Starting this week at The Parenting Post, I’m doing a series on my experiences with Post Partum Mood Disorder.
My House Smells Better than a Dead Whale
Do you have your very own marine biologist to change your Betta fish’s water? I do. I pay her with leftover enchiladas and stories about all the crazy people I’ve known in my life. She likes the stories and I like that when she leaves my house, it’s always cleaner than when she came and I always feel better about my life.
She does a good job hiding the fact that she may be judging me because I don’t eat organic biodegradable recycled soy milk or use free-range toilet paper. When I feed her and tell her not to ask what’s in the Mexican food, she doesn’t ask what’s in the Mexican food.
Tonight I invited her over to share some reheated culinary loveliness if she promised to close her eyes to the abundant evidence that I’d had several friends and their precious spawn in and out of my house all day, and hosted and cooked for a birthday luncheon. The main floor of my house was covered in a thick blanket of playdate sputum and I was seriously contemplating waiting 24 hours to remember what I wrote earlier this week and get my act together.
So while I rattled around in the kitchen, popping the pan of enchiladas back in the oven and nuking the other leftovers, she asked what she could do to help. Like any embarrassed woman would do, I told her not to worry about it and for heck’s sake to keep her shoes on when walking on my crusty kitchen floor.
She went into the family room and started picking up toys with unnatural speed. She picked up books, cars, blocks and spit-soaked Spiderman-flavored cheese crackers. She put away toys the kids thought they were still using and said, “Out of sight, out of mind.” In 20 minutes she managed to tidy up my entire main floor, the main floor that had looked like a tornado-ravaged Value Village. Then she joined me in the kitchen where I was ineffectually shuffling the dishes who were waiting for their turn in the magical automatic dish washing shower stall. In my house, dishes who are capable of washing themselves are never subjected to hand washing. It just wouldn’t be right.
She stepped to the sink and started rinsing the waiting dishes. She separated them according to shape, size and possibly color. As she went to dump some plastic silverware in an opaque pitcher of water to soak, she noticed something moving in the water and jumped, “AH! I almost dumped these dirty dishes in with your fish!”
I apologized for keeping JackAgain in a dish so near the drain board. He’d been there for 4 days because I was “cleaning his fishbowl.” In a miraculously non-judgmental tone, that somehow communicated “I want to save the dolphins but I still like you,” she insisted that he be moved back to his bowl immediately before he had a heart attack from the stress of his current living arrangements.
So she cleared out one side of the sink and brought his nasty stinky bowl of old ishy water over to wash. What happened next is a blur but there was a loud crash, Laylee had appeared out of nowhere, was now smiling up at me too innocently to really be innocent and the floor was covered in blech.
I muttered something about how much it stunk as I ran upstairs to get some towels. “It’s okay,” my neighbor called from the kitchen. “At least it doesn’t smell as bad as a dead whale.” She’s a marine biologist. She’s seen and smelled things I hope never to experience in my lifetime. She cleaned my house and saved the whales living in it. She ate my not-from-Whole-Foods food and asked for my recipes. She kept me company on another long lonely night and she told me I was a good mom.
I want to be that kind of friend. I know I’m grateful to have a few.
Your Opinion Matters to Us
Okay y’all. I need your help. Well “need” is a funny word. I would like your help greatly.
1. I’m likely starting a new feature on Parenting.com each week where I will highlight great posts from blogs written by parents. I know I’m not aware of all the great blogs by moms and dads out there on the internet so I’d love some suggestions. Which blogs big and small should I be reading to find the most entertaining, insightful writing in the blogosphere? (It could even be yours.) Just leave a comment with the URL.
2. What are your favorite get-to-know you party mixer games? I’m hosting this party with a bunch of women who’ve never met before and I’d like to break the ice in some way other than yammering on and on about my kids’ dental health. I mean, a good kiddie toothpaste anecdote is always a big hit but I’d like to step outside my box for one night. Hit me with your best ideas.
This Poor Girl
We spent an hour at the dollar store looking for the best possible toy in the world ever… that we could procure for the sum of one dollar. Laylee chose this slightly demented-looking princess Polly Pocket knock-off with removable hair. Actually she chose a Bratz knock-off but was swiftly redirected.
We had not yet made it home before the plastic princess tragically lost both her lower limbs in a pitiful wardrobe malfunction. Rubber clothes are hazardous that way. Laylee seemed unfazed. She loved her dolly just the same and seemed determined to find a way to restore the girl’s mobility.
So here she sits, lovingly stuffed in her personal space-age transport vehicle, a beloved remnant of Daring Young Dad’s own childhood. Her lopsided eyes peek out from the cockpit and her arms have been tenderly pointed straight up so her hands are available to catch floating marshmallows or goldfish crackers.
Laylee says it’s to help her get around “because she has no legs.” Truth be told, she does have legs. We just can’t find them right now.
Too Much Slack in All the Wrong Places
This weekend was my church’s big twice yearly conference. It’s a time when Mormons all over the world watch church at home in their pajamas for 2 days as it’s broadcast from Salt Lake City. The prophet and other church leaders speak, the Tabernacle Choir sings, and I make a big fat omelet and crochet a couple of rows on the blanket I’ve been working on since 1998. Good times.
The talks are generally uplifting and motivational and I finish the weekend with my head buzzing about all the great things I want to accomplish and all the ways I’m going to transform into the best neighbor, sister, wife, friend and mother ever in the world.
This weekend I mostly just thought about sleep. I had trouble staying awake, which made me think about sleep. I made a plan to start getting up early to read and meditate. I decided that in order to do this, I’d better start getting to sleep earlier each night. I resolved to be more patient with and attentive to my kids, making each moment with them count and taking advantage of all the little teaching moments I have. A well-rested version of me could be very good at this.
So sleep. If I can get enough sleep, I’ll become the best person EVER. That was my conclusion. Then came a talk by Julie Beck, the leader of our worldwide women’s organization, The Relief Society. Her talk was bold and specific about ways mothers can become exceptional at what they do. When she finished, I turned to Dan and said, “That talk’s gonna make a lot of people feel inadequate. I thought it was great but ”˜people’ might not like to hear about all the things they should be doing that they’re not. They’ll feel like they’re not good enough.”
Dan commented that he thought it was motivational. It gave people something to aspire to. Hmmm… high aspirations… I remember having those — incredible goals that carry the possibility for failure. Now it feels like I generally only want to attempt something if it has a VERY high chance for success, no great aspirations here, just hoping to stay afloat. If I start something and it seems too hard, I bail and switch my goal to something more attainable. Can’t lose the weight? I guess I’ll just learn how to make perfect fudge brownies instead. Not doing well getting to bed on time? Well then I’d better stop scheduling activities before noon.
I set my kids up for failure all the time because that’s how they learn and grow. After several attempts and frustrations they finally experience success and triumph. I would never let my kids learn to walk, do chores, ride bikes, read, use the potty, or compose arias on the harmonica if I were afraid to give them any task that they couldn’t master on the first try. If only I could learn to mentor myself the way I mentor my kids. I have big fat hairy goals and expectations for them but I love them no matter what the outcome and instead of berating them or giving up on their success, I applaud their efforts and encourage them to keep trying. I help keep their focus on the end goal. “Won’t your bottom feel so nice when you keep your pants dry every day? Let’s see if we can keep THIS pair dry, okay?”
Sure, kids need down time, time to just space out, time to focus on being a kid and having fun, but they also need goals and progress and learning experiences. Moms need downtime too but we also need goals and progress and learning experiences. I find myself craving downtime, hunting for recreation or “me time”, and focusing way too much energy on my needs. “I’m a selfless mother, for the love of green beans! Who’s gonna take care of me if I don’t?” I believe this attitude is good in moderation. You can’t help your family if you’re not functioning, but it really is a slippery slope to a pit of selfishness and spa pedicures. When spending quality time reading to and playing with my kids is a “break” from all the me-centered activities I have going on, I know there’s a problem.
I find that the longer I’m a mom, the more I feel entitled to “slack.” It’s sort of en vogue to be a slacker mom, to joke about how big your pile of laundry is, how long it’s been since you did dishes, how you’ve given up trying to feed your kids enough veggies or that you’re always late for everything. I really try to be real, not keep up pretenses and not pretend to be perfect when I’m clearly not. This seems to be a trend, getting real, being honest, talking about every hard little thing about motherhood and homemaking and sort of wallowing in the rough stuff. We want to make each other feel better by sharing all of our own inadequacies, which I think can be really helpful to an extent. But there should come a point where we progress from commiseration to encouragement.
There’s a fine line between being down-to-earth and wallowing in negativity and low self-expectations. I think we should all sit down and define what mothering excellence means to us personally and then set about planning and trying to achieve it. Then with each little hiccup or tumble along the way, we should encourage ourselves the way we encourage our children to reach major milestones, with tenderness, with mercy and with a gentle push to keep going.
A Whining Whiner
Yesterday was a serious day. Today I’m whining over at Parenting.com about silly things that do not deserve to be whined about. I know life is good when this is all I have to complain about:
If the logs crackle loud enough, you can’t hear the dust bunnies laughing… [read more at Parenting.com]
My Responsibility
There’s a small local bookstore in my neighborhood. I like books. I like supporting the town. So I shop at this bookstore.
The books are used. Sometimes I have to settle for Olivia Saves the Circus instead of the original Olivia, but they’re both cute, they cost less than three dollars and I’m giving my money to members of my community, rather than some faceless chain store.
Once when I was looking at books and Magoo went on a crazy 2-year-old rampage, one of the store owners brought over some toys and played with him until I was ready to check out.
They have an unlisted phone number and no computer. They take cash or checks only. They keep an index card listing of the books you’d like to purchase so that if a copy comes in, they can give you a call. The store smells like my grandma’s basement, not really in a good way. I love this bookstore.
Then a couple of days ago a friend who recently moved to the area said, “I know you like that bookstore but I just don’t feel comfortable going in there with my 3 kids. They have a big bumper sticker right on the door that says ”˜Reproductive Responsibility — 2 is Enough!’”
I was dumbstruck. Nah! She must be mistaken. I’ve been in there tons of times and I’ve never seen that. She was pretty sure she’d seen it. So I took a peek the next time I was driving by. Sure enough, right at eye level, just above the OPEN sign is a good sized sign proclaiming that I should stop having children to save the planet.
I came home really upset. What right do they have to tell me how many kids I should have? Who are they to judge the reproductive choices of everyone on the planet? I was offended and I told Dan that I simply wouldn’t shop there anymore.
As usual, he remained calm despite my 28-year-old rampage and waited for me to join him in his happy place. Then he said something about how we choose not to live in a cave somewhere because we want to be part of a community and learn to get along with people who think and believe differently than we do. The owners of the bookstore are kind people and they’re our neighbors.
So now I’d at least like to talk to them about the sign. But what do I say?
First I want to ask them to explain their position. Then I want to explain mine.
I have the right to choose how many children my family can love, nurture and provide for. I have a religious belief that God created the earth with resources enough and to spare and that having and lovingly raising children is a spiritually fulfilling and earth-building endeavor. If we’re running out of resources, then we should be wiser about how we use them, not be controlling how many of us get to use them. If all the caring and educated people in the world start limiting their offspring in order to save the planet, won’t the very people who are the least well-equipped to care for and teach children become the ones who are having the most of them?
I feel like I need to say something if I’m gonna keep shopping there, especially if we decide to have another baby. Putting my personal feelings and religious beliefs aside, I just don’t think it’s their right to judge anyone else for their decision. I also don’t think it’s appropriate to place a sign like that prominently at the entry to your place of business.
Shelfari is LIKE a Virus
Lately I’ve received a few invites to join the social networking site Shelfari and share my book preferences with friends. So tonight I decided to sign up. It sounded fun. I went to the page and it asked me for access to my email account so it could farm addresses to send comparison invites to. I gave it access to my personal email account, not the one I use for blogging. It showed me my entire address book and told me to click on the contacts I wished to send invites to. I picked THREE people I wanted to compare books with.
The Safari website proceeded to send email invitations to EVERYONE IN MY ADDRESS BOOK — TWICE!!!!! This includes business contacts, filmmaking contacts, former college professors, friends, church leaders, people who’ve done work on our house, EVERYONE!
One of Dan’s coworkers emailed him to ask if I had a virus because he’d just received 2 emails from me. Ummm… yeah. I think I have a virus. It’s called Shelfari and I’m mortified. If you got one of those emails from me, please do not follow the link. I’m sorry for wasting your time.
I want to go back and delete my account or complain to the administrator but I’m afraid to log on to their buggy site again.
***Updated – see comment from Shelfari employee below. I’m glad to hear that there’s no malicious intent with the company, but I still want to steer clear. With bugs like they apparently have, I’m really wary of using their service or giving them any of my personal information.***
A Most Prestigious Award
Do you have ADULTITIS?!
I certainly hope not. According to Kim and Jason, the experts of silliness at Kim and Jason, I have the cure. So go and get diagnosed and if you find yourself afflicted, come back over here and read through my archives. You’ll either be healed, or you’ll slip into a narcoleptic coma. Either way, you’ll be happy, right?
Stroller Winner
Dudes. This was really hard. I want to give you all a stroller. Okay, that’s not true. But I want to give at least 5 of you a stroller and the rest of you all big hugs.
In the end, the stroller goes to Carrie. The stroller goes to Carrie mostly because she called me an amazing mom but also because she needs it and she used visual-aids in her post.
Congrats and I’ll try to give you all more free stuff soon!