P.S. ~ Forgive me for last night’s deprecation.

Now, the the story part two, part one:

We’re heading back from Florida and Silas needs a bath so bad that we look like negligent parents.  Aside from the oily coils of hair framing his face, the dirt streaked on his cheeks, and the stinky nature of his feet, he is also covered in bumps and scrapes and mosquito bites.   I suppose, though, that filth and fracture on a toddler are just marks of the fun that was had.  Belt notches, baby style. 

So, yeah, Silas had a hell of a time.  Maybe a better time than I did.

At the start of Stephapalooza, before too many guests arrived, I thought I might slip Silas into slumber in the guest bedroom.  You know maybe the balloons and the outfits and the early guests and the hours of preparation hadn’t clued Silas into the fact that a party was brewing.  Yeah, right. 

But, still, Ms. Rigid Rules was going to come to the rescue.  Again.

It seemed like an innocent plan.  I’d just get Silas nestled in his jammies, brush his teeth, read The Great Butter Battle, ignore the music and laughter filtering in through the bedroom window, and all would be well in the world.

Well, Silas had other plans.

How dare he!

As soon as we even set foot in the guest bedroom, he started into a fit of unbelievable rage.  Drooling and spitting and hitting.  It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pretty site.

I immediately shoved Paul from the room and locked the door.

It would be me and the toddler beast going head to head.  No tickets available.

(Actually, we had one ring-side spectator:  my friend Melisa, a mother of two, who was trying to support me in this effort to have the upper hand.)

So, there we were, screams and scratches being– thankfully!– drown out by Michael Jackson, Belle and Sebastian, Outkast.  I tried rocking, soothing, shouting, pounding, reading, dancing, and deep breathing.   Nothing, absolutely nothing, short of physical restraint, kept Silas from his persistent Banshee-call.   

After 15 minutes, I admittedly began to sweat.   As I wiped the perspiration from my brow, I began to worry that we were ruining the atmosphere.  Being Gainesville, an unrivaled party town and a city in which very few young people have children, I didn’t know if the stiletto-heeled guests were appreciating the wild screeching of an imprisoned two-year-old.   Melisa phoned her husband, who was out among the guests, to assess the damage.  Apparently, aside from those unlucky guests who had to use the bathroom just across from torture chamber, the music was successfully masking our match.  Given the green light, I donned my mama boxing gloves and continued with my arsenal of tantrum squelchers.

After 30 minutes, a paper towel airplane came sliding under the door.    Scrawled in my mother’s handwriting across the breast of the plane were the words “I’ll take him home now!  Just make it stop!”  I ripped the airplane to shreds and then chewed the leftover pieces.  There was no turning back now. 

Here is where I’d like to clarify something.  In case you think I’m crazy.  I was in no way attached to Silas’s pre-prescribed bedtime.  I had been prepared to let him party.  But, as I am new to this tantrum thing, I didn’t feel like it was right to let him scream his way into getting his way.  I know you’re supposed to choose your battles.  Well, I chose this one.

Bur, nothing, nothing, nothing would keep Silas from screaming.  Not tricks, not toys, not ignoring him.  He is one goal-driven SOB.  (Wait a minute!  What does that make me???)

Just as Melisa and I started prying open a bottle of wine with a pocket knife, prepared to hunker down and just witness this rabid bawling son of mine, a loud rapping started on the bedroom door.  “It’s been an hour!” came my husband’s angry voice.

“Has not,”I yelled. 

“Has too,” he started back.  “Just give it up!”

Give it up?  Me?  I give nothing up.

“You’re causing a scene and you’re messing with his head!  Just let the kid come out and party!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

I was about to sling a nasty string of insults out the door when Melisa stopped me.  “Let’s just go have fun!  So, the kid wins this one.”

Wins!  Wins!  That means I lose.  I wasn’t so sure about this.

It was six weeks since the last rain and the garden was holding on by a thread.  The beans were still thriving.  And the tomatoes, the zucchini, the marigolds.  I had continued to water every chance I got despite the water restrictions, despite the potential $400 fine or the neighbors’ dirty looks.   I also continued to turn new earth, rubbing open old blisters and sowing seeds too late for planting.  The garden had become both my obsession and my lifeline.  It had become my only source of peace.

Most days, my husband would walk down the hill to my little plot and try to persuade me to come inside.  “It’s dinner,” he’d say.  “Gabe would probably like it if you could eat with us.”  More often than not, I would wave him away sometimes continuing to hoe, sometimes sinking to the ground, nose against the dirt just breathing.  The house had become something constricting.  An emotional tourniquet, squeezing the very life out of me.

You see, as goal driven, as (meticulous) as I had become outside, I had become equally indolent inside.  Our four small rooms had become filled with piles of laundry, of old magazines and scattered paperbacks, of plates, and spoons, and sippy cups that needed washing.  Many times, I would find myself staring, sometimes for a moment, sometimes for the better part of an hour too overwhelmed, too limp to attack the mess.

The more I stood, the more I stared, the more the laundry, the papers, the dishes began to represent my personal failures.   A few dirty socks might remind me that I wasn’t organized enough or loving enough to be a good mother.  A stack of dishes might indicate that I wasn’t disciplined enough to keep my weight down.  Half-written papers, half-read books would scream to me that I’d never amount to anything, that I would die without any real accomplishments.

Since our son was born, this had been my life.

Even with the solace of the garden, it had become impossible to ignore my depression.  To ignore the fact that making a grocery list had become a Herculean task or that touching my husband made me feel sick and damaged.  I had withdrawn from activities, kept the curtains drawn when I was inside, felt numb when I breastfeed my baby.

Oddly, I also suffered from intense anxieties.   One day I would be curled up on the couch like a salt-sprinkled slug unwilling, unable to talk with anyone.  The next day, I would be so flooded with plans and ideas that I could only pace around the house humming and mumbling to myself.  Amid these plans, these ideas, I also feared that a killer might be watching us.  Or, that I might accidentally drop a knife that would plunge through the heart of our son, killing him.   I would wander through the house void of feeling in my arms or my legs.

It was in that anxious state that I saw the child behind our clothes dryer.

I always chuckled at this little ha-ha because “I am not a dork” is my kind of affirmation. Along with:  I am not a loser.  I am not a cow.  And, I am not destined to be another slug popped and gutted under the iron heel of mediocrity.

When I try on phrases such as: I am hip.  I am sexy.  I am both intelligent and talented and am a virtual giant of creativity.  I just sound like a fraud.

(Yeah, I should also try on the phrase “Even though I’m a language arts teacher, I don’t know a good goddamn about grammar.”  Yes, that explains the odd jumble of colons and periods and the lack of quotation marks or whatever.)

But, you say, you are hip and you are sexy and you are both intelligent, talented, and supremely creative.

Well,  I thank you.  But still…

As of late, trying on new affirmations hasn’t been high on the priority list.

Instead I’ve been toying with a new strain of depression.  I’m not sure what to call it yet, except for “it fucking sucks”.  I cannot possibly imagine how people go through their lives living in this state of pathetic, miserable, zombie-hood.  When I’m not trying to keep a chin up for Silas, I’m sleeping or staring or sleeping and staring if that’s at all possible.

I really should take up TV.
Oh, but I can’t.  Instead I lie on the bed debating whether or not I should watch TV and trying to convince myself that I am not a loser… or a cow… or you get it.  (Even the 4th and final book in the Twilight saga isn’t doing it for me.)

Anyhow, we’re back home.  Silas and I.  I am feeling well enough to be typing this and I’m damn proud of it.  A few weeks ago, I thought I could bite the bullet and use this blog as a journal.  But, I don’t journal.  So, you’ll have to take me when you get me.  So much for fame and glory.

The kitchen isn’t finished but the debris has been removed and now Silas can run through it without any real risk of death and, hoo-rah, we have running water.

We’re desperately broke.

So broke it’s embarrassing.

But, somehow we’re forging on.  And, my parents offered to buy me a new set of tires.  (Thanks Pops.)

What else?  Hmmm…

What’s that?  I am journaling, you say.
Yes, I suppose I am.  Isn’t it dreadfully boring?

Oh yes, it is, you say.  Do you have anything more interesting to spout about?

Well, sure.

Recently, I was talking with a friend who described being the working parent of an 18-35 month old as having a heavy weight constantly pressing on your chest.  I can’t do her description justice because the essence of it was mostly in her physical expression– the strain and weariness of her face, the hopelessness of her hands.  And, while I know that not all parents struggle with this age, I knew exactly what she meant.  There is so little personal time– especially with no family nearby and with no kitchen and between marriage counseling sessions ya-ha-ha.

Still, her frankness really helped.  It made me realize that it’s not just my situation or my mental state or my inferiority that is the catalyst for this depression, this exhaustion, this weight.  On top of it all, parenting is really tough.  Beautiful, very beautiful, but very, very tough.

So, maybe I’m not a worthless parent, a selfish whiner, or a bitch.  Maybe I’m just tired and normal and not a dork.

To close, let me post a dear friend’s poem:  (as you can see smooth transitions are not my thing tonight, but I’m here, yeah, I’m here…)

Anyhow, my friend’s untitled masterpiece:
Each night

I haven’t got

rhythm

or good ideas

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down,

rockin’ down,

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

clean floors

dinner made

a bank account

that shows

I’ve got it made

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

I haven’t got

cold cuts,

lean meat,

tomato feet

cold cuts,

pickled beets,

tomato feet.

cold cuts,

wheat bread,

tomato red

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

a favorite spot

friends to call

books to write

on bedroom walls

long late nights

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down

– Melisa Ian Toothman (aka Slymillion)

So, in the spirit of all cosmic coincidences in which “you [might not] always get what you want… but, you get what you need”, I’d like to give a Hoo-Yah to toddlers heading to bed early and without a fuss, to patio furniture received for Mother’s Day, for Marigolds and a pumpkin patch that not only outlasted the drought but are vying to be prizewinners, and for cool, mild October temperatures and leaves just beginning to change. Oh yeah, and for Flying Dog Double Dog IPA. Ahhhhhh… A toast to my Calgon moment!

Tightrope walking aside, mothering and wifing and working is one hell of a death-defying balancing act. I’m still trying to find out just where I fit in. The fact that I am actually excited by my new morning routine– getting up at 5:15 so I can hit the gym and read magazines while on the elliptical machine before work– might be an indicator of where my own needs have been falling on the priority list. Yeah, I linger on the toilet so I can read the next chapter and pretend I need tampon so I can rush to the grocery store unhindered and lusciously alone. How did a just a spare friggin’ moment end up on my endangered species list?

(That last question was only a rhetorical one. I would imagine that the answer is more than obvious.)

Still, until duty calls you to juggle the tune of “my little potato” with a knife chopping dinner’s onions and a phone call from your mother about your grandmother’s intestinal surgery all the while throwing Annie’s Whole Wheat Bunnies into the open seal-like mouth of your feisty and impatient one-year-old while trying to sweep up the morning’s coffee grounds all before even taking your work shoes off, you can’t quite imagine the threat an innocent youngin’ can pose to your personal freedoms. I suppose that’s why evenings like this one– in which your husband is in the garage jamming out with guys and the baby’s in bed two hours earlier than normal and the sun hasn’t quite gone down yet– are so wickedly delightful. It is like Tolle states: there is no form without the formless. Yes, so there is no flippin’ peace and quiet without the domestic chaos.

(Have you noticed my gallant efforts at cleaning up my rhetoric? I have almost, nearly, sort-of stopped using the F-word since the moment last week when I noticed that my son stopped what he was doing to stare at me and quizzically contemplate my colorful reference to the stupid fucknut who almost rammed into me at the Main Street intersection. Oops.)

Anyhow, lately, this freedom thing has been more restricted than usual. I have been the only member of our quaint little household that hasn’t been spewing from both ends. And, since I imagine that alone is more information than you bargained for, I’ll stop there. However, I am sure you can imagine the exhausting toll that was placed on me because I didn’t get sick. It was definitely and without question a lose-lose situation.

Yet, brighter days are on the horizon. It’s Friday. It’s still a tad bit light out. And, I am actually soaking in the evening air and writing. Ahhhh…

And, you know, this little breather came at just the right time. While on most days I sail about as if everything is just peachy, often, underneath it all, I begin developing the habits of a domesticated rabbit. I hit a point where I’m
ready to gnaw my own paw off to get just a little taste of freedom.

What does this mean in human terms?

Well, for one, I’ve been having incredible urges to make contact with the villainous characters of my illustrious past. (Yeah, so, I spent one tipsy evening trying to scan Facebook profiles. That doesn’t make me a bad person!) And, I’ve been hitting the bottle a bit harder when the little one finally says “nighty-night”. And– okay, there’s just a bit more– I’ve been secretly buying curtains with my World Market credit card. (The shame!)

Does that sound outlandish to anyone? Because on my risk-o-meter, I’d only give these little setbacks a four. Honestly, they just seem to me like a slightly stronger than average bout of the old run-of-the-mill reaction to stress.

But, I’ve been cautioned– and I probably don’t need to tell you by whom– That’s Right, by the psychiatric powers-that-be that all these slightly less-than-wholesome responses to stress look a lot like “breakthrough symptoms” of my apparent bipolarity.

C’mon! Who isn’t curious about their former lovers no matter how loserly they may have become? And, shit, all of us Generation X’ers love to live above our means. Don’t we? It’s not like I sold my stake in Wal-mart to head off on a five day bender in Miami. (Except I don’t own stock in Wal-mart, or, for that matter, in any company large or small. And, I’d never go to Miami if I had an inclination towards a bender. I’m really more of a NOLA girl. But, you know what I mean.)

Okay, so, back to my thankfulness and the recollection of my inner peace. When I needed it most, the Universe took a turn in my direction and here I am breathing, typing, listening to the night-time insects. I don’t know who said it better– Jesus of Nazareth or Mick Jagger– but you do often get what you need.

(Is that the Flying Dog talking or am I really this much of a freak?)

Anyhow, breakthrough symptoms or no, the exhausting monotony of trying to make a living and trying to have energy to live out your ideals at home is down-right difficult. So, to all you other working mamas, may you ask for a quiet evening and receive it and may you know your immense worth.

Hoo-yah, Hoo-yah, Hoo-yah!

Until the next unexpected hour to myself… (or at least until the next time I sneak the lap top into the bathroom!)

Yours Truly,

Me

Still, in the early stages of my pregnancy, I commented to a friend that I couldn’t wait for my belly to be tough, taut, and bulging. I mentioned that I had always pictured myself largely pregnant, in a long white eye-lit gown, barefoot on an old-fashioned porch, my long hair cascading in gentle waves down my back, a young man in a straw hat and overalls playing the banjo for all my shoeless friends.

What the hell are you talking about? was her response.

She was right. What the hell was I talking about?

The very next day I made an appointment at a trendy, punk-rocker salon and donated my tresses to charity. It was time to resurrect my bad ass self.

Walking out of the Salon I felt like I should be on the cover of Spin or at the very least invited to join our local Burlesque.

So, you can imagine my surprise when, while visiting the weekend at my sister’s house, I received the following compliment from one of her friends:

Oh wow! I love you hair! It’s very, um, Mommish.

Mommish? Now what the hell was she talking about?!? I might have a little grey in the bangs, but most people wouldn’t even notice.

Mommish? With my Sonic Youth tee?!? Honestly!

I truly had expected her to say something more along the lines of: I love your hair! It’s very hip! It’s young, modern, punky, funky, wild, and sexy. Did you just get back from a Rave?!? Who’s your stylist?

Instead, I had to catch myself half-wince and grin and say thank you and grab myself another beer from the fridge.

Mommish!

You see, I may be off-center here, but since having Silas it’s been easy to imagine myself as a hip and happenin’ kind of woman. Mama, yes. But, not the kind of mama I might have been doomed to be if I hadn’t caught myself in time enough to get thee to a barbershop.

Cute, pixie haircuts aside, I’ve found motherhood an opportune, albeit odd, excuse to get down and dirty with my utter unsquaredness. I’ve easily been able to conjure up the spirits of Writer Mama and Salsa Mama and Wine-Cheese-and-Intellectual-Conversation Mama. I’ve been to prenatal yoga, and baby yoga, and momma and me music hour. I’ve strapped Silas to my chest while rehearsing a very foul mouthed one act play and while listening to my husband play guitar at local breweries. I am happy to say that every morning Silas and I rock out to Baby Zeppelin and the new Medeski, Martin, and Wood kids CD. Shit! During my pregnancy I craved Outkast instead of craving ice cream and pickles!

And, furthermore, I’ve been thinking about getting my nose re-pierced! Now, how’s that for hip and trendy?!?

Still, even with my arsenal of ‘I can prove I’m with it’ comments (Yes, I have a copy of Who Would You Do? on my shelf), I have a fear that this nay-sayer friend of my sister’s may be right.

I am 30 after all.

I guess that’s no spring chicken. And, I have begun to notice the little wrinkly imprints of crow’s feet. And, honestly, this Mommish comment was not the first time my station in life has slapped me in the face.

I am reminded of a Ween concert in which I realized I was the only person above the age of eighteen.

I am more painfully reminded of a business trip to New Orleans. (What kind of business I dare not say. I must have someway to protect the innocent.) Embarrassingly clad in a calf-length pseudo-velvet jumper with outdated cinch waist belt, a boa, and a fraying bun, I hit Bourbon Street with my group of professional friends. After several hours and a few too many perfect Manhattans, I felt the need to advertise my youthfulness. Apparently, dancing wildly in the streets and shouting obscenities wasn’t enough. I had to be accepted and revered by early twenty-somethings. I had to blend in. Be cool. Hang with my hip hugger homies.

Asking all my co-workers to “watch this” I bravely approached a table full of youngsters obviously too young too be drinking. As I jolted about like I was dancing with John Travolta in Pulp Fiction and cleverly smiled at them from under my wrinkled brow, I shouted “Hey dudes! Are you old enough to be drinking here? Don’t worry, I’m cool.” I thought they’d wink, and maybe laugh, and give some sign that we were all on the same groovy page before inviting me to sling back a couple of tequila shots.

That is, until I became suddenly and horrifyingly aware of the tragic depth of their looks of disgust and condemnation. Instead of offering a seat at their table, they asked if I was an undercover cop and then turned their backs to ignore me. Some of them even snickered and whispered cruel and unusual things about me before getting back to their conversation about Pokemon.

Come to think of it, I experienced a similar ostracization while desperately trying to infiltrate a tight-knit circle of Confederate ladies gyrating to the tune “Redneck Woman” at an odd southern-style wedding last year.

Maybe I just try too hard. Maybe I’m not the cool, collected, postmodern artiste I always wanted to be.Or maybe every one else is just delusional.

Mommish, Indeed!

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/08/06/very-mommish/feed/ 6 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/25/men-what-be-thy-purpose/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/25/men-what-be-thy-purpose/#comments Thu, 26 Jun 2008 01:02:12 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/25/men-what-be-thy-purpose/ To my wonderful husband Paul, I’m sorry. I had to…

Like many of my mama friends, I seem to have made a critical error in cognitive reasoning. While pregnant, I somehow believed that our lives would change but that our marriage would remain the same. Now, I’m not at all sure what that even means. It is a ludicrous statement and I should be ridiculed for thinking it.

Still, I must continue. Not only did I imagine– despite warnings from books and magazines– that my husband and I would find ourselves snuggled on the bed with Silas between us, more in love than we had ever been, but I also felt confident that once the baby was outside the body, that our roles as caregivers would be instantly equalized. I mean, the baby would be tangible, holdable, real. He’d be up for childcare grabs. In my daydreams, I witnessed my husband grabbing. And grabbing. And grabbing some more.

I also thought we might be, I don’t know, having sex.

Oh, ho, ho. The folly of being childless. The innocence. The idealism. The unknowing.

Now, when asked how things are going with my husband, I frequently answer, with my signature false, close-mouthed, I-dare-you-to-delve-deeper smile, that I didn’t realize I’d signed on to caring for twins.

I mean, after gas pains and constipation, queasiness, and exhaustion. After lugging the body of an eight pound baby up hill and through the grocery store. After exercising and avoiding fun snacks like ice cream and fluffernutters. After twinges of knife-like pain shooting through my vagina. After breasts, seeping from their F-cups, so swollen and sore it hurt to take a shower. After hemorrhoids and muscle cramps. After having to use a step stool to get into bed. After laboring for 20 hours without medication, all through the deep, dark night; and then on Pitocin, and then feeling like I disrespected myself, my birth, and all the women who labored naturally before me, by asking for and accepting an epidural because I was still- after 20 hours and on Pitocin– stuck at four measly little centimeters. After bruising my tailbone while pushing a living human creature from my body, and then having, for the next three weeks, to carry around a padded vinyl toilet seat to ease myself into (and I’d only just turned thirty!) After nursing a three-day-old boy for almost twelve hours straight on nipples that felt like open blisters. After waking hour upon surreal-night-time-hour feeding and changing and swaddling a baby…

I didn’t think I would have to explain why the floor needed mopping.

Suddenly, all of the things about my husband that may have provoked a slight twinge of annoyance, suddenly seemed like the rupture of a volcano. There were nights when I was sure that our marriage was over simply because I heard him snoring peacefully in the other room. Oh, dear, sweet men, what be thy purpose?

I am relieved to know that, among the mothersphere, I am not alone in my fears of and wallows in marital despair. (And, to be fair, my husband is a lovely man, with many redeemable qualities, and I have been assured by my psychiatrist that some, and let me reiterate, some, not all, of my feelings toward my husband had to do with my capital-S “Sickness”. But, should a woman who has carried and bore and cared for a child really have to make a detailed list of chores for the seemingly full-grown???)

So, I am bashing. Said husband might not be pleased.

But, a woman needs to vent her frustration or it surfaces in other ways. Like the accidental tossing of frying pans. Or, the icy, arctic, cold, cold shoulder.

And, honestly, I wouldn’t be writing this if I thought it was our marriage alone. Apparently, the first year with your first child is a difficult one.

Hmpfh!

(Note: I have written that I really hated naysayers and negative advice dolers when I was pregnant. And, I still do. But, I also wish that I had been more prepared for the absolute desecration and reconstruction of everything I once knew. If you are pregnant for the first time and you are reading this, Congratulations!, and I am sorry. If you have already had a first child, then, I don’t have to apologize. You know what I mean.)

Now all I can really do is this:

Dear Husbands,
Sweet, lovable, clueless, dopey, husbands,

Rub your wife’s feet and shoulders. And, don’t expect anything more.
Not yet anyway. Not until she’s finished breastfeeding.

If you get any further than foot-rubbing, count yourself lucky. Be thankful and show her that your thankful.

If there is a mop in a bucket of dirty water sitting next to the bathroom door and your wife is cooking for company (oh, why is your wife cooking for company when you have a newborn?), the dirty water needs to be dumped out in some appropriate place (like the toilet) and the mop needs to be rinsed and put away. Empty rolls of toilet paper need to be replaced with full rolls of toilet paper.

Offer to take night duty, even if its just one tiny, forgettable night, even if it means using formula, so that she can sleep on through like a normal person might and enjoy her REM dreams. Then, in the morning, take duty again. Maybe she can sleep until 8AM. Maybe 9AM. Maybe 10.

Forgive your wife if she snaps at you for the way you diaper or change your baby. Or if she freaks out when you feed them some nasty combination of peas and prunes. She only wants what’s best for your child. Please know that little babies need socks and hats when it is under 50 degrees outside.

Remember that your wife also likes to go out with the girls and grab a drink. She is not a machine and you are not a cave dweller. She feigned off partying for at least 10 months. Encourage her to take a night out on the town. Tell her she looks nice when she gets dolled up. If she’s still wearing maternity jeans assure her that no one will notice and that her ass looks good.

Did I mention that you should rub her feet and shoulders?

You should learn how to snip the baby’s finger and toe nails. You should also learn how to rinse off a cloth diaper.

You should read up on women’s hormones or at the very least respect that hormones are very powerful little beings and that a woman’s body goes through a mind-boggling amount of shift and discord.

You should worship your wife for bringing life into this world. Whatever worship means to you: running a nice warm bubble bath, bringing home flowers, offering to take the baby while she goes for a nice 45 minute walk. Bringing life into the world isn’t easy.

You should love, love, love, love, love your wife. And, quietly, without complaint, do the dishes.Thank you.

Yours respectfully,
Emily Marjean Coolbeth

So, I was shocked (and admittedly a little depressed) when some friends and family expressed concern about the post. Concern that it was, perhaps, “odd,” “perverted,” “lustful”. That it made the reader “uncomfortable.” That the thoughts and feelings expressed in the essay were “maybe things that people might think or feel but certainly wouldn’t talk about.”

I immediately removed the post. I was upset. I believed that I had succeeded in writing, at least the rough draft of, something both humorous and honest. I expected the piece to elicit laughter and head nods. On the contrary, I felt like I was being accused of writing something dirty. Instead of being light-hearted and eye-opening, perhaps what I had written bordered on taboo.

I asked for second opinions. Read the essay again and again. Reposted it. Took it back off. Reposted it again. Had to ask myself if I was taking everything a bit too seriously. As if I thought that the imagined millions of readers of my blog might be offended. Then, I realized that I was less upset about my writing than I was about the essence of the piece. I was conflicted because the essay was born of truth. My truth. The real question, for me at least, was not whether my writing was ineffective (because it very well may be), but whether or not my reality, my experience, my emotions were somehow “odd, perverted, lustful”.

Here are some of my truths:

1. In becoming a mother I have experienced a level of intimacy and love that I have never experienced before.

2. The intimacy and love I share with my son feels like the most true forms of intimacy and love. And, perhaps, the most powerful. It is as if all of the feelings we share as adults are tainted by context and baggage, by history and trauma, by exhaustion, fear, carelessness. With a baby you are brought back to a place of innocence. The love you share is sacred and unconditional.

3. Being an adult, however, I have placed some of my baggage, my history, my trauma, my need, my fear into that relationship. I actually have been jealous of Silas’s affection toward other people. And, yeah, that’s a strange way to feel. I think that feeling is tied into the reality that I will only be Silas’s sunrise and sunset for a short time. Inevitably, a distance will form between us. A healthy, natural distance sure, but, nonetheless, a distance I dread.

I have to rethink the framework for my essay. I chose to compare Silas, for humor’s sake, to a cheating husband. That may not settle well with some audiences. I also chose to admit that I feel a one-up on Silas’s future lovers. I suppose coming dangerously close to suggesting that I am in some way grouped in with those lovers. Of course, that is not what I intended to say.

Right now, Silas is the love of my life. Yeah, that’s caused some emotional upheaval. I am struggling to redefine myself, my environment, my marriage. I am not sure that we have a vernacular to express the love a mother feels for her child. I am not sure we have a vernacular to discuss intimacy outside the realm of sexuality. Perhaps, this is what makes some people uncomfortable.

I intend to explore that issue of intimacy in greater detail. I would love to gather readers’ responses to this issue.

That said, I am reposting my essay in its original form with no edits.

Let me know what you think.

It’s strange how babies seem to absorb the scent of anything and anyone they touch. As if they hold some magic ability to absorb the very essence of things. Then, they go about pretending that they’re just beginning to learn how keep their limbs from spontaneously flailing about when really they know all of your secrets and the secrets of everything they touch and the secrets of the Universe and wherever it was that they really came from.

Silas’s sacred wisdom aside, he smelled like he’d been out on the prowl last night. At five months?!? Already!

Truth be told, I was offended. I knew exactly where he’d picked up that harlot-laden scent. It was if I’d caught him with lipstick on his collar. And, to be honest, there very well may have been lipstick on his collar. Since he’s out for a nap, it wouldn’t hurt to go through the laundry and check. Next thing I know I’ll be sorting through the pockets of his elastic-wasted Corduroys for a phone number on the back of a receipt from the florist.

I know I am in danger of becoming “one-of-those” mother-in-laws.

How is it I’ve traded out all of my affections, suspicions, and intimacies for this little, whining brat who can’t even manage to get a spoon into his mouth without soiling himself? It’s not just because he’s cute. Oh, no. I refuse to even admit that there is some sort-of other-worldly power dynamic here. I won’t even think about it.

So, this woman with the perfume. I don’t even know her name. Silas made her acquaintance as he was being passed around from googily-eyed woman to googily-eyed woman at a drop-in dinner party. Apparently, he’d laughed at her. Stretched out his arms to touch her face. Rubbed his fingers in her hair. As if that weren’t enough, someone had the audacity to refer to her as his little girlfriend!

I’m not jealous exactly. Okay, maybe I am. Maybe it’s just that I’ve never had the experience of not only being the “one” woman, but of being the sole woman. The sole woman in existence. I mean, to Silas, I’ve been the Universe incarnate. He has known no one else. He’s madly and irrevocably in love with me. I’m beyond the apple of his eye, I’m his mother.

So, the other day, I took him in the shower. It was fun enough. We laughed, blew bubbles; I tried desperately and gently, to scrub the cradle cap from his skull. He didn’t even pee on me! We toweled off and picked out a nice, yuppie outfit from his closet complete with matching socks. It was a blast!

However, I was aware of a nagging, little one-liner that would not stop rolling around in my head. It was as if a large-breasted, round-bellied devil, with a look of power and angelica were sitting on my shoulder whispering it to me. The voice that said: Silas, buddy, who knows what kind-of women (or men, let’s be honest here) you may encounter in your future, but, baby, you showered with your mama first! You sure did! As if I had a one-up on his future lovers. As if having, oh I don’t know, carried the little guy in my uterus from pinprick to human and then squeezing him from my body, gave me some sort-of special rights over him. Bah!

What was that I said earlier about being “one-of-those” mother-in-laws?

And, yes, I’ve joked about taking Silas’s potential life partners into the kitchen and then insulting their pot roast. So, sue me.

There is just something about a mother and her son. I am working on not taking it personally when he smiles at other women. I just laugh it off when he reaches for other women’s breasts with his mouth open. I can admit that one day, if that day hasn’t already come, Silas will realize that his mom is just one of many fish in the sea. (Even if I do have especially glittery little fins.) But, for now, I feel blessed to have been someone’s whole wide world. It is a powerful, mesmerizing thing.

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