Mama Moxie

On most days, my life events are cataloged as happening before or after having children.  Once I earned my procreation stripes, much like all big events, things changed:  little, creepy fingers appear under the door when I urinate, orange rinds and stale goldfish crackers line my purse and upon removing clothes from the dryer, I am gifted a pile of used band aids.  Three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, I spend my energy building up and growing the hearts and minds of my offspring.  Today, folks, I am choosing to think about my mothering mojo:

1.      I am a mama-explorer.  Move over Lewis, Clark and Dora.  I used to spend my time looking for the perfect red shoes.  Hours were given to discovering the perfect inclined path to give my quads a worthwhile burn.  Now, 53% of my energy is spent looking for my children.  When in public, there is the rare occasion they are exactly where one would expect.  On most days, restaurant jaunts involve one of them under the table grabbing toes for entertainment.  I assume this may grow into some form of a fetish.  To you, strange child, I will slightly judge you and whole-heartedly support your tootsie needs.  Even the new one is hard to find (Evidence A).  I know he can’t be the one at the top.  That child is much too clean to belong to our grimy clan.  

So, even as the owner of bifocals and likely undiagnosed hearing loss, I consider myself a badass seeker of small children.  Record shows I have not lost one yet (for more than 27 minutes).

2.     I am an anomaly.  I have discovered that I am able to defy the laws of science.  I am a freakin’ specimen of scientific art.   I no longer sit at a table to complete a meal.  Eating junctures entail me getting up approximately 13 times to retrieve various items.  Even without the consumption of a whole meal, my waistline magically continues to expand.  Amazing, right?  It’s like math doesn’t work on me.  Figure this out, Einstein. 

3.     I laugh in the face terror.  As a mother, I can (kind of) handle all versions of terrifying moments.  Honestly, I loathed scary movies.  As a tot, I saw Carrie’s hands come out of the soft earth to grab Sue’s legs, and I was never the same.  No longer the watcher of chilling cinema, I now tap into my fear with my own children.  A few weeks ago, Story’s cry woke me up from a brief slumbering jaunt.  Slightly nauseated from the lack of sleep, I stumbled towards the bassinet only to be confronted by Evidence B.   

It took me a few seconds to realize that my real child was residing in the living room, and the demon baby in the crib was a product of one of my children’s emulations of parenting.  Truth be told, sleeping can be horrific as a mother.  On most nights, a small child is guaranteed to come into our chambers.  Bennet usually enters moaning and with hair covering a majority of his face.  He moves slowly, and that adds to the horror of it all.  Ruby, on the other hand, enters like a ninja.  She will stand at the door or in front of your face with a large, disturbing grin.  The eyes, in the daytime, are lovely and hold so much joy.

Once the sun sets, this shit gets scary.

4.  I dress for success.  Gone are the days of trying to squeeze into my pre-baby jeans one week after expelling a human.  Folks, I have figured out how to have the perfect body after having a baby. Listen closely. First, I cinch my vanity with a belt of reality.  I just did the most amazing thing by growing a human, and real postpartums include soft bellies, sore lady parts, tired eyes and happy hearts.  Next, I accessorize with comfort and ease.  Take note of my standard wardrobe:

Monday:  Clean nursing tank and holey maternity yoga pants

Tuesday: Same (slightly stained) nursing tank covered up with holey t-shirt, same holey maternity yoga pants

Wednesday:  Same (aromatic) nursing tank complemented with husband's hooded sweatshirt, same yoga pants with unidentified stains, heating pad accessory to unclog milk duct

Third, I coordinate my daily existence with a bold sense of humor.  Case in point:  I finally put on some jeans.  They felt funny, and I chalked it up to my motherly body.  After lunch and four hours of wear, I realized the pockets of my pants graced my new hips.  Backwards, comfy and bigger, front pockets--all the makings of pants for a 90's music video.  This stuff is just too legit to quit.  

Last, I relish in my post-baby body badges.  The line down my stomach accentuates the vessel that carried my little bug.  Sore and tender mammary glands turn this middle-aged woman into a superhero who makes human food.  The skin tags on my neck kindly remind me of the hormones and magic that took place within my 5'1" frame to nourish my son.  

Really, this third go around, I finally understand.  Magazines and society tells us that we should prioritize erasing/eradicating/eliminating everything that contributed to that sweet baby being cradled in our arms.  I'm okay with moms eating healthy and feeling good about themselves.  I am not okay with women feeling ashamed about their warrior body.  We have done something miraculous, and we should honor our miracles.

So, there you have it.  This is what 6.1 years of mama experience gets you.  It may not be the prettiest or useful of information, but it's all mine.  And, I am okay with all of it.  On days when this mothering thing gets hard (which is all days that end in a "y"), I'll keep all this in mind and heart.  And, if that doesn't work, I still have my fun crew to create some new (and likely awkward) adventures.  

It Takes a Village, People

My brain is numb from large amounts of worthless, oh-so-good-bad television.   My shoulders and neck contain a deep rooted pain from holding a new human—a pain that I have only felt once before trying to peer across a sea of pretty men to taste the ache of Erasure’s onstage Oh l’amor.  And, the front of my shirt has hardened from repeated exposure to dried, leaking human milk.  I am living the life of mothering a newborn and existing as a non-practicing zombie.  Today was a pretty good day.  I thought about showering, and I discovered that I could put on a cardigan to cover up my stains—this is wardrobe upcycling at its best.    At this moment, I am sitting here, consuming a huge bottle of Topo Chico and listening to the silence of 3 sleeping children, 1 slumbering pug and an exhausted husband.  And, even with the continual undercurrent of exhaustion, I feel lucky.  My village has provided and provided and provided.  And, this time around, I chose to accept the love. 

Rewind to four weeks prior.   Jeremy and I were getting the girls ready for school.  Baby Story was still in the intensive care unit at the hospital, and we were getting into the routine of our new normal.  My days were spent attached to a machine that would artificially tell my body to dispel milk into plastic bottles of various sizes.  When not feeling the harsh tugs of the pump, I was transporting the milky goods to baby boy 2-3 times a day.   On this particular morning, I was suffocating from life’s thick, heavy air.  I felt annoyed with all I had to do, and I could sense my husband trying his best to appease my (unsure and likely unrealistic) needs.  “How can I help?” he kindly asked as I packed lunches.  Let’s make it clear that his daily existence continually puts forth energy to make my life better, and my brain knows this.  I, however, chose snarkiness to accompany my purposefully curt words, “Usually a mom comes and helps when her daughter has a baby.”  “I don’t have a mom,” I said looking at his sad eyes.  “So, I’ll do this by myself.”  I chose hurtful words, and he did not fault me for it.  As I reflect on that particular day, I feel ashamed for indulgent pity party.  I acknowledge that I am human, and my ego, hormones and exhaustion reigned that morning. 

Growing up, Mom assured me that I would always have my family.  I needed to put life’s eggs in baskets weaved with genetic twine.  Living Queen’s mantra, she expected friendships to eventually bite the dust.  She acknowledged when classmates would wrong me and highlighted when friendship went awry.  During her last year of life, loving people tried to help.  Trudy would come and visit, and Mom would go into her bedroom.  Dee offered to take her to yoga to ease her pain, and Mom declined.  Fannie Mae would call and Mom would give me the phone.  Day after day, I felt the affection of those of who loved her.  Day after day, I watched her dismiss the compassion that was readily there for her.  As the buffer to the kind and good world that surrounded her, I ate the leftover kindness that was set before us.  And, I indulged in the humanity.  With life’s additional lessons (and the recipient of poor night vision and neck wrinkles), I now understand that my parents’ hard work did not allow for more than meeting our household needs.  My parents sacrificed.  They forewent the luxuries of companionship, recreation and  respite from daily responsibilities.  They let me win.  I get to be the champion of a full life that holds lasting friendships, breakfast tacos and afternoon naps. 

Fast-forward a decade and four pregnancies later and I clearly see the full scope of my village.  A cooler sits in front of our door, and food magically appears from our lovely, tall elves.  These same people, I know, are managing their own lives:  growing people in their tummies, managing ill parents, transitioning to new jobs, trying to complete the second season of Orange is the New Black.   Vehicles arrive at our house at the end of the school day containing little people with our genetic make-up.  Vehicles also come to take our children on playdates to give us a reprieve from thrice the power of kid-energy (kid-energy = 9X adult-energy).  Messages are sent with witty humor, heartfelt words and tips for unclogging milk ducts (put something with vibration against the evil blockage—it works!!!).  An entire suitcase arrived containing baby clothes, lactation cookies, handmade art and gifts for all members of the household.  I awoke from a nap, and there was tower of diapers and sea of baby clothes beside me.  I am the lucky one walking on postpartum sunshine. 

Some in our village we have known for decades.  You are our chosen family, and we love you.  Others have only had one conversation with us.  We look forward to making more memories with you, and we love you, as well.  Regardless of our mutual history, the care is evident.   We are overwhelmed.  Considering the increase in my waking hours, I have spent a significant amount of time feeling your loving hands and thoughtful sentiments.  As I look at the sleeping baby face next to me, I am reminded of the matriarch of my village.  I am grateful to you, Mom.  Thank you for giving me life—a world beyond endless work hours and hardship.  And to my entire village, your love fills my soul with the best stuff and my belly with scrumptious food.  Sweet dreams are made of this—it just so happens to be my wonderful reality.