Ah, the silence.

My boys are in the tub.  My sister is at work.  My brother-in-law and their two dogs are in the room that used to be our reading room and is now their bedroom.  The TV is off.  The radio too.  But still, I feel stifled.  I feel like there is no space to crawl into.  No space big enough to allow me to open up to myself.  To sing.

Laaaaaaaaa.

At one point, in the history of this blog, I wrote about the ways in which silence was chocolate.  The ways in which silence provided the space for a voice to carry its own tune.

But, alas, there are two types of silence.  The silence that pulls the throat open allowing it to sing and the kind that cuts the windpipe short like kudzu around the weak trunk of a uncertain tree.

It is this deadly silence that has been plaguing me.

That’s as far as I got before hearing the clamor of footsteps outside of the garage door and being summoned to help dry off our little beast.  We have no schedule for our passions around here and no space to experience them anyhow.   Even now, with no one home, I am stifled by dishes that need washing and clothes that need folding.  Before exiting the garage the other night, the night that I started this post, I scratched down on a piece of scrap paper:

Writing is frivolous.

It seems that the two silences needed for creativity are at war with each other in my life.  There is the silence that engulfs me.  The silence that keeps watering my ideas down to nothing but jibberish and a feeling of empty sadness.  Then there is the silence that is lacking.  The silence that fails to envelope me in its calm quietness.

I am having a serious problem with my creative cholesterol.  The good is markedly low and the bad is clogging the life out of my veins.

What is a passionate woman to do?

I guess do what I am doing right now.  Steal bits and pieces of silence when they occur– ignoring the dishes and the laundry and the noise and the telephone– and force out the silence in your mind by just writing anyway. Even if it’s no good, even if nothing is urging you to do so, even if you can hardly stand it.

Then congratulate yourself.

So, pat on my back.  I did it again.  And each time it will get easier.  (I hope.)

Anyhow, this Ms. Leifer and her partner Lori, decided to become late-in-life mamas by adopting a little boy named Bruno.

I could go into the whole ain’t it neat that late-in-life women still have the opportunity to become mamas (as Leifer did) or into the whole this is a two-mama family raising a little boy thing (which Leifer did not).

But, I won’t.

I won’t because something more personal, maybe more profound, spoke to me about this conversation.  Leifer became, against all odds, a mama at 50.  And she commented that she is a better mama at 52 than she could have been at 22, 32, 42.  She explained how her place in life is so much more settled, more quiet, less go-go-go.  How now, as a 52 year old she is able to just slow-down, relax, and enjoy her son.

Hmm.

Now I’m kind-of wishing that my uterus would hang tough for another 20 years and allow me this revelation.

I know I’m a better mama than I would have been at 22.  Dazed and confused is often not conducive to quality parenting.

Still.  I’m 32.  Do I know much better?

I had a stressful day today.  Really stressful.  And, while I made dinner and sat and ate with my boy, I also sipped on a a wee-too-much wine and then Face Booked while he colored.   That may not be a sin.  But, I don’t feel good about it.  I mean, I hadn’t seen him all day.  And that’s how I spent our evening together.

I know that’s just an off day. But, lately, I’ve been so friggin’ obsessed by my boards that I am revising entries while Silas is in the tub.  I let him splash until he’s pruny while I type for the 17th friggin’ time my draft of entry 2.

I am alone with Silas most evenings and have this deadline looming over me. I’m just trying to be creative.  But.

But.

That’s not really parenting.  That’s not slowing down, relaxing, enjoying my son.

Instead it’s really go-go-go or survival or laziness or just plain negligence.

It’s hard being a full-time teacher who’s working on National Certification with a husband who works in the evenings.  (Have I said that before?  You think?)

I can complain until I’m blue.

But, the fact of the matter is, I should be spending those hours after work playing with Silas.  That should take 1st priority.  Even if I have a bad day.

Maybe.  Maybe, if I was 52 or 62 or in a whole different tax bracket.  Maybe, I wouldn’t be so damn selfish.

I don’t know how to juggle it all.  And, I’m still learning.

But I teemed with jealousy at Leifer’s realizations, at her living life all over again through her son’s eyes, at her ability to put Bruno first 99% of the time.

How do I be more like that?  More in-tuned?  More relaxed?  When I have so much on my ugly 32-year-old plate?

I don’t know.

I do know I am forgiving myself my Face Book time.  I am forgiving myself my tub time revisions.  I am forgiving myself the immaturity and the go-go-go of my age.

I can only try and do better next time.

And, you know, next time, I will.

And then, inevitably, I will falter again.  And, then I will be back here pondering it again.  And, then I will do better and the cycle will go on and on.  But, at least, I’m trying.

Amen.

PS-  If you’re a secret fan– and I know there are some of you out there as your secret becomes public from time to time–  I ask you two favors:  comment every once in a while and if you haven’t check out my archives.   Once I was funny.  No seriously.  I was funny.  And, thanks for reading.

I still haven’t had time to complete my muffin top extravaganza.  But, it’s coming.

Oh, yes, it is.

Instead, I’ve continued to be plagued by guilt about Silas and the whole hospital ordeal.  It just seems like a really sick, ugly shame that I had this major family disconnect at the same time that Silas was so ill.   Of course, it wasn’t intentional.  But, you know, the whole road to hell and all that.

Still, and I don’t know if I can put what I was going through into words (or if I even want to put it into words), I’ve learned from that bitter lapse of familial bliss.

(If you’ve been reading you might be noting that “familial bliss” might be a poetic stretch of the imagination.  But, still.  You know what I mean.)

Anyhow, I don’t know if it was seeing my boy so sick or if it was my mom coming to relieve the stress or the fact that I’ve been regularly taking my medicine, but I’ve been through a major change.

I’ve been able to relax and enjoy!

And, with a two-year-old that’s just vital.

I’m not going to go into all the cute little things that I’ve watched Silas do lately.  About how particular he is and how he throws his head back when he laughs.  Honestly, all the wonderful is pretty much summed up in the picture.  (Yes, I finally broke down and posted a cute picture of my son.  Does that mean I’ve turned all warm and fuzzy?  Still, can you even try to resist that smile?!?)

So, I guess the good part of fucking up– as long as no one was seriously hurt along the way– is– yes, I’m going to be totally cliche and am going to try to use at least one more set of hyphens– is– okay, I don’t really have anything to add but the hyphens– is that you can, indeed, learn from your mistakes.

I’m sure I’m not the first parent who was overdoing it at work, was feeling stressed at home, and who decided to put the blinders on in a desperate act of self-preservation.

The good thing is, I’ve re-prioritized.

So yeah, that’s why I haven’t been here.  It’s not because I’m reading trash novels (well, I am) or because I’m watching trash T.V. (no, I’m really not– unless you count Thomas as trash) or because I haven’t a thing to say.

I haven’t been here because I’ve been playing with my boy.  (Well, and I’ve been working on my Nat’l Boards while he sleeps.)

Anyhow, may you live each day like it’s 1999.  Or, whatever.

Love the one your with.

~Em

Worst thing: I’m annoying myself terribly.  (And, I don’t know how to use punctuation!!!)

Even though I have hours of work ahead of me, I keep insisting on putting cute little stickers on each of my student’s papers.  If that’s not bad enough, I make sure to select each sticker based not only on the grade of the paper but also on the personality of its owner.    You know, David gets the “Cool” boy sticker because he made an “A” and because he’s always trying to impress people.  Jazmin gets the “OK!” girl because I know she won’t take “OK” the wrong way.  I mean, she did a great job.  Nick only gets a little star because while he made an “A” it was a low “A” and he could’ve done better.  She likes lions, he likes baseball.

I’m. a. freak.

And since all of the stickers are of the Dollar Store variety, they take some time to pull gently off the backing without tearing off a boy’s soccer kick or a butterfly’s wing.  (And, as if I hadn’t written a post a couple of nights ago about gender bias, ah!, here I am in all my sticker glory.  Biasing.  Biasing.  Biasing.  It’s sick.)

And, every time I look up from my papers I shudder at the poor, trashed-up facsimile of a home we live in.   I’m just glad that Social Services isn’t popping in.  Never mind the neighbors.

My butt hurts from sitting in the same place too long (I think I’ve written about that as well…) and my brain is simply fried.

Plus, I don’t have enough wine.

(If you’re wondering why I’m drinking wine on such a meager budget, I’ll give you two reasons:  1.)  I’ve investigated all of the good wines under $4 that you can purchase in Henderson County 2.) I can’t live without it.)

(No, there really are good wines under $4.  Tisdale, Oak Leaf, and Winking Owl to name a few.)

Anyhow, my husband reminded me that I have a bottle and that should be enough.

Hmpfh.

We’ll see.

Until the next time I decide to get on here and write rather than do what I’m really supposed to be doing.

Yes, until then,

Emily

But, of course, today marks the day when a smart-aleck blogger– Mike the Bull of all people– decided that I didn’t have enough boob to live up to the name.  (Visit him at http://www.mikethebull.com/ And, yes, he writes about dog balls.)

So, why the hell not???  Let’s dedicate the next few minutes to, well, boobies.

(In case you were wondering, that is my under-wire popping out.  Just like it was–unbeknownst to me– as I talked to my principal this afternoon.)

So, yes, today, ironically, the day that book n’ boob was finally called out for it’s lack of boob (and sadly, I must say, book as well), my own little fun bags tried to break free.

In an environment where melons, speed bumps and hooters are on the very constant forefront of the minds of at least 1/2-2/3 of the population (I’m a middle school teacher), it is not, in any way advantageous to have one’s ta-tas on display.  At least not if you’re trying to be a professional.

I was thankful, however, that no one asked me about the large, round metal instrument that was protruding from my cleavage.  Maybe they didn’t notice…

Anyhow.

What else can I say about little milky coconuts, about huge bouncing bazongas?

Honestly, I don’t know.

Everything I think I have to say either leads me toward something truly perverse (nope, can’t share it) or back to the conversation I was having with my principal just after I noticed (while I was on driveway duty) that I’d gone wireless.  As I tried to nonchalantly push the wire back under my ample, three pound breast, I was happy that, at least, I hadn’t gone lopsided.  That would have been too much to handle.  Literally.

No, really, I’m making myself sick.

So, the conversation.

Come back to me now.  You know, the one between me and my principal.

Despite my bra malfunction, the principal was trying to talk to me about parenting.  He shared with me some interesting information about his colonoscopies and his Crohn’s Disease and I told him that I begged Paul to let me shit my pants while I was in labor.  I guess we’re the sort-of let it all out on the table types.

Then, we talked about how our experience as teachers changed after we had babies.

(Honestly, in part, this was another one of those conversations in which I wish I felt more strongly than I do.  I mean, just because I’m a parent, it doesn’t make it any easier to accept some of the numb-nuts that come through my classroom door.  However, when I hear tale of really horrible parenting– like coked up parents that can’t get their own toddler’s clothes back on as my sister just witnessed at her job at WIC– it gets me really, really sick to my stomach.)

Anyhow, my principal talked about parents that just want to get home and drink and get on the computer and chat.  While I don’t exactly chat, part of me thought that I might fit the bill.  I mean, I play with Silas.  I do.  But after a long day, it’s hard to push a toy train around a track for hours on end.  So, I push the train a few times and then get out the colors and then check my email or start on my blog while he is coloring.

Does that make me evil?

I keep thinking that when he gets older– you know when he is interested in soccer or dance or guitar lessons– that I’ll be so much more attentive.  But now, even though I love my son to death, I get bored sometimes with all the repetitive games.

In contrast to not having enough balls, does that mean that I don’t have enough boob?  I mean, am I not nurturing enough to be called a good mother?

Is that why Silas prefers Daddy?

I don’t know.

Maybe, just as children go through phases of development, parents go through them too.  I mean, we are learning just as much as they are.  You can only do your best.

And, I must say, that I am my best when I have a little me time and a little Silas time and I’m not too, well not to bring up the term again, lopsided.

Still, perhaps, I am one of those selfish parents.   I wonder, would it have been easier to have a baby when I was only 20 and not “set in my ways”?  When maybe having a baby was all I could see in the world and all the other stuff–  the acting, the dancing, the friending, the blogging– was something I hadn’t even fully considered yet.

I don’t know.

I do know that we all have to find our own rhythm.  Our own way.  Maybe I need to work on being present for Silas more of the time.  Or perhaps, my being fully present in spurts is better (for me) than being half-present for hours.

Still, I don’t know.

What I do know is that some off-hand male comment (you remember, Mike the Bull) started me off thinking about the ole milk wagons and what it takes to be a great parent.    It’s funny where your inspiration comes from.

In the spirit of only being present in spurts, I’m am finding that I have little else to say.  No more umpfh, really.  I know do need to change out of my work clothes (yes, I still have them on at 11PM) and get out of this god-awful broken bra.   I would love to explore the torments of a selfish parent in greater detail in the future.

Until then, love your juggnauts.

Peace.

Hoo-yah!

Before you think that I’m some sort-of partyholic, I should say that this late night homecoming is not my regular deal.  I had an improv performance last night– it went very well thank you– and I attended a local play this evening.  And while I enjoyed being out doing the artsy thing, I think the homecoming was even more riveting.

Because the homecoming involved the silence and the silence is chocolate.

Last night, at midnight, I actually brewed a small pot of coffee, pulled out the sofa sleeper, and curled up with my computer, my baby blanket, my body pillow, and Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones which I am finally reading despite the rape and murder and the possibility of anxiety attacks.  (Why am I reading it then?  Well, I somehow ended up with two free hardback copies and I took it as a sign.)

I like to say that I don’t know exactly what prompted me to pull the sleeper out.

(Well, aside from the fact that I never know what exciting treasure I’m going to find underneath it.  Last night’s booty included a tube of lip balm, two toy cars, a quarter, and our best set of baby nail clippers that I had been lost for some time now.)

I know I used the excuse that Silas was so soundly stretched across our bed that he was impossible to move.

But, that was a lie, really.  I pulled the sleeper out for the sheer peace.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy sleeping next to my husband.  I do.   I also enjoy the nights when Silas sleeps with us all snuggled up and kicking.  I have even learned to enjoy the bruises I get on my legs and arms as I try to defend my little sliver of space.

And, during the day, it’s not that I dislike the constant banging of metal spatulas on metal bowls, or the crying, the babbling, the laughter.  I do love listening to my husband play guitar. Even when he’s plugged in to the amp.  Even when he’s trying to compensate for the hearing loss that must effectively cripple all electric musicians.

It’s just that the silence and the space are rare pearls in an ocean of mass chaos.  And if I have learned anything from my wild ride through Mommydom it is that space and silence are to be revered above all things.

Deep sigh.

Honestly, I don’t know that I ever really appreciated the silence before.  I’m sure I enjoyed it from time to time, but I don’t know that I ever reveled in it.  Tasted it.  Molded it into something breathtaking and beautiful.

Lately when presented with the gift of silence, I get wild.  I breathe, roll back my shoulders, twirl my fingers through my hair.  Write.  Write.  Write.

You see, in Mommyland, it’s not just that the silence is precious, it’s that the silence is full.  It is, at least for me, full of inspiration, of gratitude, of life.  The silence is no longer a void, but an opportunity.  No longer a lonely time, but a time to connect with one’s self.

You see, now that I am a mom, I have so much more to be inspired by, to think about, to have gratitude for, to feel.

I have so much more and I am thankful.

And now, I have to go because it’s 1am and because in Mommyland sleep is also something to be revered.

(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…)

I woke at 6:30 having hit the snooze button way too many times.  I did not make it to the gym.

I went to work and worked too hard.  I had anxiety in the morning.  I drank a lot of coffee.  It probably didn’t help.  We had a half day at school so we could catch up on paper work, but I spent my “free time” in a meeting that I didn’t want to go to.  I didn’t catch up on anything.

I picked Silas up from day care.  He made funny faces and stuck both fists in his mouth when he saw me.  Then he growled.  I had to carry him like a football to the car because he did not want to leave.

We went to my psychiatrist’s.  She made a lot of sense out of the world.  She also changed my medication because I’ve been so god-awful depressed.  She commented that she liked my skirt.

When we got home, I did the dishes.  Silas played on the floor at my feet.  He entertained himself with a box of spaghetti.  I was happy.   He seemed like an angel.

My husband came in with a pot of violets and a deli dinner.  We ate at the table on the back deck.  Pesto pasta, cucumber salad, and a roasted turkey breast.  The turkey was dry, but I didn’t have to cook.  Silas wouldn’t eat because he wanted to run around like a wild beast.  We let him.

Silas refused to be put in pajamas.  With two of us, it was still difficult to pin him down.  But, we succeeded.  We climbed into bed for “snuggle time” and read Can you find the Duck?  It was great fun.  Silas only cried for a minute thirty when we put him in his crib.  Then he babbled for an hour more.

I folded laundry and decided to tidy up the “reading room”.  Then I sat at my desk and pulled out “The Writer’s Tool Box”.

“The Writer’s Tool Box” is a handy-dandy writing kit complete with a timer and little colored sticks with different scenarios on them and cards that look like fortune cards with little sensory phrases and wheels of destiny that really spin.  It looks cool, but is pretty cheesy.

Tonight I decided to play the “Sixth Sense Game”.  I selected three cards by touching each one until I felt a tingle.  (I do that with Scrabble tiles and it generally works.)  I selected:  “the voice of the ex-wife”, “the sound of Marcie’s feet”, and “the taste of Woody Allen’s kiss”.  I almost vomited.

I chose to write about the first card and came up with the following 55 word story:

I found the letter among his things.

“John,” it read. “I should never have trusted you.”

The letter did not mention pregnancy specifically.

Still, there was little left to do but confront him.

I padded down the hall, letter in hand, and opened his office door.

“John,” I said. “I never should have trusted you.”

I’m not terribly impressed with myself.  But, it is 55 words exactly.

Now, I’m typing this.  I will write a bit more and get my Cullen fix.

I am so thrilled to have had a normal day.  For once.

It was a lovely, lonely, humbling experience.

Even more lovely, more lonely, and more humbling because I was the last to catch it.  Having splattered my forehead with lamb’s blood and tainting my water with a dose of effervescent propaganda (a.k.a Airborn), I was certain that the illness would pass me by.  Ha! Ha! Double Ha-ha!  And just when I was in the midst of some heartless gloating…

Still, I am thankful for the experience.  Not only because it proved that I have wrought iron control of my sphincter muscles when the situation calls for it, but because it forced me to do nothing but lie in bed.  And, for a few moments, while I was still in the early stages of the illness, when I was still convinced that that first upchuck was really going to be the last, Silas came to hug his momma good night.  This particular hug was so sweet and so lovely because I really couldn’t focus on anything else.  I was forced to enjoy the moment and I was thankful.

Funny, I thought, both then and now, that it took my being bedridden (and dreadfully ill) to fully enjoy the moment and be present.  I had to break out of my frenzied, day-to-day shackles to be at peace.

This still holds true.

I’m on Spring Break and Silas and I just spent five days with my parents off of the coast of South Carolina on Edisto Island.  Away from the daily stress and rank, grinding hum-drum of daily living, watching Silas learn and grow is an immense pleasure.  (Well, watching my family take care of him wasn’t too bad either.)   While I sometimes experience anxiety about spending a full day with the little monster when Paul isn’t home, I felt more enthusiasm than anxiety when we returned from the coast.   Vacation, family, free time what wonders they can achieve.

So, I’m looking for little ways to break through the daily chain of events and find those sweet spots in which I can truly enjoy being a mom.

And they have happened outside of illness and vacation.

They’ve happened when I’ve decided to let go of the pile of laundry in the corner of our bedroom or the toys on the floor.  They’ve happened when I’ve decided to let go of my shadow of depression or the constant companion of my anxiety and just delved into play for better or for worse.   They’ve also happened when I wasn’t expecting them to– when I wasn’t thinking or trying– when I just stopped and realized that I was having fun. (Speaking of fun, you should’ve seen Silas on his first egg hunt.  Not only is he brilliant– he figured it out in two seconds flat– but he is, as I suspected, an olympian or some manner of superhero both fast, focused, and furious!)

Back to those enjoyable moments.  Maybe reprioritizing is the key.  Or, lowering my domestic expectations.  Maybe just plain acceptance– accepting that my house will be messy and that I will read less books.  (Yes, I’ve finally had to admit it.  I am reading less books.)  Perhaps, most importantly, being present also requires space.  Space for your child, space for your spouse and your family.  But, maybe, first and foremost space for yourself.  I think that’s what I am missing.  My personal space.

So, another toast.  (I just love toasting.)  Raise your coffee mug because I’m taking some space right now.  I’ve dropped Silas off at day care (he LOVES it, so I don’t feel guilty) and am sitting at a coffee shop (even though we can’t afford the coffee) and am writing this post (even though I haven’t showered– sorry fellow coffee drinkers).  And, in a few minutes I’ll be headed home to get the house in minimal order.

Clean, you question?  Well, I have a plan:  for every 15 minutes of cleaning, I’ll spend 5 finishing Breaking Dawn.  (I’m finally undepressed enough to finally enjoy the Twilight series again!!!)

I am hoping that by taking this time today, I will be an energetic, focused mama tomorrow.  While we’re on Friday’s Mills River picnic, I won’t be thinking about the dishes.  (Although I might be thinking about Edward Cullen…)

It’s tough being two working parents with no family near by.  Whew!

Anyhow, to space!  Salute!  May you find some, may I continue to find some, may we take care of ourselves enough to be the best parents possible.

Amen.

I’ll let you now how the space thing goes…  when I have the space again to write.

It’s official.  I plopped my kid in front of the TV so that I could actually get something done around here.  (Ironic after I just wrote a post about the demented self-created world that I inhabit in which chores and false responsibilities take precedence over my family.)

Still, I don’t feel guilty.  In fact, in some ways, I feel liberated.   I’ve never, in the 16 months that I’ve been a mom, sat Silas in front of the TV.  That’s not to say that he hasn’t ever been plopped there.  He has.  In my opinion too frequently.   But not on my clock.

Until tonight.  Oh, honey, forget the Calgon.   Elmo in Grouchland is where the sugar’s at!

About a year ago (perhaps exactly a year ago—I’ll have to look), I remember feeling the exact same way.  (I dare you to check my January 2008 post about the Vino Nobile to see if it also mentioned Calgon.  I’m that cheesy.)  The “Vino Nobile” post was, of course, not about letting Silas drool over himself in front of the flat screen, but rather about letting Silas drool over himself as he cried himself to sleep.   Just like tonight, the relief came not so much from the added physical freedom, but from the decreased sense that I have to be perfect to be a good mom.

(By the way, is it normal for a child Silas’s age to sit in front of TV for forty minutes without actually moving???  It’s really sort-of sick.)

So, perfectionism mentioned and my lack thereof confessed, I would also like to confess that I’ve started and stopped this “Open Window” post about ten times.  (I’m still trying to learn that I don’t have to be a world-class author to be a good writer…)

When I originally started this post, I wrote about the seemingly black-and-white politicizing of parenthood.  You know: un-medicated or epidural?  breast or bottle?  Passie or thumb?  Cloth or disposable?  Co-sleep or Cry-it-out?  Dr. Sears or Dr.  Spock?  (I don’t actually know if anyone reads Dr. Spock anymore, it just sounded good.)  Still, you get my drift.

I talked about how advertising your parental ideologies seemed par with a trendy haircut, a pacifist bumper sticker, or carving the initials of your crush into the soft flesh of your ankle as a teenager.  (What you mean you never did that?)  Worse, I talked about how there seemed to be no middle ground.  For me, at 7 months in, it felt icky and uncomfortable that parenthood should be a playground for “us-and-them-isms” rather than a community of inclusive fostering and support.

After recognizing this culture of uppity divisionism, I found myself admitting to a friend, in hushed and mysterious tones, as if confessing a friggin’ love affair, that I gave Silas a dropper-full of Mylicon to ease his stomach pain.

I then had to admit to myself (albeit no one else) that, every time a friend popped in, I removed the pacifier from Silas’s peaceful mouth and hid it in the cutlery drawer.  (By the way, he gave up the ole passie long ago.)

I would talk incessantly about the cute organic baby clothes I found at the Co-op and then wear a headscarf, an odd shade of lip gloss, and dark, unassuming glasses when I shopped at Sam’s Club for cheap diapers and–dum, dum, dum—FORMULA.

It was like leading a G.D. double life.  Who has time for that shit?!?

I have to admit, after having a child in pain for months on end, I practically counted the inhales before getting the okay for another sweet, sweet round of antibiotics.

(Honestly, if you’re reading this and you’re disgusted with me, you’re either a much stronger person than I am or you’re delusional.)

Then only several weeks ago, under the title, “Notes from Rotisserie Chicken Land”, I began again.

I started my post as follows:

Next to me on a mismatched dish, perched atop an eclectic useless candle plate, beside a nearly drained bottle of Sangiovese and the crumpled remnants of a bag of Amish Friendship bread, lies the mangled, oily, faintly recognizable carcass of a dainty winter chicken. The chicken is so tasty, so tantalizing, you’d think the damn bird is Johnny Depp the way I can’t keep my hands off of it.

I then began to surmise about my college days.  (I’ve been hopelessly nostalgic lately.  I even re-pierced my nose.  It’s like I’m in the middle of a 33.3%-of- your-life-gone-crisis. ) and about the last time I had even thought to purchase a rotisserie chicken:

The last time I bought myself a rotisserie chicken, I was a junior, maybe a sophomore, in college and had spent the better half of the afternoon and evening smoking marijuana.  On a mission to be as gluttonous as humanely possible, my friend Jill and I packed our grocery basket full of M&M Cookie Bars, Sour Cream & BBQ potato chips, No-Bake Oreo Cream Pie, and, of course, the friggin’ chiggin. 

After stopping just short of the punch line, in which Jill and I found ourselves, red-eyed and soft-bellied, waiting behind a former Prom Queen with a cart full of mineral water, carrot sticks and the newest edition of Self magazine in the checkout aisle, I mixed myself a cocktail and wandered down the hall to the bathroom where I drew a hot bath, pulled out my copy of New Moon (the 2^nd in the Twilight series), and sat sipping bourbon as I waited to prune up.  As I sat in the tub contemplating whether or not I should begin naming the stretch marks that seem so bound and determined never to fade, I was struck once again by my lack of ideological follow through: while I had imagined my Mother-Self as an incarnation of Mary Poppins I sadly realized that I was a bit more like Ms. Hannigan.  I mean really, I felt like I was just two small steps away from squawking out a slurred rendition of “Little Boys” before gratefully falling into a pool of moonshine.

Yeah.  Not in contention for the parent-of-the-year award.

Anyhow, I’m sure you see my point.  Like so many of life’s experiences (think: losing your virginity) parenting-in-theory barely resembles parenting-in-reality.  We’re all just trying to survive and do what is right.  Or as my friend Sly (real name Melisa) put it: “Everyone chooses something to obsess over but why the hell choose parenting?  It really has the potential to f*$% everyone up!”   (I have had to completely alter my speech now that Silas repeats EVERYTHING.)

So, please, don’t flub anyone up.  You’re not perfect and you never will be.  And, still, everything’s gonna be a-okay.

An Afterthought (6:32AM the next morning): Yes, I’m editing.  I seem to have caught that bug.  Still, I rarely do this– comment on a post that I’ve just published.  But, this morning’s “did I actually say what I meant to say?” seemed worth paying attention to.   With a bit of exaggeration and– I hope– humor, I intended to express the fact that I have had to open my window and throw out many of my ideals and that this cleansing of the idealistic soul has been good FOR ME.  (Of course, I am not suggesting that you throw out all of your ideals.)  Basically, I wanted to have an unmedicated birth but after 20 hours at 4 cm I chose an epidural.  I was so obsessed with breastfeeding that I refused my mother’s suggestion to give Silas a bottle of water.  I ended up having to both supplement with formula (had serious difficulty pumping) and to quit earlier than I wanted to (didn’t want to pass on the meds I had to take after my lovely little breakdown).  I never intended to use antibiotics.  Never intended to let my child watch TV.  I most certainly believed that everytime I got home from work, I’d be able to give my undivided attention to my son.  Well, we make the best decisions we have given the situations that we are presented with.  With this post, I wanted to absolve myself from any guilt that I might be feeling about not living up to the theoretical fantasy that I had about motherhood.  I was also hoping that, if you also are struggling with mama-guilt, that you might be able to do the same.  We all do the best we can.