Not the Mama!

When I was a kid, my mom sometimes told my brother and me that a woman in Iowa had been "mummed" to death by her kids. This story usually followed a particularly harrowing round of "Hey-mom-watch-me!" These scenes often took place in our above-ground pool each summer.

I don't think we ever really believed her, and I don't think we ever felt bad about our incessant mom-ing. Our mother had a plenty of love, patience, and attention to go around. I'm sure there must have been times when she really did feel like she was being mummed to death, but she never showed it.

As many people know, I have a bad case of mommy angst. I started out not wanting kids and then became ambivalent about it. Then all I could think about was how I didn't know if I wanted kids or not. The baby question became an endless loop in my head, making me go slightly crazy. I was being mummed to death in a much different way.

I'm feeling a bit more balanced about things these days, even though I definitely haven't made up my mind yet. But have you noticed that the media is mom-ing us all to death now?

Lately, the news is full of stories I like to call, "Motherhood if Effin Hard, Man!"

This is the obvious counterpoint to the other dominant media message about mommy-dom, which is, "Motherhood: Who Could Ask for Anything More?"

We have lost all perspective.

I watched the Oprah show about the secret lives of moms, in which Oprah and a slew of moms talked about how effin hard it is to a be a mom. Don't get me wrong. I like many of those women, and know at least one of them, albeit peripherally. I'm not saying they're just whiny women who complain about their kids.

Still, I was shocked by the general feeling (real or edited-to-seem-real) of surprise at how hard motherhood is. Who are these people that thought having a child would be easy? Nothing about it seems easy to me. From the pregnancy and birth, to the child rearing itself -- these things seem fraught with stress, worry, and hard work.

I told a friend that all that maternal honesty on Oprah was doing nothing to allay my concerns and make me want a baby. She said, "That show isn't for you. It's like doing a show on how hard exercise is. It's just an angle to make it interesting."

But it was the wrong show for me to watch. I didn't need that show. I didn't need to hear about how hard motherhood is, because my concern about becoming a mother is directly centered on how hard motherhood is. The other thing that surprised me is the general message that mothers are glad to finally be telling and hearing the truth; that until now, nobody has been telling it like it is about parenthood; that everyone was just pushing around baby strollers with big smiles on their faces and then crying quietly during their once weekly shower.

Maybe it's taken the mainstream media awhile to catch up, but I've been reading about how hard motherhood is for years now. The blogs -- they are full of it! But I guess it's like Twitter: the media has finally jumped on board.

Now, apparently even some of the moms who were featured on the Oprah show are fed up with the media's portrayal of motherhood as a curse.

Still, isn't motherhood like everything else? Good and bad. Easy and hard. Fun and not fun. Where are the drama ridden exposes about fatherhood? About how much it sometimes sucks to go to work? About the joys and pains of marriage?

Motherhood has long been an iconic flashpoint, a state of being that is bigger than the people in that role. The state of motherhood has been honored, vilified, vindicated, and deified. The interesting thing about the media stereotypes of mothers is that they are so varied. There are June Cleavers, Moms who drink, Moms who work, Stay-at-home Moms, Soccer Moms, Earth Mama Goddesses, Hockey Moms, Stage Moms.

I'm not sure what the media thinks of women like me. What do you call a woman without kids? I don't think there's a label for us, which may be part of the reason we've escaped the media frenzy. We're invisible. And in this case, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Gradbabies

image from by dno1967

You can also listen to this story here.


I saw my aunt and uncle in the grocery store the day before Easter. We met up at the end of the jam and jelly aisle, in an open area near the meat counter. I waved first, since it seemed inevitable that they'd see me. It had been at least a year since I last saw them, and I wanted to give them plenty of time to recognize me out of context.

The only thing in their cart so far was a 10 pound bag of potatoes. Later on I'd see them picking out a ham. Until a few years ago, we all used to gather for Easter and Christmas at another aunt's house. But it looked like everyone would be cooking for their own this year.

"Anything new?" my aunt asked.

I gave the standard, "Not much," and then remembered something new, a growing rarity these days: "I'm going back to school."

"Oh?" my aunt said. "That's interesting."

"When am I gonna be an uncle?" my uncle chimed in.

I knew what he meant. "You're already an uncle," I said, trying to sound good natured. "And you're a grandfather! What more do you want? To be a great-uncle?"

"He's that, too," said my aunt, referring to my other cousins who started babymaking a few years ago.

"That’s right!" I said, keeping up the lighthearted banter just a bit too loudly. "See, you don’t need me at all."

We talked for awhile longer, but the subject of me going back to school never came up again. Nobody wanted to know where or why or how or for what. After that conversation, I wondered how many other people are thinking what my uncle, always the outspoken one, actually said.

Me: I’m going to grad school!

Others: When are you going to have a baby?

At a family visit a few years ago, I stood beside my grandmother while we watched a scene unfold around the clan's newest infant. I'm not overly close with my grandmother, and she's not an overly talkative woman, but I know she loves me. After minutes of silence, she turned to me and said, "Well, your mother wanted to be a grandmother, but I guess that's not going to happen now."

I found this curious for several reasons, the main one being that she is my paternal grandmother: my father's mother. Unless she and her daughter-in-law had developed a strong bond recently, or my mother was much more grief-stricken about my childless state than she's let on, I couldn't imagine this was an actual conversation the two of them would ever have.

I didn't know what to say, so again I played the jester. I gestured to my younger brother and said, "Hey, he could have kids!"

I don't know why my grandmother assumed kids were out of the picture for me. I can't recall ever discussing with her my angst and ambivalence about becoming a mother. And this was just a few years ago, when I was in my late 20s or very early 30s and still spry enough to try for a little spring chicken if I so chose.

All in all, I'm thankful that I don't get much pressure from family or friends about my childlessness. For now, this is what makes sense and works for me and my husband. People generally respect that. But every so often, someone slips, and I wonder how many people are questioning my choices. That happens to everyone, I suppose. At some point, we just need to stop worrying about what family, friends, or society think of the path we choose.

A friend recently told me, "I'm so tired of trying to manage my image with my family." For sure, that can be exhausting work, full of subterfuge and half-truths. Personally, I've never really felt the need to do that, especially outside of my immediate family. Most of them have never really known me, but only because we run in different circles, not because I'm hiding anything.

While I was growing up, my parents, brother, and I often spent Friday nights at my great aunt's house in the country. This was on my mother's side of the family. There was always an elaborate spread of food for an evening meal, well after dinner time. It felt so decadent to eat after dark. Summers were the best because the table was covered in delights from my aunt and uncle's garden: sliced bright-red tomatoes, deep green bell peppers, shapely spring onions.

When I became a teenager, those visits became less fun, as do most things at that age. This was during my mandatory dark and twisty phase, in which I was trying to embrace the writer within. I remember sitting on a wooden stool at the little bar island in the kitchen, apart from the family merriment in the living room, and writing something along the lines of: These people are my relatives, but I do not feel related or relevant. It was my way of realizing that you can't choose your relatives, but you can’t hide from them, either.

Most of the people from those Friday night gatherings are far away or gone now. Unlike my dad's side of the family, which is teeming with new life, my mom's side has only seen two new additions. If anyone should be worried about my procreation habits, it would be them – if there were anyone left to worry.

As I settle into my third decade, I have a growing hunger for family and relative connections. But I'm also not ready to throw my own eggs into the ring just yet. When I am, I guess we'll all have something to talk about.

Repost: How to Be Ready for Christmas

Christmas tree, January 2007

I originally posted this last December, but thought it might bear repeating. I especially needed to re-read it as I find myself getting a little too frazzled this year. If you're plum out of patience or time due to the holiday crunch, just skip to the second to last paragraph. Here's wishing you joy and peace for the remainder of this year and all of the next.

"I must not have enough obligations," I said to my husband. "I don't get why people stress out over Christmas."

Before you hate me, bear with me. I'm trying to bring tidings of comfort and joy here.

Yes, it's true: my holiday obligation list is pretty short. For starters, I don't have kids. From what I can tell, this cuts out about 90% of holiday stress. It means I don't have to fight other parents over a Freak-Me-Out-Elmo, or worry about finding non-lead-laden toys made in the U.S. of A., or queue up for hours on end hoping to score a Wii. (But if I did, I'd make jokes about having to "pii".) I don't have to field questions about the reality of Santa or why he isn't in the nativity scene. I don't have to put together a bike on Christmas Eve or worry that the kids will wake up in the middle of the night and blow the whole deal. I don't have to struggle with the pressure to buy mountains of presents to keep up with expectations or explain to impressionable young minds that Christmas is about Christ and not about who gets the most candy canes and DVDs.

The extent of our child-focused activity for Christmas (or any other time of the year for that matter), revolves around my husband's two Godchildren. Our overall shopping list is short. Beyond each other, it includes four parents [edited: sadly, now three parents], three friends, two kids, and one grown sibling. It's pretty manageable, even if a few of those folks are nearly impossible to buy for.

I don't break a sweat about sending Christmas cards. Most years, I don't even do it. Not because I'm boycotting anything, but because I forget, or can't be bothered, or run out of time, or don't find cards that I like. Every few years I have grand plans of making my own Christmas cards, like several of my crafty friends do, but it hasn't happened yet. (So if you've been wondering why years go by without getting a card from me, don't be offended. You weren't singled out for some slight or grievance; I neglect everyone on my list equally.)

I don't have an annual menu of holiday goodies to make, or dozens of cookies to bake for a swap or exchange or whatever you do with cookies when you work in an office, are a member of the PTA, or know your neighbors by their first AND last names. If I get around to making something special, like my dark and dense gingerbread cake (from scratch, thank you very much!), it's a nice treat.

Family gatherings are also rather limited, with a nice five-person get together on Christmas Eve and two bigger stops on Christmas day. But since the hubs works in retail and is pretty much MIA from Thanksgiving until New Year's, we've occasionally bucked the system and stayed home all day long on Christmas day by ourselves: just the two of us, whatever movies are on TV, and some tasty ham sandwiches. It may sound lonely, but trust me: it's quiet bliss when you haven't seen your spouse for more than a few hours here and there for a month.

We always get a fresh tree (even that year we technically stole one and then didn't put it up), but usually not until about 10 days before Christmas. This year we were early and got one the first week of December. It's been sitting in our living room for over a week without lights or decorations. We'll probably get to it by the beginning of the next week. There are several wreaths hanging around the house. Granted, they're autumnal wreaths of orange and yellow and brown, but wreaths nonetheless. I'll get the winter/Christmas decor out of the basement and up before Christmas Eve. And if I don't? Maybe I'll put it up in January. Or not. Because that's how I roll.

When people ask me if I'm "ready" for Christmas, I sometimes try to explain that I don't consider Christmastime something to get ready for, but rather, something to enjoy. When that would sound too pretentious or just be too exhausting to get into, I simply answer "Yes." And what I mean is: Bring it on! I'm ready for Christmas.

(Here comes the comfort and joy part.)

I'm ready for cold winter nights that sparkle with lights hanging from rooftops, with fake deer standing sentinel in front yards, with garland wrapped around lampposts. I'm ready for carols that remind us to take heart, to take stock, and to take pause. I'm ready for the gift of honoring the people I love with presents that will truly touch their hearts. I'm ready to find myself and my God in a hushed, candlelit sanctuary at midnight, full of mystery and secrets. I'm ready to remember that Christmas goes beyond the hype, the uber-consumerism, and the doorbuster sales. I'm ready to celebrate pagan rituals that have been co-opted into the Christian faith because the truth of God shows up over and over again in the myths and archetypes throughout the ages. I'm ready to celebrate the birth of the true Sungod Saviour during the darkest time of the year, when we need light and hope and a reason to get up on cold, dreary mornings.

I realize that your lists for baking, buying, visiting, and hosting may be much longer and more complex than mine. But I hope that amidst it all, you can be ready for Christmas, too.

Yesterday's Lessons

image by Badgurl

What I learned from spending the day with a friend, a toddler, and a newborn:

• I'm woefully out of shape. My muscles are screaming today after hoisting around a 35-pound kid yesterday and getting down on the floor to play with him.
• Kids never stop. Ever.
• Losing a few pounds is definitely a good idea. The waitress asked me how old my newborn was. When I pointed to my friend and explained that he was her six-week-old, the waitress exclaimed, "That's your baby? You look amazing!"
• I'm still not ready to commit to having my own offspring.
• When and if I am ready, I think one will be plenty.
  
• Those minivans with the automatic doors are AWESOME.
• I inherently know how to use THE LOOK and THE VOICE when a kid acts up.
  
• Toddler poop is a serious mess.
  
• Swaddling is a lifesaver.
  
• Babies"R"Us is full of tempting consumer ploys to make me chuck my birth control pills in the garbage. (Tempting, but not convincing.)
  
• Sometimes it's easier to just pick up the toddler than to hold his hand and let him walk.
• Two-year-olds talk. A lot. And I understand very little of it.
  
• Hearing a toddler shout "Lello!" when he spots his favorite color is just about the most joyous thing ever.

Wherever You Go: Cranky thoughts on life

image by tanakawho

I feel blocked. I don't know what to write here. But it's not exactly writer's block. It's more life block. You know those days -- or stretches of days -- when everything just feels messy and chaotic and substandard? I think I'm having one of those. Instead of trying to hide that or make a poignant essay out of it, I thought I'd just come out and say it. So there.

That feels a little better.

Some good things have been happening:

• My husband's birthday was on Friday and we had fun celebrating with his favorite chocolate cake and a few dinners out, including one with his parents.
• My parents made it home safely from vacation, and I always feel like my world is a little more right when they're home.
  
• I spent a fun day with a dear friend and her little sister on Saturday, eating groovy organic pizza, laughing, telling stories, and flirting with a 22-year-old waiter who made us feel young and cute and fabulous.
• I did some good, hard writing and revising and ended up with an essay that pleases me.
• I have some good freelance projects right now.

And yet, all I seem to focus on are life's annoyances:

• My house is a mess. Really a mess. I'm never sure if my external environment mirrors my internal environment or vice versa. All I know is that when one is haphazard and unsettled, so is the other.
• My sleep schedule is all over the place, which makes me feel less productive.
• I haven't been exercising or doing yoga, even though I keep reminding and then promising myself that I will.
• I still haven't planted anything in my brand new vegetable and herb garden because it's been raining all month. And until it stops raining, we can't clean and stain the deck. And until we do the deck, we can't have the exterminator come and spray for the wasps and hornets that have commandeered my back yard. And until we spew chemicals everywhere, I can't plant my garden. (Don't even get me started on the non-organic nature of all this. I'm wracked with guilt as it is, even though I'm assured that the chemicals are safe and non-toxic to humans. But if you have a better, greener way to deal with multiple wasp nests in the crevices of my house, let me know -- nicely, please. I have to do something; it's like a hornet and wasp airport out there.)

Oh my gosh. Whine-whine, whine-whine-whine.

Sometimes I get sick of being with myself. But as my dad says: Wherever you go, there you are.

Where are you these days? I'd truly love to know.

Acts of Love

photo by dusdin (modified)

"I see your dishes are all done!"

It's a little joke my mom and I have when she comes to my house. If there are dirty dishes piled up on the counter and in the sink (as there all too often are) she kindly ignores them. But when the kitchen is free of dirty dishes, she says, "I see your dishes are all done!"

Without context, that phrase makes her sound like one of those harpy mothers who show up in bad chick-lit novels and mediocre sitcoms. But it's not that way at all.

After several years of being a married woman and trying to "keep house," I confessed to my mom that I was embarrassed my the near constant state of disarray in my home. I love a clean, orderly space. I can even create one. I just have trouble maintaining it.

At some point, I stopped trying to pretend that I was a domestic diva--at least in front of my mother. Even though she's always kept a clean, neat, and well-organized house, my mom's never been one of those white-glove-test types or one to cast disapproving looks at the stacks of magazines and mail that regularly commandeer my kitchen island and dining room table. Still, I wanted her to be proud of me, to show her that I'd learned something about domesticity from her. Finally, I had to admit that housekeeping just wasn't my main gig.

I think the joke about the dishes started as her way of giving me a pat on the back, of saying kudos on getting the dishes done--something that she knew wasn't always the easiest or highest priority on my list. In those moments, I'm seven-years-old again and she's praising my picture for the school art contest. I don't care if it's the best. I just care that she sees it.

I admire my mom's ability to stick to a schedule, complete a task, focus on what needs to be done. But I've also seen how it forces her to push herself unnecessarily when she's weary and how it makes her feel guilty if she allows things to fall below her usual standard.

She once told me, "I wish I could be more like you. You seem to be able to just let things go. I can't do that." She was referring, of course, to my ability to let dirty dishes stack up in the kitchen, to let paper pile up everywhere, to forgo vacuuming for much too long. And as weird as that sounds, it really was a compliment on what she admired in me: my ability to put myself first sometimes, to choose fun over chores, and to say "I'll do it tomorrow" if I'm too tired to do it today.

After dinner a few nights ago, I loaded the dishwasher and looked at everything left on the counter that either can't go in the machine or just wouldn't fit this time around. In addition to the usual pots and pans, I still had a bunch of plates, bowls, and silverware left over. I thought about just washing the big stuff, but it seemed silly not to do a few extra things while I was at it.

I rinsed half a dozen pieces of silverware, a little metal bouquet, under running water. The sound of forks, spoons, and butter knives clacking together transported me back to the kitchen of my childhood, where all dishes were washed by hand, all the time. Back to that eat-in kitchen with the ceramic-top stove that was once blown out of the wall when our neighbor's ex-wife came crashing through it in her car. Back to the counter tops that old Aunt Martha insisted were much too poorly lit every Thanksgiving. Back to the mint green vinyl chairs with swivel seats and legs with wheels. Back to dinner being served every weekday at 4:30 when Dad got home from the factory. Back to when Monday nights meant swiss steak and mashed potatoes, and Friday nights often meant a pizza box atop the plastic tablecloth.

I looked at my hand holding that silverware and saw my mother's hand. I felt the hard curve of wet metal that she's felt thousands of times. The moment expanded so that I was my mother and she was me. The moment contracted so that all truth and love and acts of kindness were there in that little handful of metal. I finished the dishes and thought to myself, "I see all your dishes are done."

How to be ready for Christmas

Christmas tree, January 2007

"I must not have enough obligations," I said to my husband. "I don't get why people stress out over Christmas."

Before you hate me, bear with me. I'm trying to bring tidings of comfort and joy here.

Yes, it's true: my holiday obligation list is pretty short. For starters, I don't have kids. From what I can tell, this cuts out about 90% of holiday stress. It means I don't have to fight other parents over a Freak-Me-Out-Elmo, or worry about finding non-lead-laden toys made in the U.S. of A., or queue up for hours on end hoping to score a Wii. (But if I did, I'd make jokes about having to "pii".) I don't have to field questions about the reality of Santa or why he isn't in the nativity scene. I don't have to put together a bike on Christmas Eve or worry that the kids will wake up in the middle of the night and blow the whole deal. I don't have to struggle with the pressure to buy mountains of presents to keep up with expectations or explain to impressionable young minds that Christmas is about Christ and not about who gets the most candy canes and DVDs.

The extent of our child-focused activity for Christmas (or any other time of the year for that matter), revolves around my husband's two Godchildren. Our overall shopping list is short. Beyond each other, it includes four parents, three friends, two kids, and one grown sibling. It's pretty manageable, even if a few of those folks are nearly impossible to buy for.

I don't break a sweat about sending Christmas cards. Most years, I don't even do it. Not because I'm boycotting anything, but because I forget, or can't be bothered, or run out of time, or don't find cards that I like. Every few years I have grand plans of making my own Christmas cards, like several of my crafty friends do, but it hasn't happened yet. (So if you've been wondering why years go by without getting a card from me, don't be offended. You weren't singled out for some slight or grievance; I neglect everyone on my list equally.)

I don't have an annual menu of holiday goodies to make, or dozens of cookies to bake for a swap or exchange or whatever you do with cookies when you work in an office, are a member of the PTA, or know your neighbors by their first AND last names. If I get around to making something special, like my dark and dense gingerbread cake (from scratch, thank you very much!), it's a nice treat.

Family gatherings are also rather limited, with a nice five-person get together on Christmas Eve and two bigger stops on Christmas day. But since the hubs works in retail and is pretty much MIA from Thanksgiving until New Year's, we've occasionally bucked the system and stayed home all day long on Christmas day by ourselves: just the two of us, whatever movies are on TV, and some tasty ham sandwiches. It may sound lonely, but trust me: it's quiet bliss when you haven't seen your spouse for more than a few hours here and there for a month.

We always get a fresh tree (even that year we technically stole one and then didn't put it up), but usually not until about 10 days before Christmas. This year we were early and got one the first week of December. It's been sitting in our living room for over a week without lights or decorations. We'll probably get to it by the beginning of the next week. There are several wreaths hanging around the house. Granted, they're autumnal wreaths of orange and yellow and brown, but wreaths nonetheless. I'll get the winter/Christmas decor out of the basement and up before Christmas Eve. And if I don't? Maybe I'll put it up in January. Or not. Because that's how I roll.

When people ask me if I'm "ready" for Christmas, I sometimes try to explain that I don't consider Christmastime something to get ready for, but rather, something to enjoy. When that would sound too pretentious or just be too exhausting to get into, I simply answer "Yes." And what I mean is: Bring it on! I'm ready for Christmas.

(Here comes the comfort and joy part.)

I'm ready for cold winter nights that sparkle with lights hanging from rooftops, with fake deer standing sentinel in front yards, with garland wrapped around lampposts. I'm ready for carols that remind us to take heart, to take stock, and to take pause. I'm ready for the gift of honoring the people I love with presents that will truly touch their hearts. I'm ready to find myself and my God in a hushed, candlelit sanctuary at midnight, full of mystery and secrets. I'm ready to remember that Christmas goes beyond the hype, the uber-consumerism, and the doorbuster sales. I'm ready to celebrate pagan rituals that have been co-opted into the Christian faith because the truth of God shows up over and over again in the myths and archetypes throughout the ages. I'm ready to celebrate the birth of the true Sungod Saviour during the darkest time of the year, when we need light and hope and a reason to get up on cold, dreary mornings.

I realize that your lists for baking, buying, visiting, and hosting may be much longer and more complex than mine. But I hope that amidst it all, you can be ready for Christmas, too.

The Ghost of Thanksgivings Past

Thanksgiving was the one holiday that my parents hosted and celebrated at our house every year. In its heyday, we'd borrow long folding tables and extra chairs from the church to accommodate up to 18 people.

Many of the guests were my great aunts and uncles. Sadly, most of them are gone now. This year, I'll celebrate with my parents and my husband, in the same dining room as those childhood feasts. But we'll fit around the small dining room table, with no need for extra chairs or handmade place cards. It's still a lovely holiday, but sometimes I miss the way it used to be.

Here's a tiny tribute to those relatives, and all their wonderfully eccentric ways...

Aunt Martha sometimes brought presents for us kids. She meant well, but didn't seem to have a clue about what kids liked. The one that stands out the most was the coloring book -- of botanical drawings. I can't remember what Aunt Martha used to wear, but I always think of her when I see gingham or green and white checked cloth.

Aunt Martha was married to Uncle Walt, who had one wooden leg, a crew cut, and glasses a bit like Drew Carey's. He didn't say much, and I can't remember ever having a conversation with him. He seemed so shy, which may be why he married Martha, who was anything but shy.

By the time I was in fifth grade, I was taller than my Aunt Mid. She reminded me of a sweet, plump country mouse. One year at Thanksgiving she didn't bring her signature apple cake and there was a big outcry. She said that no one ever seemed to eat much of it, so she thought we didn't like it. We explained that we all eat it the day after Thanksgiving, which was completely true. We all expected to have it with our leftovers. Her cake showed up every year after that.

Uncle Harry, brother to Walt and husband to Mid, was another quiet one. He always seemed like he was in on some sort of joke, making him quietly jolly. In his later years, he had a condition that made his head shake, like Parkinson's disease.

Grandpap looked a lot like his brother Walt, but definitely wasn't quiet like him. If he had an opinion on something, or just thought he might have an opinion on it, he'd let you know. At the Thanksgiving table, long after everyone else was winding down, Grandpap could be seen spooning a dab of this and a dollop more of that onto his plate. And then he'd say, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just can't eat like I used to."

Uncle Ken, who married into the family, taught me that getting old didn't mean you had to be out of touch with modern society. He was a smart guy and something of a tinkerer, always making clocks or painting birdhouses or asking us kids something about computers. He also taught me #8 on this list.

Uncle Ken’s wife, Aunt Ann, is the only one of the bunch who is still living. She's always been a fashionable lady, with her hair done up just so and her clothes carefully chosen. She is soft and kind, and as bright as her husband was. Even into her 80s (90s?), she has a better social calendar than I do. I haven’t seen her in awhile. I think it’s time I gave her a call.