Now you try it. It's fun! (Yeah, that's my lame-o way of tagging you. And it keeps you from feeling put-upon. Unless of course, you want to participate, which of course you do!)
Almost 13 years ago, I got into my not-so-air-conditioned car, left the safe confines of the south side of my new town, and headed north--across the tracks, so to speak--to a job interview. I was newly married (the infamous Vegas debacle), barely 22 years old, and ready to save the world, one student at a time.
I was offered that job, and two others, but I took the offer at the across-the-tracks school because of a feeling. I felt comfortable and at home there. I was right about that feeling. In many ways, that school would be my home for the next 13 years.
The building had been erected in 1904. It was old, rat-infested, and crawling with roaches. The students who attended there were all very poor. Many of their parents worked two or three jobs, didn't speak English, and perhaps didn't even read Spanish. In spite of all of our challenges and hardships (or maybe because of them?), my colleagues and I have always agreed: We wouldn't want to do what we do for any other population anywhere else.
That school and the people there have become my family. They have seen me through a divorce, a phase of wild-oats-sowing in my 20s, a 20-pound weight loss, tumultuous relationships, an engagement, a broken engagement, more sown oats, an ovarian tumor, plastic surgery, another engagement, a marriage, a pregnancy, and the birth of my baby. Some of the older teachers claim to have raised me. In a way, they really did. This week, we are packing everything in the school. Next year, we will be in an interim location while a state-of-the-art new school is being built for us on our current site. Before that happens, though, our old ragged building will be demolished. Our old ragged friend, with its rats and roaches and holes in the walls that we cover with posters and its carved wooden banisters and tin-tiled-ceiling basement and windows that span the length of the classroom, will be gone.
Yesterday was the last day of school for students. I am pooped smooth out. In a week or so, I'll be back to posting at least every couple of days (oh, who am I trying to kid) since I will officially be the most lazy-ass summer bum you ever did meet. Well, for a couple of months anyway.
But for now, the best I can do are some highlights.
Saturday:
Swimming! And crawfish!
at Aunt Teen's and Uncle Joe's. And no, I did not don a swimsuit. Because you are not ready for this jelly.
Sunday: Laundry! (Woo-friggin' hoo, huh?)
Monday: Ummm, nothing exciting happened on Monday. Except Alex decided that sleeping peacefully at night was not high on his list of priorities. So he kicked me in the guts all night.
Tuesday: I don't remember Tuesday. I was too sleep-deprived. But evidently not TOO sleep-deprived yet, because Alex gave a repeat peformance. He also decided that Hey! Wouldn't it be fun to just eat? All. Night. Long? Yeah, fun!
Wednesday: The white trash birthday party from hell. I can't even explain the level of sad that was witnessed. It was a 3-year-old's birthday. There was no cake. No cookies. No nothing. We weren't even offered something to drink, for crying the EFF out loud.
Oh, yeah, and more nighttime shenanigans.
Thursday: I finally got my sleep-deprived head out of my ass and realized that my sister-in-law is pregnant. And I'm kind of jealous. But then again, oh, hell no I'm not.
Finally, some semi-normal sleep for the boy. Insomnia for me, thanks.
Friday: Last day of school for students. Field trip to skating rink. I took my personal vehicle so that I would have access to my vehicle-adapter-powered breast-pump. Lucky for me, I'm also on the list of staff authorized to transport students in a personal vehicle, because I got to take the kid that broke her arm to the ER. Woo-hoo, y'all.
Dad and stepmom spent the night, and seemed completely understanding about the fact that I did not even vacuum my carpet before they came because good Gawd, what a day.
Alex and I both slept last night. Thank you sweet Jesus.
Today: I'm doing laundry. And watching some television. That is all.
See? I'm not ruining my child's life for not kicking him out of our bed. Woo-hoo! But the teething-induced (at least I'm assuming it's because of teething) kicking and moaning and mama-give-me-my-titty-pacifier moments that monopolized my sleep time from midnight to 4:30 this morning? Must be addressed. Am I dillusional to think that he'll magically go back to sleeping peacefully for 4- to 5-hour stretches once he cuts these first teeth? (And no, I don't want honestly here. Just tell me what you know I want to hear.)
I've always admitted to being an underachiever at heart. People don't usually believe me, though, because I have a special talent for puttin' on the airs of organization and productivity. But they're just airs, believe me.
Not convinced? Allow me to illustrate:
The boy's baby book is a train wreck. On the pages of "Firsts?" Almost every entry so far says "around ____ week/months." I wouldn't even know the ballpark dates if it weren't for this site and emails from my mother, who keeps him during the day. The only first that has an actual date is when Al rolled from front to back, because Mom wrote "For the baby book: Al rolled over twice in his crib and three times on the floor on April 4," on a sticky note. That sticky note remained adhered to my desk, gathering water rings from my drinking glass, for about six weeks until I finally decided to update the book this week.
In the evenings after his bath, I put a diaper on Al and that's it. If I put a onesie on him, he'll just slobber it up or spit up on it. So instead, I just periodically wipe the drool and spit from his chest. Yes, I know God invented bibs for that, but they always end up in his mouth and cause him to produce even more slobber. He prefers to go "papa-style" anyway.
We cosleep. Not because we're big on attachment parenting or because we read all the research that suggests that cosleeping babies are healthier and better adjusted (doesn't it say that somewhere?). Nope. It's because I'm lazy. At 2 am, when the boy is hungry, I whip out a boob, let him latch on, and go back to sleep. The other option would be to get out of bed, get the boy out of his bed, nurse the boy, soothe him back to sleep, and finally crawl back into bed. No way, man.
I have read to Al a grand total of five times. Yes, I'm a teacher. Yes, a reading teacher. We'll read more this summer, and it'll definitely become part of our bedtime routine, when we get around to establishing one (shut up), which will be very soon. I hope.
I never thought I'd be an underachieving mommy. I sure didn't plan it. It just turned out that way. And you know what? I'm ok with that. So is Al. His mommy is laid back, and so is he. Underachievers, rock on.
A year ago this week, I was six weeks pregnant. In the course of the following few weeks, I would slip into the second most frightening and debilitating bout of depression I had ever experienced. By the time that I was nine weeks pregnant, I was consumed by the voice that chanted "I can't do this. I don't want to do this. What the hell have I done?" Fortunately, I have a good husband, a good family, and an outstanding doctor. That story had a happy ending.
It's been a hell of a week. A daughter slipped away, and so did a wife who dreamt of becoming a mother. Day before yesterday, I asked our school nurse to explain to me why my friend's baby died. I wasn't asking for a "there's reason for everything" bullshit justification, I wanted a medical explanation. And she gave me that. She also lost a daughter several years ago. "People die. Children die," she reminded me. Not every story has a happy ending.
That sucks.
And that is also why on Mother's Day, I am grateful. Grateful for my healthy baby, my healthy hot husband and my healthy--although not as hot as before, and that's OK--self. Grateful for the three-way spoon--I in the Mr.'s arms and the baby in mine--in which I wake in the wee hours of the morning. Grateful for the spit-up stain on my skirt and the stretch marks on my boobs. Grateful that the 19.33-hours leading up to Baby's birth were spent in a clean and technologically advanced hospital. With two (yes, my contractions were heinous enough to warrant the services of TWO--lucky me!) kick-ass anesthesiologists. Grateful that our trip to Children's Medical Center resulted in nothing more serious than orders to eliminate dairy.
And I'm grateful for you.
You are the friends who tell me I'm not crazy as a loon and that I'm not a bad mother for taking my son to a metal concert. You also thought the first few weeks of motherhood were hell on earth and wondered why noone had warned us. We might not see eye-to-eye on political views, but we share the same diet philosophy (and isn't that more important, anyway?). We may come from vastly different places geographically, but our backgrounds are remarkably similar, or vice versa.
You are my Sister-Mothers.
It all started while I was pregnant with an accidental visit to Amalah, which turned into a daily habit. From there it was Dooce. They are the gateway sites to a more serious blog addiction, aren't they? I started my own little journal to keep family and friends apprised of the pregnancy progress, but I quickly realized that there were things that I wanted to say that frankly, my dear Aunt Gertrude didn't need to read. You, know, like when I need to drop an F-bomb or two. So I came back to this site, which I had begun several months prior. And I started writing. And you started writing back.
In the most difficult first weeks of new motherhood, there were three other mothers--all very different from one another--who were vital factors in the maintanence of my sanity:
Erika first commented on my site while I was still pregnant. She was pregnant as well, just a couple of months behind me. By reading each other's sites, we could compare notes and commiserate a little. Erika has a knack for describing her personal day-to-day experiences in a way that they never seem mundane. Her site is truly a glimpse into her life--the good and the bad. Her gorgeous little boy, Evan, was born last month. Check her out, and wish her a first Happy Mother's Day.
Every now and then, I'd get a comment on my site from Brighton. She seemed to know just when I needed an encouraging word from a Mom Who Had Been There. Four times. Oh, and until not so very long ago? She was a stripper. That's right--a stripper who is also a Good Mother. While Al nursed 12 times a day during those first few weeks, I was parked in front of my computer reading Brighton's archives. Her tales from the stripclub, restaurant drama, and anecdotes of her gorgeous children and husband kept me enthralled. Brighton showed me that motherhood means many things, and becoming a frumpy stick-in-the mud is absolutely NOT one of them. Happy Mother's Day, Brighton.
And then there was Her Bad Mother. Her first comment on my site was "I too fell prey to the claim that breastfeeding is supposed to be better than any Atkins/South Beach/GI/name your fad diet for dropping prego pounds." Seems we were both feeling a bit disillusioned by the fact that breastfeeding hadn't immediately transformed us into our former hot selves. And then? I discovered that we had a deeper, more serious interest in common: The Swaddle. We both clung to Dr. Karp's advice as if it were the only flotation device we had in the muddy waters that were New Motherhood. Well, actually, it was. But then we discovered that we had each other, too. And that despite the 1400 miles that separated us, we had much in common, from battles with PPD to the prospect of returning to teaching, to scary doctor visits to an affinity for plastering our posts with photos of our unbelievably adorable kids. One huge difference, though? Our writing styles. I'm usually all like, "Duuudes," and she, well, let's just say I've consulted a dictionary more than once while reading her posts. She's just smart like that.
HBM, you are my Sister-Mother. No, make that my Kool-Aid Sister Mother. Happy Mother's Day to you, you Baaaaad Mother.
And thanks to Her Bad Mother for organizing this Mother of All Mother Love-Ins and challenging us to take part in this virtual group hug.
Whether you are a SAHM, a WAHM, a WOHM, a single mom, an adoptive mom, a first-time mom, a grand-mom, an expectant mom, a mom of one or two or three or more, a mom whose child is gone, a mom who is also a dad, or any kind of mom, I honor you. Happy Mother's Day.
A coworker of mine and his wife had a baby girl Sunday morning. Problems were detected, and they were transferred to a Dallas hospital later that evening. This morning, their newborn daughter died.
Words fail me.
If you are the praying kind, please say a prayer for little Evie's parents and family.
About four years ago, I discovered a new addiction. It made me feel good, and frankly, I was more hip and with-it because of it. I felt free, unemcumbered, and no matter where I was or what I was wearing, I was cool and confident, baby.
Then, shortly after I met the Mr., I gave it up. He urged me not to, but I was determined to let go. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe because of the popular view among many of my peers that my addiction wasn't what men wanted or what was best for a girl.
But now, it's back. And I feel so much better for succumbing to its call. I imagine I'll delve a little deeper with each passing month, and I'm looking forward to that. I may never give it up again.
