Morphing into Mama

What Am I Supposed to Do with This Voicemail?

"Hi, MiM.  This is Emma's mom.  Yesterday I had to spank Emma to discipline her and she tried to hit me back.  Can you please work with her on her aggression today?  Thanks.  Bye."

Ummmmmmmmmmm.......yeah.

Functioning Incompetent

Did I tell you what the kids gave me for my birthday this year?  I didn't?  Oh, well!  They were extremely generous.  Not only did I get an unlimited supply of mucous, which I spent the last four weeks coughing up, and the worst laryngitis I've ever had, I also received my very own case of pink eye.  Their generosity knows no bounds.  And, as you might guess, it was a birthday I'll never forget.  No matter how hard I try.

And though my birthday was on a Saturday, I was still celebrating on Monday with Bah-bie who had her own goo-filled eye and a nice hot yet chilly fever of 104.  We had a lovely time putting drops in each other's eyes and huddling underneath all the throw blankets in house while watching Thomas get chased by Diesel 10 for a reason that continues to baffle me no matter how many times I watch that horrid movie.   But what was even more horrid than that movie was the fact that I had to call in sick to work for the 20th time in six months.

First, there were those two weeks in November when the family had the "throw-ups."  Bah-bie brought it home, then Husband got it, then Tod-lar, and then me.  From that one illness alone, I lost 10 whole days of work and school.  A month after that, I got the flu.  A few weeks that, Tod-lar had a fever of 105 with no other symptoms.  Then Bah-bie got a cold, Tod-lar had pink eye, then we all got colds, and Bah-bie, Husband, and I had pink eye for what seemed like a week.   

So . . . I have already missed over two weeks of work in just six months.  (And this doesn't even include the days Husband took off to take care of the kids.) 

Having to take all this time off work so my kids could strengthen their immune systems got me thinking about MomsRising, an organization ". . . working toward cultural and political change to build a more family-friendly America" (as their website states).  MomsRising wants to stop discrimination against mothers in the workforce.  They want mothers to receive equal pay for the same job as men.  These are necessary and important goals.  But I can't help but wonder: Is this enough to create a more family-friendly America?

Equal pay and laws against discrimination are necessary structural changes.  But it seems to me that something else needs to change if we ever want to be truly "family-friendly."

I had a friend who used to be an attorney.  She was well-liked at her firm and was given great cases for which she had a lot of responsibility.  When she got pregnant, her partners remained supportive.  They even gave her a trial the latter part of her pregnancy.  At nine along, she may have been huffing and puffing from the weight of that baby, but she was cross-examining witnesses.  Then she went on maternity leave.  When she returned to work six months later, she decided to go part-time, which meant she would only work 40 hours per week and not the usual 60.  That's when the well dried up and she began to die on the vine.  No one gave her work.  She literally spent the next eight months writing a few research memos and doing a lot of online shopping.  Angry, frustrated, and bored, she eventually quit. 

What had happened is that the structure of the firm's benefits had changed.  The new structure enabled my friend to take a six month maternity leave and return working only 40 hours per week.  This was definitely a change from the 4 week leave and no option to work part-time, which had been the structure only a few years before.  What hadn't changed was the perception her partners had that mothers who are trying to balance work and kids are less committed to their work and, therefore, can't be trusted with important assignments. 

It seems our society values those who give their all to their work.  These are the people who are usually promoted and perceived as successful.  Sure, we talk about balance and how it's better for our well-being and all that crap, but the fact is that people who can devote what seems like endless amounts of time to their work are the ones who get ahead and all the accolades. 

This is why I felt so awful calling in sick to work for the 20th time.  I was concerned about being perceived as a "slacker" by my employer, especially when compared to all the other interns who are mostly single and childless and, thus, are able to devote far more time to work than I can.  But the awful feelings don't stop there.  Instead, they morph into guilt.  That horrid mother-guilt that wakes you in the middle of the night because you think your first priority is and should be your children and that employer be damned.  And how could you even feel bad about calling in sick to work when your little one's eye is swollen shut and she's so weak all she can do is curl up next to you and say "Mama" in that tiny voice over and over again.  Then the guilt turns into feeling torn.  You feel you can't do anything really well.  You feel as if you're a functioning incompetent.

Structural changes are a good start but, to me, it's only the tip of the iceberg. 

It's A Syndrome

I had a friend who while in medical school was constantly freaking out about his every little ache and pain.  One day it was, "I think I have brain fever."  The next day it was, "I'm afraid I might have cancer."  But the most ridiculous one was, "I was reading about cervical pain last night, and I swear to GOD I've experienced it." 

No, my friend was not an idiot.  He was merely suffering from medical student's syndrome, otherwise known as having TMI.  Having TMI is common among those who not only study medicine but psychology as well.  I admit to sitting in psychopathology class and breaking out into a sweat more than once because I was convinced I'd exhibited some behaviors of some mental disorder (oh, please, haven't we all?? and, no, I'm not telling which ones).  After self-diagnosing, I'd then start rehearsing how to break the news to my husband and children.  Eventually, after being indefinitely hospitalized in my mind's eye, I'd remember I have TMI and begin the process of talking myself down from the ledge.

What's worse, however, is when you start applying TMI to your own children.  Suddenly, every slightly abnormal (for them, anyway) behavior begins triggering thoughts of disorders requiring years of treatment.  Next thing you know you're logging this "strange" behavior and describing it in vivid detail to your husband every night until the kid finally stops doing it and you realize it was nothing, but your husband already knew this so he just rolled his eyes behind his New Yorker and said "uh-huh" over and over again.  See, when you apply TMI to the children, it's a little more difficult to talk yourself down from the ledge.

Thus, the important thing to remember when you have TMI (besides the fact that you have it) is to NOT let your children know that you are projecting your own irrational neuroses onto them.  However, at times, no matter how cognizant of this you are, you're bound to fuck it up.  Like I did.

The other night, as I went in to sing Bah-bie her bedtime song, I found her in her crib banging her little fist against her forehead. 

"Bah-bie, we don't hit ourselves," I said to her quietly, catching her arm before she could knock herself upside the head again.

"Because it's a syndrome?" she responded with a sly smile.

Obviously, I failed to keep this information to myself when I first caught her doing this two months ago.  Now she has TMI.

To the Next Twenty-Five Years

On my recent only-four-years-from-40 birthday, Husband and I celebrated something much more momentous: our 25th anniversary.  Obviously, if you do the math, you'll notice that this anniversary was not a wedding anniversary since you can't marry when you're 11 years-old . . . at least not in California.  Rather, it was the anniversary of the day we met. 

Of the 25 years we've known each other, we've only been married for five and a half.  The other nineteen and half years were filled with our first kiss, holding hands, breaking up, remaining friends, watching each other fall in love (and live) with other people, helping each other through breakups, and encouraging each other in our careers.  We had the privilege of watching each other grow from children into adults, and now we get to watch our own children grow. 

When you marry your oldest friend, you know without a single doubt that you'll be married till death do you part.  You know your union has roots that run as deep, if not deeper, than the roots of the redwood outside your kitchen window.  You know that the trust is so strong, you never have to think about it.  Ever.  For a person who comes from a family that acts as if spouses are expendable, knowing all of this brings me enormous comfort.

However -- I don't let it bring me too much comfort.  And Husband doesn't either.  Instead, we like to feel a wee bit of discomfort to help keep on our toes.

See, rather than assuming love is either unconditional or conditional, Husband and I decided before we married that it is both.  We decided this because we think the belief that spouses should always love each other and never leave each other -- or that it is a spouse's "job" to love you no matter what -- can (at least for some people, and I don't think either of us want to find out if we're one of them), drive a partner to act as they choose without considering the other person.  Believing only in unconditional love essentially permits us to nag as we wish, be controlling, treat our partners like one of the children, expect our partner to meet our needs while giving very little or nothing in return, ridicule daily, bicker constantly, and essentially do as we please whenever we want because it is the job of our husband or wife to never ever leave us and always love us. 

(While this thinking may seem extreme, every named behavior in that last sentence was based on married couples I know or have known.)

In our view, love is unconditional when your spouse gets cancer and all of his or her hair falls out.  In such a horrible situation, you stay by their side, support them, care for them, and let them know they're still beautiful or handsome.  But love is conditional in the daily life of a marriage, when you're going through the routine of cooking meals, doing laundry, bathing the kids, mowing the lawn, cleaning the house, paying the bills -- all that unglamorous, unromantic, un-tragic, and mundane shit where those behaviors I described above can so easily occur.   It is conditional because if Husband were to control me, or ridicule me, I'd feel more anger and dislike than love towards him.  Likewise, if I were nagging Husband, bickering with him daily, or treating him like one of the children, he would probably feel more anger and dislike than love towards me.

The belief that love is both conditional and unconditional reminds us to treat each other with kindness and respect daily, not just when something tragic happens, and not just on our birthdays or at Christmas.  It reminds us not to take each other for granted.  It keeps us on our toes.

When you've known each other as long as Husband and I have, I think it would be really easy to slip into taking each other for granted in so many ways as we go through the daily routine of our life together.  That's why I'm glad we determined together beliefs from which to operate, beliefs that allow us to feel secure in our marriage but also keep us on our toes, so we don't take each other for granted. 

This makes me look forward to the next 25 years of knowing each other.

Where I'm At

Over at PiP, I sometimes like to ponder stuff.  I'm intellectual like that.  You can either ponder it with me, or you can tell me to stuff it.  Your choice.

Now, if you'll excuse me, tomorrow I have an only-four-years-till-40 birthday for which I need to mentally prepare (which is code for: "I'm off to the store to buy vodka").

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #5: How to Put Eyedrops in Your Tod-lar's Pink Eye

Your Tod-lar may awaken one day with an earache and a greenish goo oozing out of his right eye.  If this happens, take him to the doctor immediately as he may have Pink Eye.  Do not, instead, attempt to put a warm Earl Gray teabag on his eye as suggested by your holistic book-reading neighbor.  This will only agitate the Tod-lar and possibly ruin your rug.  Brewing yourself a cup of Earl Gray is, however, strongly recommended as the caffeine, you will shortly see, may be necessary.

It is likely that the doctor will prescribe an oral antibiotic for the earache and eye drops for the Pink Eye.   Because it is pink and comes with a nifty measuring spoon, the Tod-lar will have no problem consuming the oral earache antibiotic.  The eye drops, on the other hand, will be a challenge.  Hence the caffeine recommendation.

Though you may be anxious to administer the eye-drop treatment to the poor Tod-lar who looks like a pirate about to say "Aye mate-y" because his mouth is pulling to one side in response to the strange sensation of having the infected eye nearly swollen shut, we suggest not doing it in the pharmacy parking lot.  Doing so may result in your Tod-lar screaming fucking bloody murder, which may arouse the suspicion of passers-byers equipped with mobile phones with Child Protective Services on speed-dial.  Instead, forget your list of errands you had hoped to accomplish in a timely manner and head home to administer the treatment with the windows shut and the shades drawn. 

Once you pull into the driveway of your house, be sure not to be tempted by your Tod-lar's suggestion that the treatment be given on your front lawn just because he wants to go to Blockbuster as quickly as possible to rent Monster's Inc..  Giving in to this very tempting suggestion because you're anxious to get some work done on this unintended day off will most likely result in the Tod-lar screaming bloody fucking murder on your front lawn for all the neighbors to see.  Instead, tell the Tod-lar that if he insists on screaming he will have to go inside so you can sit on him.  The Tod-lar will most likely stop screaming and say, "Let's go inside so you can sit on me." 

Once inside the house, offer the Tod-lar a comfortable spot, such as the couch.  At first he may appear to lie down willingly.  Do not be fooled.  Rather, be prepared to tackle the Tod-lar as he jumps up quickly, flails his arms, and screams, "NOOOOOOO" at the top of his fucking lungs.   At that point, sit lightly on his chest, tuck his arms close to his sides and hold them in place with your feet.  Then, very gently but firmly use your thighs to keep his head still.  As he continues screaming, calmly say, "I'm not trying to hurt you, I'm trying to help you."  Repeat as necessary. 

Though his eyes may be closed, position the eyedropper at the inner corner of his infected eye.  Place one drop in this green goo oozing area and tell the Tod-lar to "Blink!  Blink!  Blink!"  As he's blinking, place another drop in the same spot and repeat the "Blink!" command.  Then tell the Tod-lar in a chipper voice, "All done!" 

At this point, the Tod-lar will likely stop screaming and suddenly exclaim, "That wasn't too bad!"  Refrain from smacking him or yourself in the forehead.  Instead, calmly discuss how screaming actually made the entire incident so much fucking worse than it needed to be.  However, refrain from using any variation of the word "fuck" when actually speaking with the Tod-lar.  Such words should only be thought and not spoken.

After four hours, warn the Tod-lar that he has to have another treatment.  Also warn him that he will need drops in BOTH eyes because the nasty moose he insists on carrying around because he's "sick" and rubs all over his face has spread the infection to the other eye.  At this point, he will probably be resistant but more compliant than during the first treatment. 

By the fifth treatment, the Tod-lar will be a pro at taking the drops.  However, he will still ask you to sit on him when administering them.  Don't be alarmed.  This is quite normal and is not indicative of any Oedipal issue he will need to spend 15 years of his adulthood in analysis trying to overcome. 

Good luck.

Do Yourself a Favor . . .

. . . and go read this.

Dedication

"Hi, MiM, this is Bah-bie's teacher."

"Oh, hi, Bah-bie's teacher."

"I'm calling because your husband just picked up the kids, and I forgot to tell him that Bah-bie had a big poop in the potty today."

"She did?  Oh, that's great news!  Her belly has been distended for the past couple of days, and I've been telling her to push out that poop, but she'd just say, 'No! I donno want to!'  She must feel so relieved."

"Oh, I should think so.  That was a really big poop."

"Really?  That is so great!  Did you praise her?"

"Yeah, I praised her.  She seemed pretty pleased with herself.  And she should have been because that was the biggest poop I've ever seen."

"Really?  How big was it?"

"It was bigger than her."

"Bigger than her?"

"Yup.  It started at the very bottom of the toilet bowl, went straight to the top, and then curved around."

"Wow!  That does sound big!"

"Yup.  It was so big, I took a picture of it."

"You did?"

"Oh, yeah.  I'll show it to you tomorrow when you drop her off."

"That is so awesome!  You so made my night!"

A Word From the (Belated) Birthday Girl

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Landshark

[Warning: the music you are about to hear is totally fucking cheese-y.  If you're allergic to cheese, please do NOT push the play button.  The author of this blog assumes no responsibility for the musical choice.  She only assumes responsibility for being lazy and allowing the camcorder software to create the movie for her, which included the un-editable cheese-y music.]

Sharing - Upload Video - Video Sharing - Share Photos[No actual sharks were harmed in the filming of this movie.]This was their favorite Christmas present.(Thanks for all your comments!)