Today, I overheard a co-worker telling a real estate agent that she is in the process of getting a separation.  She has two boys and one is only 7 months old.  It made me feel sad for her but almost relieved.  Of course I don’t know the particulars, but I was relieved to know that someone else was finding marriage and children tough.  Now that I’ve written that down I feel pretty shallow.   But, I’m just being honest.  I get all wound up sometimes when people seem to be going along all pretty and pink.

In fact, I can hardly stomach couples with two (or more) kids.

Especially if they’re smiling.

Then I wrote a little P.S. ~

(To those of you managing with multiples, I hope I did not offend.  But right now you just happen to be up there with women who maintain a size 4, eat doughnuts, and refuse to exercise.  If you are a size four, and you have three kids, and you eat doughnuts, and you’re still married, you best stay out of my way…)

Apparently, I was offensive.  But, that’s beside the point.

I can’t help that my innards twist and that I am only two small steps away from piece-mealing a Voo Doo Doll when I hear about baby number two or three or four.   I can openly admit that I get crazy jealous.   Sometimes just plain jealous.  Sometimes evil jealous.  And, sometimes I just suffer from the ole self-loathing variety.  (And, yes, I am aware that piece-mealing is not a verb.)

Still, the problem is not my actual jealousy.  (Well, maybe that’s a bit of a problem.  Especially because it doesn’t just stop at baby making.  Lately, I’ve been just pure out and out green.)

The problem is my dishonesty around the reason for my jealousy.

You see, I WANT ANOTHER BABY!.

I pretend that I don’t.   But, I don’t pretend very well.   Everyone knows that I want another baby.

In fact, I talk about it incessantly.  I tell random strangers.  Or, my husband’s friends.  My therapist even pointed out– when I thought that I was being direct about it for the first time–”Yes, you’ve mentioned that three times already today.”  (”Today” being the past thirty minutes.)

I am nuts about wanting another bun in the oven.  (Even if by immaculate conception.)

But, when asked directly about whether or not I’m thinking of “number two”, I often say things like: “Hmmmm…  I don’t think so.”  or  “You know, Silas might just end up being a solo child.”  or  “That’s none of your GD business!”

Occasionally, I’ll tell the truth:

“I’d love to have another baby, but we can’t afford it.”

(And sometimes I also feel compelled to add:  “Well, I did just stop hating my husband like three weeks ago.)

The truth is, I feel trapped.

And, if one more person says something like:  “Well, if you wait until you can afford it…”  I’ll scream.  Because we have to wait until we can afford it or we’ll be eating Sheetrock dust.

Still, I prefer the encouragement to the alternative I’ve gotten.  The “You really might want to consider stopping here” or “Things have been so tough on you, one might be enough.”

I know I can’t have it both ways.  I can’t expect sympathy on one hand and encouragement on the other.

Or, can I?

Yes, the last two years have been tough.  Silas was a screamer. I had postpartum illness.  Paul was depressed, was mis-medicated, and destroyed our kitchen.  And now we’re in an ugly financial nightmare that feels like it has no end.  And, yes, we went from two to three and now I want four.

Still, just because life has been tough doesn’t mean that I am, that we are, not capable of pulling our heels up by the bootstraps, of battening down and finding a solution to this financial mess, of discovering what love means after adversity, or of having another (happy) child.

You see, I get all wrecked up and anxious when someone tells me what they think I probably want to hear: “You don’t need to have another baby to feel complete.”

It’s not that I want to feel complete or that other people that are telling me that I can’t have another baby.    It’s me. me. me.

I am, as my grandmother would often say, the friggin’ Wreck of the Hesperus.   I am, as my husband would contend, a ball of ugly negativity.  When did I turn into this wad of tar-like cynicism?  When did I become so, well, stock out of idealism?

I must say and say I must that I don’t know.

Still, while I am not at that place of “ready to conceive”, I guess I am certain that I will, someday, if blessed with the opportunity, going to be the vessel to bring another life into this world.

Stop!  That’s bullshit!  I am ready to conceive.  I am.  I know I am.  (Even if I may change my mind several weeks or even days from now…)

I am ready and I am trapped.   That’s the truth.  There is no way on Earth that we could, right now, pay our bills and either survive on one income or put another little one in day care.  No way.  Not right now.

But that’s the key, I think.  Not right now.

We can do this thing.  This family thing.  This marriage.  This one more baby.  We can.

We just have to get our shit together first.

And, we will.  I am certain of it.

(There, not so negative right?!?)

I read on my friend’s blog, you know the one that I was puking all sorts of green over, about her plans for baby number two.  One of her concerns was about not finding room for all that love.  For, maybe, not being able to love the next baby as much as the first one.  (I may have just butchered her sentiment, but earlier I also said that I was happy to hear that a couple was getting a divorce.  I am not trying to be pretty here.)

While I understand what she is getting at– I’ve heard many parents say it– but I don’t feel like I share that concern.  I feel like I could love five more and all with the same brilliant fervor.  (Of course, then I often wonder if maybe I just don’t love my son enough.  Like maybe there is something wrong with me.)

The problem for me is more like sometimes I don’t know if I can hack it.  If I can deal with the nitty-gritty.  If I can give up even more of my time, of myself, of my passions.  If I can be even less selfish.

Still, the grass is always greener.

And, I want that luscious green.

So, let’s hope, let’s toast, that in a few years you will meet me here, an accomplished young writer and mother of two, as I explore the reasons why it’s so damn tough to have two instead of one.

Here ye!

Congrats to all of you and your babies and your dreams of babies.

I can stop hating you now.

~Em

Don’t you feel special?!?

So this going to bed thing.  It’s quite divine.  In fact, I am, yet again, celebrating the silence.  This time I’m trying a coffee laced with dark rum.  It’s pretty disgusting.  But if it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and all happy to be alive then I’ll try it. 

I should state that I do celebrate without the use of alcohol.  On occasion.

So, this beddie bye thing.

For about a month now night time has been a slippery slope into insanity.  Silas simply would not go to bed. 

Well, that’s a lie.  He did sleep. 

I should say that he did not go to sleep on his own and he did not go early.  No, instead, after hours of coddling and endless cups of milk, he would eventually drift into slumber stretched out to his maximum wingspan in our bed, kicking and shoving the whole night through.  We’d try to get him to bed around 8 and then would sigh with relief when he finally started in with the ole lazy eye around 10:30.

This might not sound like a big deal.  But, oh, it was.  Two to three hours of every evening were tied up with cooing and reading and shushing and snuggling and still the boy wasn’t getting enough sleep.  I was starting to feel highly inadequate.

So, against my husband’s wishes– in fact he called me a night-time nazi and referred to me as Ms. Rigid-Rules-and-Shit and yes, I’ve forgiven him– I employed the ole cry-it-out routine.  Again. 

And this time, like last time, it worked.

The recipe:  simply go through your pre-established bedtime routine, place the child in their crib or bed, then listen to them scream at the top of their little lungs for an undisclosed amount of time.  If necessary repeat until you have achieved the desired effect.  Chef’s Tip:  Turn the TV up to its maximum decible level to drown out the screaming.

Now do I sound like a heartless, alcoholic psycho-mama?

Good, that’s what I was trying for.

Just kidding.

So, I guess I’m making light of this shrieking routine.  It is awful.  And, while many experts claim that it is a boundary setting exercise in which children learn to soothe themselves, I am not quite sure that it isn’t more like torture.  Do what we say or the screaming will persist!  It’s like breaking a wild stallion.

Still, it works.

And here lately, I’ve been a big proponent of “whatever works”.

Recently, I spent some time with a couple of moms from a group I joined when Silas was still a new baby.  I hadn’t seen these mama/babies in awhile and it was immediately noticable how much the babies had changed.  Almost as quickly, I noticed how much I had changed.

When I was a new mom and a stay at home mom, I believe that I was deeply intense about doing things the right way.  I studied up and was really very anal.  I prided myself on homecooked baby food and reusable diapers.   I wouldn’t have the TV on if Silas was in the room and I seriously debated the long term effects of using a pacifier.  I was super uptight.  And, even worse, I was kind-of a poser.  I mean I was inauthentic.  If I strayed outside the lines– say, gave Silas a generic brand white flour biscuit– I would cover it up.  Pretend that I was all holier than holy. 

I have written about this before and I may be exaggerating a bit, but the above does describe how I felt.  At least with other mothers. 

Since then,  I’ve come clean. 

While I still try to do the right thing, I’m not all Ms. Rigid Rules.  On our last plane ride, I admittedly gave Silas Dum-Dums before take off, gave him juice (dear God, not juice!) on the way up, then popped a DVD in our portable player for the ride.  I probably would have given him Xanex if I knew it would keep him quiet.  (That’s a joke.)

But, seriously, it worked.

And, I’m proud of myself for admitting that to the other mothers.  I also shared that on the weekends we put a movie on in our bedroom and let Silas watch it while we continue to sleep.  And, I fought the urge to feel guilty when we were discussing the importance of proper shoes and I had Silas in a pair one size too large. 

These, really, are all small things.  But under a certain micrscope, they can seem astronomical.

I mean, I do what I can.

(I’m also proud that I decided not to drink the spiked coffee.  It may not seem like it, but I’ve been cutting way back.  Yay, me!)

So, back to this crying it out thing.  I refuse to analyze it.  I did it.  It only took one night and it worked.  Silas has been happily going to bed– at 8:30, in his own bed– for almost a week now.  And while it may have been the inconsistency of our traveling and vacation that knocked Silas off center initially, I refuse to feel guilty and I had to reign it in.

And, of course, I can gloat in front of my husband.

That alone makes it all the worthwhile.

So, now, dear readers, I raise my arm in triumph and with confidence to salute myself for my honesty and my sensibility and to pour this crap coffee down the sink.

Until tommorow…  or at least until very soon.

–Yours Truly

(My God!  Did you hear that Michael Jackson died today?!?  Honestly, I don’t know how to feel about that.  Despite all the recent oddities, I do have some super fond Thriller-album memories…)

Anyhow, I have a few more rooms to go.  The bathroom could use a once over.  Our laundry room is pitiful and my “reading room”  is more than a bit trashy.  Still, I got under the beds and into the closets!  Now, that’s progress.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll make a pot roast.

(That pot roast bit is a joke, but it’s not a funny one.)

So, in just two days, Paul and I are meeting my parents to drop Silas off for his first big trip with Grandma and Grandpa.  Aside from one night in Charleston over a year ago, Paul and I have not had a Silas-free night since he was born.  We haven’t been to the movies together in almost two years!  So, yeah, we’re looking forward to it.

That doesn’t mean I’m not apprehensive.

First there’s the issue of Silas actually being gone.

Today a friend was watching him. (You know, because the day care is closed.  He does have a low grade fever by the way, but no other symptoms of the flu.  If it’s your style you can pray for us.  Or light a candle.  Or do a voo-doo dance.  Or at least keep your damn fingers crossed.)  So, yeah a friend was watching him and I was a little weirded out that she would be taking Silas places in her car.  That’s how sheltered Silas has become.  He doesn’t even ride in other people’s vehicles.  That’s how insulated we all have become.  It’s almost sick.  Now, he’ll be gone for three, well almost four, whole days!  Whatever shall I do?

Okay, that’s one issue.

So, the other one.  (Beat around the bush, beat around the bush…)  Ummm, Paul and I are actually going to be alone in the house together.  Yeah, alone.  Sans Silas.   Just the two of us.  Me and, uh, him.

I’m a bit frightened.

I’m thinking we’ll walk back through our door on Sunday afternoon and twiddle our thumbs in awkward silence.  I don’t know how I feel about that.  (Didn’t I just say that about Michael Jackson?)

Sure, I’m excited about the possibility of a date.  And, if I keep this whole home-ish thing going on, the possibility of honest relaxation.  (Oh, the thrill of it!)  But, I don’t even know Paul anymore.  Not a Paul without Silas anyway.  And, it’s not that I don’t want to.  But, honestly, I don’t even know me anymore.  Yeah, not a me without Silas.  So you have to ask, are these two childless strangers going to even dig each other?

I have some reservations.

I think a large part of the problem is that I’ve been dodging my marriage and using motherhood as an excuse.  I’ve been doing this for some time.  Yeah, approximately 20 months and 8 days.  Or, about since Silas was three weeks old.  I use mothering as an excuse not to be intimate, not to have sex, not to see things eye to eye.  Strip me of that and what the hell excuse do I have?  (I better think of something damn quick!  Since I have an IUD, menstruation’s not gonna cut it…)

Yeah, things will be a wee bit raw.  (Emotionally, Melisa.)

And, don’t tell me it’s like riding a bike.  Learning to be a couple after a kid is tough stuff.  I’m surprised we’ve made it this far.  And we used to have (or at least I thought we used to have) a really solid thing going.  Now, I’m afraid to be alone with him.  Whew!

Today, I overheard a co-worker telling a real estate agent that she is in the process of getting a separation.  She has two boys and one is only 7 months old.  It made me feel sad for her but almost relieved.  Of course I don’t know the particulars, but I was relieved to know that someone else was finding marriage and children tough.  Now that I’ve written that down I feel pretty shallow.   But, I’m just being honest.  I get all wound up sometimes when people seem to be going along all pretty and pink.

In fact, I can hardly stomach couples with two (or more) kids.

Especially if they’re smiling.

Often, in the words of the cowardly lion, I think “what have they got that I haven’t got? Harumph!”  (One thing they might got is family close by.  Or maybe, they got their sanity.  Or maybe they got both their family and their sanity.  Hallelujah!)

Yeah, I’m just green.  Insane and green and family-less.

Because, you know, I’ve been thinking a lot about having another baby.  In fact, I’d like another one.  IF we didn’t have raw beams holding up the entryway to our kitchen.  Or if I didn’t have to carry a sock full of change to the grocery store to buy bread.  Or, if, uh, I wasn’t spending a half hour writing about how nervous I am to be alone with my spouse.

Yeah, there are a few things to figure out before taking that leap.

But I guess everything starts out with a single step.  I cleaned our bedroom today.  Silas has stopped putting everything in his mouth and has started telling us when he’s gone pee-pee-poo-poo.  And, I’ve got a few days with Paul to try and find ourselves again.

Sounds like a step to me.

Now, just a few hundred more steps and maybe we’ll talk.

And, don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted.

(To those of you managing with multiples, I hope I did not offend.  But right now you just happen to be up there with women who maintain a size 4, eat doughnuts, and refuse to exercise.  If you are a size four, and you have three kids, and you eat doughnuts, and you’re still married, you best stay out of my way…)

Okay, that’s not really true. Yes, a few parents are reporting on their baby’s progress with a bit of a glint in their eye. But I don’t think anyone is stitching up a set of blue ribbon Underoos just yet. The problem, yet again, may lie with me. How many times have I mentioned that I might just be one of those freaky, controlling, nothings good enough for my Silas, kind-of moms. It’s like I’m two steps from the mother I saw on Lifetime that turned her six year old into Super Boy by making him drink egg yolks and take steroids and lift the backs of trucks with his bare hands.

(After reading my last post, you probably think I’m serious. Please note that I am often– but not always– dripping with hyperbole in order to make my point.)

Okay, I want Silas to be on the top of the heap! And if another competitive God Father or uncle or cousin or father tells me that army crawling REALLY fast is not actually crawling and that Silas needs to “catch up”, I’m not responsible for what I might do.

I mean we all want to pretend that we’re not doing it– comparing our kid to other kids. Feeling glib if they’ve done something first. Feeling frantic if they haven’t learned it yet. And we all say out loud and to ourselves “well, you know every baby develops differently” but we don’t actually believe that crap. And, we obsess about even the smallest things– things that don’t matter– like teeth and poop and who has a taste for banana. It’s bizarre. It’s even more bizarre because we’re the types of parents who pride ourselves on being all open and liberal and Montessori. We’re about happiness and love and finding your own path. We’re not about who likes to hold their bottle for themselves. (Yes, yes, I bragged about that one… I am a candidate for therapy. Or rather, more therapy.)

So, this whole post stems from my utterly tactless inquisition into the life my sister’s fiance’s neice– a baby I have never met. Yes, yes, yes, she’s crawling with her chubby, angelic little belly off the ground. And, let’s face it, I’m pissed!

In theory I despise this type of thinking. As a teacher, I find it to be one of the single most distasteful and disgusting things about the public school system. The categorizing. The grouping. The competing. And here I am having to escape to the deck with a beer because Silas is an army crawler and not a traditional crawler.

That is just plain stupid.

So, what next?

I imagine I should bring this up in therapy or at least write myself a letter promising to just friggin’ drop it. Because Silas is almost 8 months old and my behavior is about to start having a profound affect on his psyche and that’s a scary thing.

So, a toast, to all you moms of babes that can crawl with their belly up off the ground. I salute you. I really do. Just don’t expect me to be happy about it if you give me one of those fakey-fake nouveau riche kind-of smiles. Because I know exactly what you’re up to. Oh yes, yes, I do.

Really, I should clarify that statement. I didn’t just pick the book up. I’d done that many times before– sometimes pressing the cover to my forehead hoping to ingest some of its unknown wisdom.

No, this time I actually picked up the book and read it.

Maybe it wasn’t my favorite book of all time. Maybe I didn’t drool all over myself with love for it. But, it was heart-wrenching and it was funny. There were times I was so struck with laughter that my son would lean back, startled and maybe a little frightened, and give me a bug-eyed look that unquestionably said: “Ma! You craaaaazy!”

I’d been told that for many the beauty in the memoir is held in the fact that it provokes in a new mom an overwhelming sense of relief. Relief in the fact that you are not, thank God, Anne Lamott.

“You know that no matter how bad you’ve got it, you don’t got it that bad,” a friend told me when speaking about the journal.

I admit, I have to agree.

However, I was struck less by my reaction to Lamott’s hardship (although I could empathize with her need to evacuate the room in which her son was crying) or to her humor (I, too, sat sucking on a pacifier one low and lonely afternoon), than I was by my inability to stop comparing Silas to Lamott’s son, Sam.

Soccer Moms, Move Over!

I’d be holding Silas and reading and breathing and before I knew it I’d find myself remarking aloud:

So, listen to this Sweetpea, Sam didn’t start babbling and laughing until he was– and here’s where I would look back to the beginning of the book and honest-to-God count the weeks since Sam was born to determine his age– oh, five months old! (Note: In case anyone has done the same, this date is only an example and is not accurate…) Isn’t that interesting, Sweetie?!?

Then I’d have to pinch myself when I realized what I was doing.

Four pinch bruises later. No matter. I couldn’t stop.

Babbling, laughing, eating, teething, rolling over, grabbing toys, crawling, sleeping, walking, talking… the list of possible skills that would allow me to unhealthily supersize my son were endless.

(Haven’t I mentioned before my status as future psycho-in-law?!?)

The beauty of reading and competing (as opposed to competing face-to-face) was that no one had to know. I could wildly exaggerate Silas’s abilities while simultaneously belittling Sam’s because, even though Sam is a real boy, it’s like he isn’t. He’s an intangible. A poetic character. A being created by the ink on a page. Mere words in a book. And, of course, he couldn’t prove me wrong. It was, oh-so-brilliantly, safe.

Still, I recognized in myself the potential for danger. I recognized my own perfectionist tendencies and my often failing self-esteem. Lamott, herself, suffered from the same. She hit the mark when she described herself as “a classic egomaniac with an inferiority complex.” Yeah, I get that one.So, as I flipped from page to page counting Sam’s age out on my fingers and chuckling to myself, was I starting to pass this wicked torch of unrest on to my son?

It’s possible. And I know I need to quit it, but…

did you realize that Sam didn’t start getting teeth until he was like 10 months old?!?

(Note: Ten months is a completely acceptable and beautiful time to start getting teeth.)