Madison is a chatterbox
She said her name yesterday and I swear that she says both “what’s that” and “thank you.” She doesn’t use any words consistently (”what’s that” crops up a lot); it’s like once she’s mastered it, she drops it right out of her head.
Her sleep schedule has gone all to hell in part, I’m sure, because of all of this talking. Yesterday her two naps totaled about an hour and she’s up a lot at night. Not just up to fuss or feed; she wakes, sits up and starts to babble full-throttle. I’m exhausted and trying not to let my frustration run away with me. If I think about it too hard, I start to panic about getting this antiadoption article done or I start thinking that when I get it done the editor will say, “We talked about that months ago! You’ve got to be kidding!” Well, I’m writing it anyway because I have to write it but I sure wish I had more time for it.
Brett has been terrifically understanding about giving me time in the evening but you know, kids, what a timesuck. We eat dinner pretty much as soon as Brett walks in the door (unless Madison is particularly in-arms that day, in which I can’t start it ’til he shows) and then there’s the rest of life to take care of. Last night Noah had a bit of a melt down over an argument he and Brett were having. I had to coach him through figuring out his part in it and how to apologize. Then it was time to get Madison down and she wanted me for that. She woke up howling just as I answered my last pressing email and again, wanted just me to rock her back down. (All this and no “mommy” yet!) I ended up having a half-hour to work on it so I didn’t get too far — just inserted some quotes, really.
I feel like I need to type all of this up as a kind of “gosh I’m sorry” because I feel so unaccomplished lately. Which I am — unaccomplished, I mean. But my kids are so darn fun even if they drive me batty. I still can’t commit to a mother’s helper; I have such ambivalence about the idea. I have never used childcare because I don’t want to. Maybe this summer when Madison’s naps are more predictable, maybe then I’ll think about it again and see how I’m feeling about it. But the trade-off is very little querying because it’s too easy to get in over my head. I have got to honor my limits, which is hard for me because I’m greedy about things.
I was thinking about this in light of the Newsweek article that had everyone ticked off last week. I feel like that whole culture of the perfect mother is not something I’ve ever had to visit, which is interesting when you consider that I’ve a tendency to stress about things and that high-intensity mothering is a given among my chosen peers. But it’s a weird mix for us. Sure we nurse the kids for years but none of us stresses about getting into the right preschool. Too, we all (my friends and I) have personal issues that haunt us in the night but we never visit them on each other. Witness my friends who don’t let their kids watch tv but have never so much as pursed their lips when Noah begins raving about the subtle nuance of the last episode Cyberchase.
Mothering is hard — no doubt about it. And mothering a toddler is not only hard, it’s boring. I am bored out of my mind a lot of the time and can’t help but look longingly at the computer on the kitchen table — the word document’s siren song humming from the laptop display — as Madison (again) holds up her stuffed bear and says “ut-dis?” to which I say (again), “Bear!” Still I love it. It’s boring and hard and have I mentioned boring? I so understand the women who don’t want to be there and I don’t think they should have to be. But for myself, it’s no martyrhood; not anymore than a lousy commute is playing martyr for a job you love.
For me — and this doesn’t mean I think it ought to be the same for everybody — but for me, I’d rather be bored sitting on the rug than bored in a staff meeting. Does this make me a better mother? Or a woman too easily fulfilled by mundane things? Or a person who has bought into the far-right Dr. Laura mindset? Nah, it’s just me. I like my small life. There are parts of it I would change but if I thought I’d be happier another way, you can be damn sure that I’d do it differently.
The article says that: “70 percent of American moms say they find motherhood today ‘incredibly stressful.’ Thirty percent of mothers of young children reportedly suffer from depression. Nine hundred and nine women in Texas recently told researchers they find taking care of their kids about as much fun as cleaning their house, slightly less pleasurable than cooking, and a whole lot less enjoyable than watching TV.” My gosh people, if you’re this miserable, it’s time to stop and reassess.
See the problem is that people are buying into a lot of crap about their lives. I understand this. As an unschooler I have daily visits with my twin insecurities — Comparison sits on my left shoulder while Inadequate is hunkered down on my right. However if there’s one thing my good mama taught me it’s that whatever people want to make of me, I’m still my own person.
So part of me has nothing but sympathy for the women struggling to make sense of their lives but another part of me wants to say, “C’mon, smart women, let’s rally!” If you’ve got the privilege to change a life that’s making you unhappy than by god, change it. Quit looking for validation from the rest of the world. Dare to dance to the beat of your own personal drummer.
I don’t have any answers to this; I just feel incredulous. Like I said, this is not a phenomena that I’ve encountered in my world and so I can’t help but look askance at that 70% statistic.
Now if you’ll excuse me, the allure of cheerios on her highchair tray has palled for Madison and now I have to go sit on the floor for a couple of hours while I watch her bang on the coffee table and listen to Noah wax on about lizards.
Now playing on iTunes: “Balança Pema” from the album Rose & Charcoal (Verde Anil Amarelo Cor De Rosa & Carvão) by Marisa Monte
I haven’t been over in a while and I was surprised to see how much Madison has grown. Goes to show you that children will do that - grow like pretty little weeds - when you’re not looking.
I was astounded to see that my eleven year old reached up and passed my chin when hugging her this morning!
And the other three…their clothes never seem to fit for more than 6 months, anymore.
Madison is beautiful…enjoy!
A few years ago a mom on a list I’m on said her son told her he didn’t want to go to religious school (once a week) anymore. He was 6. What should she do? She wanted him to grow up with a solid background in theology, they all went to this house of worship together, she was wondering how she’d failed to ignite the spark of learning in him, etc. I asked why he didn’t want to go. Was he having a philosophical problem, or did he just not like the teacher? Maybe the songs were boring, or they were making him read out loud and that embarrassed him. Maybe the classroom smelled bad. Her next post was basically laughing at herself because she’d been so upset by these HORRIBLE RAMIFICATIONS of her son’s desire to abandon religious study that she’d never thought about the fact that maybe it was something she’d consider minor that made him want to quit.
That’s what I think about when I hear all these stats. What, exactly, is it about taking care of our children that we find stressful? Is it the isolation (I don’t so much feel it because I have a community, but I know it’s a huge problem for other at-home parents)? Is it feeling like we’re not valued because we’re not making a financial contribution? Is it feel stretched because we’re also making a financial contribution? Is it the fact that the survey was conducted at 4:30 pm instead of during nap time?
I’m just not so confortable with a figure that says 70% of women find *everything* about parenting stressful. And I certainly don’t trust any conclusions one woman comes to about how to solve this unless she’s really pulled apart the responses to find out *what* it is that makes us so stressed out.
Give me boredom on the rug over the staff meeting any day (I loved it while babysitting; beat heck out of office work). I have no fears about feeling too oppressed by the Perfect Mother mythos; I was lucky enough to be raised by a mother who didn’t give a hoot about that kind of thing, and laughed at the neighbor moms who got all jacked up about external achievement and perfect living rooms. (She also laughed when I cut my own hair, even as a neighbor was aghast and wondering what she was going to do to punish me.) Sure, it was hard, but she had fun with us, and was genuinely happy to do things with us, and I’m so grateful that’s been ingrained in me. I wonder how many mothers really buy into the whole scene?
What I don’t wonder about is why the mainstream media won’t get at the heart of the issue. Divide and conquer is a time-honored tactic of the patriarchy, and what could be more effective than simultaneously fetishizing and devaluing motherhood, and leaving the mothers to fight it out amongst themselves?
I am glad for the women who don’t play that game. Candyland is way more fun anyway.
You nailed how I’m feeling. I love it and it can be mind numbingly boring with a toddler. I look forward to more free time to put towards creating the life I want, but part of that is living the life I have now as joyfully as I can. Which means that sometimes I can’t get the joy up. Sometimes I want to bang my head on the coffee table in tune with Lila’s banging her cup over and over again. Sometimes the sound of Tyler’s voice droning on and on about the ultimate soldier he’s desiging makes me want to take up the heavy partying again. But I don’t. I won’t. Mostly it’s great. Except when it’s not.