, tiny fireball, uses her hands to denote a giant’s leg…which would be mine.

Slink:

“You stayed over that once, right?”

I stayed several times, Slink. In fact, I stayed there a few times when you weren’t even
there. “Are they really dark denim?“

Trina: “No, they’re a weird blue and they have red paint on them.”

“Hmm. Probably not mine.”

Slink is in super deep shit. Though Trina is most definitely the most civil of my County
boyfriends’ girlfriends, one has to tread carefully in the backdoor of southwestern
Ontario. Girlfriend jealousy at a barbaric pitch. These folks live for violent drama.
Survival? Watch for the signs, fear exile, fear physical assault, fear losing your guy
friend.

I guess I’m still not too old for this shit.

I guess maybe I am remembering why I packed up and moved here in the first place.

I am…the Anthropoligyst.

Definition: Urban dwellers who visit small environs to observe and post comment.

Let the fun begin, I say.

And hey mean Mennonite lady who slapped my daughter’s hand away from your debit
machine buttons: I’m here, I’m watching, and I’m pissing into diapers in your thrift store
parking lots. So BE NICE.

“Sure, I’ll take the check”.

Time to go home.

-Drama Mama

The Diaper: A Mother’s Companion: Part Two

It’s 9:35pm.

I am now in the bar. Thinking about my daughter hitting herself in the head.

When I say “no” to something. Something that will maim her, like a razor blade.

I try to not think about the guy who invited me to New York in this very bar when I was
young and beautiful but I can’t help it.

“I’ll have a beer. Do you have Mill Street Organic? Oh. Ok. No that’s OK. Something
light. A lager. Blue? Umm…”

The first “chat” blog I check out on the subject begins something like this:

“My eighteen-month-old has been hitting herself in the head, so we decided to stop
spanking her,” etcetera and so on.

Someone out there is spanking an eighteen month old? And no one commented on this
post? I mean they commented, but not on the spanking. This depressed me, shocked
me; What The… Honest To… It is unbearable to even think.

“Can I get some wings? No, twenty. At least twenty. With blue cheese. A lot of it.”

I play a move on Word with Friends with the guy. He lives in LA now. He’s married to a
lingerie manager. Lingerie store manager.

“Hi? O Hi yes, I’ll have another beer. And a Caesar salad. No a large. Thanks.”

The next blog I glance at is by a very nice-looking/sounding gal who said that at around
this stage it is normal, babies don’t know how to express emotions, they’ve picked it up
from TV or somewhere (huh?), and the advice is to ignore and distract. What?

In moments of parenting curiosity, I turn to Dr. and Martha Sears’ The Baby Book.
There is a website, but I get suspicious around those websites because of all the
ghostwriting I assume goes on. Like, for example, has anyone out there noticed that
the Dr. Spock website touts attachment parenting principals? I’m pretty sure that
attachment parenting wasn’t his deal.

Anyway The Baby Book itself is fab for the first two years of development.

“Can I get it all at the same time? Thanks.”

I should probably get home. She’s probably awake and crying.

Ding ding. New York LA just made a move.

“Can I get a half? Just a half. Thanks.”

-Drama Mama

The Diaper: A Mother’s Companion: Part One

It’s 9:17 p.m.

I am parked in a car on the main street of Smalltown outside a bar where I once fell in
love with a guy who asked me to meet him in New York for Christmas. He said he’d fly
me there and I was young. Regrettably, the timing was wrong.

I contemplate going in.

Several things have happened. Sir Dick, the Guppins and I have moved from Big City
to this Very Large Village. Although I still have my apartment in Toronto (subletting
for three months) THANK GOD. It has been a complicated journey. There has been
the packing: his house, my house (not really), the Guppins sleeping at his place, then
at my place, camping in the new small-town house, the move itself, the episode of
Hoarders Sir Dick could have shot while I packed and rid his house entirely of debris
(yes, “debris,” as stipulated in the buyer’s contract). There has been stomach flu, the rat
who scurried — nay, boldly strode — around the living room while I packed.

When the movers picked up a couch, it darted into the kitchen.

(A squeal from within)

“The baby’s in the kitchen! The baby’s in the kitchen!” (me, running, anguished)

Mover guy: “Don’t worry, if it bit her she’d be making a heck of a lot more noise than
that.”

There has been the intense, almost indescribable mental anguish of Sir Dick at having
to burn away his old life for one anew at age 68. And, of course, the disintegration of our
relationship, which is a shambles, a reeking ruin of despair. But let’s keep this related to
babies.

I have discovered, through this journey, several new uses for the disposable baby
diaper:

A. To vomit into while driving.

B. To relieve myself into in the parking lot of the Mennonite thrift store.

C. To use as an overnight maxi pad when in desperate need.

Please please don’t tell my daughter.

I go into the bar.

-Drama Mama

Peek into Two

Here’s a little movie I made of my Tenant In Two’s apartment. I call it “The Never Cry Again Home.”

When the Guppins was a new little baby and in a bit of a grouch I’d take her into the apartment across the hall (with permission of course), and it still gives my tenant (and friend) such delight. And it continues to work like a charm on the Guppins to this day.

Take a Peek into Two.

-Drama Mama

Lonely

About five years ago, I participated in a ten-week course called Mindfulness, created by Dr.
Jon Kabat-Zinn. It was facilitated by a social worker who taught techniques to manage pain of any kind through mediation and breathing. This course explores ways to stay present in the moment, to use meditation and breathing techniques to bring you to a place in the present. In doing so, you can explore the reality of your pain in order to manage the day-to-day chaos we call life.

It was actually amazing. I learned a number of different ways to tackle stress, sleeplessness,
and physical pain, and I managed to let go of something that surprised me. Halfway through the course, I was starting to get serious about my meditation. I was able to get to a place of physical and mental balance — which I had never imagined I could do fully. I was able to focus. One evening our facilitator was leading us though a meditation dedicated to unpacking the messy. I was absolutely calm…and out of the blue I started to visualize a child, which was me, as a seven- or eight-year-old. I was watching my little self sitting in a corner crying, and I had an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I started to cry — tears ran down my face as I remained in a heavy state of meditation, while being completely present with my child self and my adult self watching on. When I awoke, I felt that a weight had been lifted. I had let go of something from my childhood that had been holding me back as an adult: loneliness.

When Lo came home from the hospital, all he did for a couple of weeks was eat and sleep.
There was very little crying, and if there was, my milk would soothe him right away. At about two months, Lo developed acid reflux. For any mother out there who has had to figure this one out, you know what I am talking about: the medical community will either push medication for the symptoms right away, or wait until the very last second to prescribe anything. Either option is hard for its own reasons.

Lo was in pain, and the breast was no longer cutting it. He would wake up crying and nothing would soothe him. For a first-time mother, this feeling of not being able to soothe your baby really takes a toll, and I began to feel like a failure.

The crying was getting to me, it was making me really anxious, and I was developing a real
sense of helplessness. I started to finally ask for help from my partner because I could not
take the crying. It was really bringing me down. As I walked away from Lo and listened to him
cry from a distance, I started to ask myself why the crying was bothering me so much — why
could I not listen to my son ask for help? What is it about his cry that puts me in a tailspin? At
that point, I broke down and started to cry myself. I started to feel like I was not cut out for this
mother thing — my biggest fear going into the journey in the first place. As I continued to cry,
I started to pay attention to the familiarity of this feeling. It was this raw feeling, the feeling of
life unravelling for a purpose (which I have experienced many times before). And yes — I pay attention to this stuff. Weird, I know! I had an overwhelming sense that I had been here before. At that point, I had a vision of sitting in meditation, and remembered the lonely feeling that I had revealed and shed many years ago…or so I thought.

Over the next couple of weeks, the crying did not seem so loud, and the middle of the night
became a time when Lo and I would listen to each other — or a podcast. Seriously, though, I
started to sing to him, and instead of crying he would listen and eventually fall asleep. At that
point, I no longer felt lonely — I was being a mother, trying to figure it out and remaining in the present.

Breathe in, breathe out.

-Gray Mama

Here are some links for information on Mindfulness:

Lady’s Man

Yesterday I dropped J-man off at daycare. The other kids, as usual, were in the playground. He didn't want me to go, so he asked me to read him a book first. I wasn't in a hurry so I did. It was a cute book about healthy food choices. A few pages in, a little girl came and sat beside J-man. She was very interested in the story. A few more pages in and J-man tested the waters and put his arm around her. It was so cute I had to laugh. I continued to read but neither child was looking at me or at the book. They were looking at each other and smiling. She leaned in and puckered up, and they went for a kiss. They missed a bit — she kissed the air in front of him first and he kissed her cheek. It was very sweet. I continued to read and tried not to react, and when I was done I told J-man I was off to work. Normally he protests and says, “No work,” but not on that day. He didn’t even look up. I left and they happily played.

Today, he protested: “No Momma...up!” I picked him up and gave him a kiss. The little girl came over, so I said, “Look, J-man, it’s Kelly.” “Oh Kelleee!” he said, and off they went to play. Long story short: he’s not even two and he’s abandoning his mother for cute little girls. No big deal; see ya, Mom!

-Sleepwalking Mama

Arthur the Misogynist

My brothers hated me. At least this was how I felt growing up. Interesting how now, after
growing up, we have almost no contact.

Truth?

As the female of the family, I was the low man on the totem pole, routinely accused of
being the baby, the manipulator, the irritant, the annoyer, the instigator, the bad singer,
sexually wise beyond my actual experience, etcetera and so on. When I was given the
opportunity to skip grade five, the news was handed down to me as if I’d committed a
crime against my brothers.

I became a goth. I listened to the Cure and Siouxie and the Banshees. I joined the
theatre club at school. I became sexually experienced. I learned to drink alcohol, shut
down, shut off, skipped school, took the bus downtown, ran.

It’s taken many years and a whole lot of pain and dollars to pick through it, to grasp the
full consequence of it, to work through blame.

Yet still I am ambivalent. At times. I work on love. It don’t come easy.

So here I sit, my daughter on my lap, some random book that wound up in my
apartment; I turn the page.

My daughter takes special interest, makes the curiosity sound, points, and looks up at
me.

Now what do I do about it?

How did this happen?

How did this image get past the many editors and publishing professionals?

I understand the sentiment. Big brother annoyed by younger sister. I know it. I lived it.
DW, the name of the sister in this series of stories (not even a real name, as a friend
pointed out) is guilty of the crime of being smart and expressing her opinion.

This is where it gets her, the laugh line, the punch.

How did this image get past us? Because it didn’t get past the Guppins.

-Drama Mama

I Feel Bad About My Vagina

I’m not exactly aware of my body, as a rule. I don’t make connections between food and mood or weather and headaches or any of that stuff, so it’s not surprising that I’m not too familiar with the area down there. I’ve never looked in a hand mirror out of curiosity, for instance. Ignorance is bliss. That goes double post-pregnancy, I assume, so I’m not going to start. But I am now very aware of what’s going on down there.

This blog is all about honesty, after all; the brutal, gory truth. So here’s the truth: my vagina’s
changed, and I don’t like it. I had a pretty easy birth, really, so if my vagina sucks, I can only
imagine what happens to women who are stuck in active labour for hours. I was in active labour for about 45 minutes, and much of that time was spent in the car trying to not be in active labour. Mind you, 45 minutes didn’t give me a lot of time to limber up, so to speak, and you can bet I wasn’t engaging in perineal massage in the weeks preceding, but the damage was minimal, so I figured I got off pretty easy. Right?

Well, for one thing, “get off easy” is not a phrase in my vocabulary now. Getting off is far from
easy. I haven’t had a decent orgasm since I was pregnant. (Weren’t those awesome, though? Many of my top ten orgasms of all time happened while I was pregnant.) Never mind the exhaustion and the body image issues and the complete lack of interest. Just the basic act of sex is a chore, with little reward. This really bums me out. I read something recently comparing post-pregnancy sex to going to the gym: you have to force yourself to do it, but you always feel great after. Not so! Things have changed, and almost two years later we still haven’t figured it out. Probably from lack of practice — not enough trial, too much error. Sigh. I do not want it to be like this, but there it is.

I know I should do Kegels, and I try, I really do, but after two and a half years I still haven’t
mastered the bloody things, and they’re clearly not working well enough. I can actually relate to those godawful commercials with Kirstie Alley as the pee fairy. Although I haven’t actually gone out and purchased such a product. That would be the last straw. Instead, I sit when I sneeze or laugh or blow my nose, and I’ve pretty much given up on running, my favourite pre-pregnancy sport.

But the most disturbing change by far is that my tampons don’t fit. I have to buy “super” now.
Gross. I know it’s not actually gross, it’s natural, but in my mind anything extra-large brings on big-time body image anxiety. Interesting note, though: once when I was in Italy, I unexpectedly got my period and had to visit the pharmacy. I bought the same brand and size as ever, but when I got back home and slipped them into a little carrying case I have (so they’re not tumbling around the bottom of my purse like my mother’s always did, along with restaurant mints and tubes of Chapstick — blech), I noticed they were very different from the ones I’d bought at home. Definitely longer and thicker. I was a little confused at the time, but now I think I know why: “regular” European women have had children. In North America, once you’ve given birth, your vagina is no longer regular. It’s distorted and distended and extra-large. Or maybe that’s the wrong attitude, just my self-doubt talking. Maybe I need to re-imagine vaginas. Maybe, instead, once we’ve given birth, our vaginas are “super”!

-East End Mama