The dictionary defines a changeling as a strange child left by fairies in place of your real bundle of joy. This fable confirms what I’ve been suspecting for weeks. The boy in my son’s bed wearing my son’s pajamas is not really my son. Oh he looks just like him. And if I bury my nose in the crown of his head and inhale deeply, there’s that singular smell that is his alone, a scent that can still make my knees buckle with maternal love. But I am not fooled. These fairies are good at what they do.
I found his yearbook on the table and flipped through it. Not much to see or even read; he’s only in fifth grade. Suddenly a page gave me pause. There in the middle of the 4th grade class photo in his still childish scrawl was one word written beneath a picture of an unsuspecting nine-year old girl. “Hottie.”
First I am stunned that he knows this term and how to use it. Next I look closer to see what kind of taste he has (oh come on, so would you). Then I laugh and ponder what to do with this newfound information. Blackmail opportunities abound and he will be mortified if he knows I’ve seen this. I store this information to use at an opportune time.
Then I wonder. Who is this boy with shadows of manhood dusting his upper lip and body? I’m alarmed at his need for deodorant and the way his size S/M boxers have begun “tenting up” unexpectedly when he’s feeling restless, agitated or anxious. But what gives the imposter away is all in the eyes. My son, my first born, even when he didn’t get his way always had a softness in his eyes I could connect with. He hated to think he might have done something to disappoint me. But this child in front of me now manages a steady gaze full of barely concealed defiance. He does not back down or look away when I rebuke him. And dare I say there’s a hint of mockery in his expression too – the realization (so soon!) that mom does not know everything.
I don’t like the word “tween” because I know that it is merely a marketing term invented to help retailers push tons of useless products on a completely fabricated demographic. Eight to twelve-year olds do not need starter phones, laptops with training wheels or anything at all that sports a picture of the Jonas Brothers. If you get sucked into that you will soon be running an eBay store trying to sell all the techie toys your kid just had to have but has now outgrown. Which is why my son (in his assessment) is the lone child in his peer group who does not have his own calling plan, email address or My Space page. Most of my reasoning on this is simple: I will not waste money on things he does not need. The underlying reasons are more complex; I don’t want him to grow up.
My daughter, who is six, has a deep conviction that she is the boss of everybody. Actually, as a little African American girl in a sea of white kids at our local private school, she delighted going to school on November 5 and telling anyone who would listen that Obama was now the boss of everybody. But that may be another blog. The point is she’s got the “girl’s rule” thing down pat. And I’m O.K. with that. I figured we’d face the mother/daughter battle of the wills eventually. But my boy, now that’s another story. He’s my baby, my pie, my cub, my man child. And already he is slipping away. A friend whose sons are grown and gone recently said to me “They weigh on your lap for such a short time, but they weigh on your heart forever.”
Tonight my son told me that money makes the world go around. He was feeling flush with cash, having just gotten a ten from his grandma. I chuckled when he said it and replied, “Well I’m glad you’ve got the world figured out. Who told you that anyhow?” “Mr. Koo-rabs” he said with authority. I racked my brain for a moment – PE teacher? Playground Aid? “Who is Mr. Koo-rabs?” I asked as I walked right into it because it dawned on me in the instant he rolled his eyes and said, “You know. Mr. Crabs. On Sponge Bob!” I smiled, relieved, at least for the moment and nodded, “That’s my boy.”
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Parenting is not a competitive sport
I have a friend who makes every mom I know, myself included, look like a slacker. She has five children under the age of 12. She’s always dressed to the nines as if she walked right out of Ann Taylor. She got her MBA last year when her youngest was not yet two. This year she successfully ran for City Council. She’s also gorgeous, smart and funny. Oh, and her size two jeans are a little loose right now so she’s been hitting the drive through at In ‘N Out to see if she can pack on a few pounds. Just being around her should make me feel like staying in bed. But strangely, it has the opposite affect. I find myself energized, inspired and motivated in her company. It’s not that I want to be her or even be like her. It’s just that her competence seems catching.
I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.
Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.
I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”
My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.
My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.
I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.
I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.
Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.
I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”
My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.
My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.
I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.
Friday, February 6, 2009
What Not to Wear
Long before I got pregnant with my first child, I made a decision not to schlump. Having worked for years in the fashion industry I could not imagine trading in my leopard-heeled pumps for Aerosoles (or God help us, Crocs). No, I would be different. Babies or no babies, I vowed to maintain some semblance of sartorial integrity, no matter how exhausted I was. I mean, how hard is it to do a quick blow dry, throw on a cute little shift with some fun little flats and head out the door? Turns out it’s harder than getting a stimulus package through the Senate.
So it was with great shame and embarrassment that I found myself at Starbucks one day wearing food-stained sweats and generic gym shoes, with my hair pulled up in a scrunchie. As I sat there eating my words along with a blueberry scone, I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Or at the very least that they wouldn’t recognize me.
I’m someone who routinely passes judgment on strangers I see on the street. I’m not proud of this habit so feel free to judge me for it. But whenever I see women in their “mom” clothes with their “mom” hairdos getting into their “mom” mini vans, I muse with a mixture of condescension and pity that they have obviously abandoned a very basic female instinct. I mean, we come out of the womb wanting to look good. Any five-year old in Hannah Montana lip gloss and glitter can tell you that. So what gives? Do we lose the inclination to appear alluring after childbirth, or does spending hours in the presence of sticky little people who don’t care whether our accessories match eventually make schlumping acceptable?
Almost every morning I run into a mom whose daughter is in the same class as mine. We don’t really know each other; we usually do the “fake smile and look away quickly” thing. This is partly because I am often in a hurry. It’s also because this mom’s daily display of cleavage is so confrontational it leaves me somewhat speechless. While she appears to have just shown up from her shift at Hooters, the woman may very well have a PhD for all I know. What I am sure of is that IQ aside, she surely does not know how to spell schlump. How can I tell? Because each day at exactly 8:12 a.m. she arrives in the first grade line up perfectly flat ironed, eyelined and lip glossed, long legs taking their provocative sweet time to reach from her very short skirt to her stiletto-heeled boots. Hate to admit it but the girl’s got it goin’ on. And to be honest, I wish she’d go away.
There was a song when I was growing up called Harper Valley PTA. It describes a small town scandal that ensues when a certain in your face mom comes to a faculty meeting wearing a mini skirt and go-go boots. I remember thinking as a kid that the song was a real hoot; Moms didn’t wear mini skirts. And they certainly didn’t wear boots. Obviously, this is no longer true. What is true is that I suddenly find myself playing for the wrong team. I seem to identify with the song’s local biddies who are prepared to stone any mom who dares to look like she’s actually still having sex. Plus, let’s face it. No matter what you’re wearing envy is never flattering. So I decided to stop being critical, suck in my muffin top and go over and say hello to the woman I’d spent most of the year giving stink eye to. And guess what? She was so friendly and down to earth, she invited me out for coffee and now we’re BFFs!
Yeah that never actually happened. After I said hi to her I kind of wandered away and we’ve never spoken since. But I have made some positive changes. I attempt a blow dry at least two mornings a week, maybe a little lip gloss on good days. Still working on the cute little shift and flats. Other days I take the kids to school in the same sweats I slept in. But strangely I’m O.K. with that. When I schlump over to Starbucks for a soy latte and blueberry scone, I don’t mind if somebody I know sees me. But to be honest, I still hope that perhaps they won’t recognize me.
So it was with great shame and embarrassment that I found myself at Starbucks one day wearing food-stained sweats and generic gym shoes, with my hair pulled up in a scrunchie. As I sat there eating my words along with a blueberry scone, I prayed I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Or at the very least that they wouldn’t recognize me.
I’m someone who routinely passes judgment on strangers I see on the street. I’m not proud of this habit so feel free to judge me for it. But whenever I see women in their “mom” clothes with their “mom” hairdos getting into their “mom” mini vans, I muse with a mixture of condescension and pity that they have obviously abandoned a very basic female instinct. I mean, we come out of the womb wanting to look good. Any five-year old in Hannah Montana lip gloss and glitter can tell you that. So what gives? Do we lose the inclination to appear alluring after childbirth, or does spending hours in the presence of sticky little people who don’t care whether our accessories match eventually make schlumping acceptable?
Almost every morning I run into a mom whose daughter is in the same class as mine. We don’t really know each other; we usually do the “fake smile and look away quickly” thing. This is partly because I am often in a hurry. It’s also because this mom’s daily display of cleavage is so confrontational it leaves me somewhat speechless. While she appears to have just shown up from her shift at Hooters, the woman may very well have a PhD for all I know. What I am sure of is that IQ aside, she surely does not know how to spell schlump. How can I tell? Because each day at exactly 8:12 a.m. she arrives in the first grade line up perfectly flat ironed, eyelined and lip glossed, long legs taking their provocative sweet time to reach from her very short skirt to her stiletto-heeled boots. Hate to admit it but the girl’s got it goin’ on. And to be honest, I wish she’d go away.
There was a song when I was growing up called Harper Valley PTA. It describes a small town scandal that ensues when a certain in your face mom comes to a faculty meeting wearing a mini skirt and go-go boots. I remember thinking as a kid that the song was a real hoot; Moms didn’t wear mini skirts. And they certainly didn’t wear boots. Obviously, this is no longer true. What is true is that I suddenly find myself playing for the wrong team. I seem to identify with the song’s local biddies who are prepared to stone any mom who dares to look like she’s actually still having sex. Plus, let’s face it. No matter what you’re wearing envy is never flattering. So I decided to stop being critical, suck in my muffin top and go over and say hello to the woman I’d spent most of the year giving stink eye to. And guess what? She was so friendly and down to earth, she invited me out for coffee and now we’re BFFs!
Yeah that never actually happened. After I said hi to her I kind of wandered away and we’ve never spoken since. But I have made some positive changes. I attempt a blow dry at least two mornings a week, maybe a little lip gloss on good days. Still working on the cute little shift and flats. Other days I take the kids to school in the same sweats I slept in. But strangely I’m O.K. with that. When I schlump over to Starbucks for a soy latte and blueberry scone, I don’t mind if somebody I know sees me. But to be honest, I still hope that perhaps they won’t recognize me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Wonder Years
Sometimes I wonder why I waited so long to have babies. Oh I know the official reasons: didn’t meet my husband until 30; wanted to travel, pursue my career; ambivalent maternal instincts. But never mind all that. What was I thinking?
I ran into a friend from MOPS the other day. I struggled to recall her name even though she was someone from my second go ‘round with Mothers of Preschoolers. Not that long ago really since my daughter is only six. Still, it seems like a lifetime has passed since I rushed off each Friday morning, baby in tow, to join my pre-selected group at a table of twelve. Week after week I’d scarf down runny-in-the-middle egg dishes, glue beads on ditsy little crafts and make small talk with other new mothers who were, for the most part, about half my age. No wonder I’ve repressed so much of it.
Don’t get me wrong. Like many first time mothers I desperately needed the adult interaction MOPS offered; it was supposed to be a way to connect with women who were experiencing the same season of life – with all of its unique joys and challenges. It promised a chance to make lifelong friendships while bonding over discussions of cloth versus disposable, to binky or not to binky, and what various shades and textures of poop actually mean. Trouble was, I had my first child when I was just shy of 40 and none of the women I met were actually in my season of life. Like me they were comatose from 3 a.m. feedings, obsessed with developmental milestones and blindsided with love for their Baby Gap-attired tykes. But there the similarities ended.
I remember spending several weeks struggling to find some common conversational ground with my table mates. But really, how do you discuss anything of consequence with a woman who has the word Juicy splayed across her BE-hind? I found myself checking my watch while humming Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen” when I realized I was almost old enough to be what MOPS calls a mentor mom; someone who has raised her kids and can help teach the young’uns a thing or two. And then I went to a dark place in my head. I did that thing where you begin calculating: “When I’m 50, my son will be starting puberty, and when I’m 60, my daughter will be picking out prom dresses, and when I’m 70...” That's when I thought, not for the first time, they really should have MOPS at night so we could serve cocktails instead of coffee cake.
Eventually MOPS did deliver and I connected with several women my age. Wonderful, smart, amazing women who, like me, began their journey down motherhood lane a few years past their reproductive primes. And as promised, these mid-life moms have become lifelong friends, my girls, my better-than-therapy answer to every curve thrown my way. We celebrate and commiserate as we share the same season of life with its unique joys and challenges – hot flashes and Happy Meals, frown lines and fruit snacks, Barbie and Botox.
We also share an optimism that comes with the wisdom of age. Because now if the kids don’t sleep through the night it’s of little consequence. Neither do we. Kinda makes you wonder.
I ran into a friend from MOPS the other day. I struggled to recall her name even though she was someone from my second go ‘round with Mothers of Preschoolers. Not that long ago really since my daughter is only six. Still, it seems like a lifetime has passed since I rushed off each Friday morning, baby in tow, to join my pre-selected group at a table of twelve. Week after week I’d scarf down runny-in-the-middle egg dishes, glue beads on ditsy little crafts and make small talk with other new mothers who were, for the most part, about half my age. No wonder I’ve repressed so much of it.
Don’t get me wrong. Like many first time mothers I desperately needed the adult interaction MOPS offered; it was supposed to be a way to connect with women who were experiencing the same season of life – with all of its unique joys and challenges. It promised a chance to make lifelong friendships while bonding over discussions of cloth versus disposable, to binky or not to binky, and what various shades and textures of poop actually mean. Trouble was, I had my first child when I was just shy of 40 and none of the women I met were actually in my season of life. Like me they were comatose from 3 a.m. feedings, obsessed with developmental milestones and blindsided with love for their Baby Gap-attired tykes. But there the similarities ended.
I remember spending several weeks struggling to find some common conversational ground with my table mates. But really, how do you discuss anything of consequence with a woman who has the word Juicy splayed across her BE-hind? I found myself checking my watch while humming Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen” when I realized I was almost old enough to be what MOPS calls a mentor mom; someone who has raised her kids and can help teach the young’uns a thing or two. And then I went to a dark place in my head. I did that thing where you begin calculating: “When I’m 50, my son will be starting puberty, and when I’m 60, my daughter will be picking out prom dresses, and when I’m 70...” That's when I thought, not for the first time, they really should have MOPS at night so we could serve cocktails instead of coffee cake.
Eventually MOPS did deliver and I connected with several women my age. Wonderful, smart, amazing women who, like me, began their journey down motherhood lane a few years past their reproductive primes. And as promised, these mid-life moms have become lifelong friends, my girls, my better-than-therapy answer to every curve thrown my way. We celebrate and commiserate as we share the same season of life with its unique joys and challenges – hot flashes and Happy Meals, frown lines and fruit snacks, Barbie and Botox.
We also share an optimism that comes with the wisdom of age. Because now if the kids don’t sleep through the night it’s of little consequence. Neither do we. Kinda makes you wonder.
A Different Kind of Mommy
I’m in the express lane at Walmart having just snapped at my kids (loudly and in public) for the third time when I realize I’ve become a different kind of mommy. In my head, I always imagine myself as the upbeat, easy going, “Good Jaaaahb!” kind of mommy. In reality, I’ve morphed into a dour, humorless drudge who is quick to correct, slow to smile and easily annoyed. How had this happened? When had this happened? And how would I ever afford the therapy bills my kids were sure to send me 20 years from now?
I began to notice the change in myself when my son was five and my daughter was barely out of diapers. It was not dramatic or immediately apparent to others. It was more of an internal shift, the puzzle piece slipping slightly out of place. The balance sheet no longer adding up. As I struggled to find my equilibrium in the midst of working, maintaining a marriage and parenting two children, I sensed my confidence in my ability to pull this thing off begin to waver. First, it was just a shadow of insecurity, worrisome like a hangnail, the barely visible little thread you begin to tug at the edge of a sweater. You give it a little pull thinking it will snap right off, but instead, the entire thing starts to unravel. So it was with my emotional grounding. First you get irritable. Then you stay irritable. You yell a little. Then a lot. You begin, as they say, to lose it.
It was easy to explain at first. The shorter temper. The intolerance for toys scattered about. The rush towards bedtime (skipping entire pages of Good Night Moon just to get the lights out sooner). And the ever-present edginess that settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. I’d find myself gritting my teeth while making breakfast, snarling out commands like a mama-kazi drill sergeant determined to whip the recruits into shape. To my added dismay, my kids developed an immunity to my mood swings. Rather than cow them into submission, my ongoing outbursts served only to toughen them up. They became mostly unfazed by my irrational rants, choosing for the most part to ignore me.
For a while I chalked it up to my age. It is true that Pampers and peri-menopause cannot happily co-exist. It is also true that at 48, I have a lot less stamina for getting down on the floor to play Candyland, at least if I expect to be able to get back up.
But it wasn't always this way. There was a time I felt more connected to it all. I recall tearful goodbyes at daycare when my son was very young – he trotted off happily to play with his pre-school pals as I sat in the car weeping in a guilt-induced heap, wracked by a sadness unique to working moms. Today I pull the car to a rolling stop, pushing my tender offspring from the still moving vehicle while shouting over my shoulder “Have a good day!”
There’s a theory that everything you buried in your 20s and 30s claws its way to the surface in your 40s, demanding a day of reckoning. I think that’s probably true, but I’m too busy to spend any meaningful time in self analysis. So I plow ahead, hopeful that since I know I have a problem, things can’t be all that bad. Right?
We’re driving in the car and I’m lost in thought about nothing in particular when my son pipes up: “Mom, why are you mad?” “I’m not mad,” I reply evenly. “You’re making the mad face.” “I am NOT making the mad face. I’m not making any face. I’m just driving.” “You were making a mad face. Like this,” he says, pursing his lips and scowling in his best imitation of me on the war path. I clench my teeth now and snarl: “I did not make that face and I. Am. Not. MAD!” My son looks out the window, murmuring, “Sheesh. You don’t have to be so mean.”
And maybe that’s it. I catch my self doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: Being a bully. Finding fault. Behaving badly. When what I intend to be is kind, loving, and generous with praise. Do I need therapy? Hormone replacement? A martini?
In the end, I think what I need is forgiveness. Oh not the religious kind – I got that years ago, and thank goodness, too. No I think what it comes down to is I have to let myself off the hook and accept that the mother in my head does not exist. Really, I’m not sure she ever did. Most days, I do the best I can. Some days, I miss the mark by miles. There are times when I celebrate my family, delight in my children’s silly antics and am so thankful I could burst. But on those days when the glass seems half full, my work load is outrageous and I’m bloated, exhausted and overwhelmed, I’ve decided to lighten up. Take a deep breath, count to ten, and give myself a much needed time out. And when, after even the most unwarranted outburst (mine) the kids still want to cuddle and kiss and simply be close to me, I realize that maybe different isn’t the worst consequence of mid-life motherhood. It’s just, well...different.
I began to notice the change in myself when my son was five and my daughter was barely out of diapers. It was not dramatic or immediately apparent to others. It was more of an internal shift, the puzzle piece slipping slightly out of place. The balance sheet no longer adding up. As I struggled to find my equilibrium in the midst of working, maintaining a marriage and parenting two children, I sensed my confidence in my ability to pull this thing off begin to waver. First, it was just a shadow of insecurity, worrisome like a hangnail, the barely visible little thread you begin to tug at the edge of a sweater. You give it a little pull thinking it will snap right off, but instead, the entire thing starts to unravel. So it was with my emotional grounding. First you get irritable. Then you stay irritable. You yell a little. Then a lot. You begin, as they say, to lose it.
It was easy to explain at first. The shorter temper. The intolerance for toys scattered about. The rush towards bedtime (skipping entire pages of Good Night Moon just to get the lights out sooner). And the ever-present edginess that settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. I’d find myself gritting my teeth while making breakfast, snarling out commands like a mama-kazi drill sergeant determined to whip the recruits into shape. To my added dismay, my kids developed an immunity to my mood swings. Rather than cow them into submission, my ongoing outbursts served only to toughen them up. They became mostly unfazed by my irrational rants, choosing for the most part to ignore me.
For a while I chalked it up to my age. It is true that Pampers and peri-menopause cannot happily co-exist. It is also true that at 48, I have a lot less stamina for getting down on the floor to play Candyland, at least if I expect to be able to get back up.
But it wasn't always this way. There was a time I felt more connected to it all. I recall tearful goodbyes at daycare when my son was very young – he trotted off happily to play with his pre-school pals as I sat in the car weeping in a guilt-induced heap, wracked by a sadness unique to working moms. Today I pull the car to a rolling stop, pushing my tender offspring from the still moving vehicle while shouting over my shoulder “Have a good day!”
There’s a theory that everything you buried in your 20s and 30s claws its way to the surface in your 40s, demanding a day of reckoning. I think that’s probably true, but I’m too busy to spend any meaningful time in self analysis. So I plow ahead, hopeful that since I know I have a problem, things can’t be all that bad. Right?
We’re driving in the car and I’m lost in thought about nothing in particular when my son pipes up: “Mom, why are you mad?” “I’m not mad,” I reply evenly. “You’re making the mad face.” “I am NOT making the mad face. I’m not making any face. I’m just driving.” “You were making a mad face. Like this,” he says, pursing his lips and scowling in his best imitation of me on the war path. I clench my teeth now and snarl: “I did not make that face and I. Am. Not. MAD!” My son looks out the window, murmuring, “Sheesh. You don’t have to be so mean.”
And maybe that’s it. I catch my self doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: Being a bully. Finding fault. Behaving badly. When what I intend to be is kind, loving, and generous with praise. Do I need therapy? Hormone replacement? A martini?
In the end, I think what I need is forgiveness. Oh not the religious kind – I got that years ago, and thank goodness, too. No I think what it comes down to is I have to let myself off the hook and accept that the mother in my head does not exist. Really, I’m not sure she ever did. Most days, I do the best I can. Some days, I miss the mark by miles. There are times when I celebrate my family, delight in my children’s silly antics and am so thankful I could burst. But on those days when the glass seems half full, my work load is outrageous and I’m bloated, exhausted and overwhelmed, I’ve decided to lighten up. Take a deep breath, count to ten, and give myself a much needed time out. And when, after even the most unwarranted outburst (mine) the kids still want to cuddle and kiss and simply be close to me, I realize that maybe different isn’t the worst consequence of mid-life motherhood. It’s just, well...different.
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