It's still way too early for me to be popping out my baby (how I wish I could 'pop' out anything that weighs as much as a small Thanksgiving turkey), but I figured I should mention it since I hadn't posted since Wednesday. I take full responsibility for my lack of blogging.
My mother called me not once, but twice today to ask where my entries are for yesterday and today. I've created a monster.
The thing is (mother), I've had two days that would normally be fairly low key, but because I'm in the final stretch of InUtero Boy's gestational period I pretty much find anything more than blinking to be tiring. I get home after sitting around at someone's house and I'm ready to take a nap. Who knew that putting my feet up at Mrs. Wailing's (where we spent the afternoon yesterday) could be coma-inducing upon arriving home? I suspect she's slipping drugs into my ice water. That's probably why her baby is so mellow. I'll have to keep an eye on that one.
Today was another friend's birthday. A brave friend who is raising a teenager. Yes, she has one of those loud, obtrusive, yelling things that stomps around and slams doors. Well, this is the theory, anyway. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her daughter yet, but I have seen pictures and she's always smiling and looks really sweet. Surely she can't be that bad.
Personally, I don't buy into the horror stories about teenagers having attitude. That's something more seasoned parents tell us less-experienced folk so that we can admire them and think that they've earned their parenting merit badges. Obviously, my spawnlings will be polite, thoughtful and considerate between the ages of 13 and 20. They'll help old ladies cross the street, load groceries into the trunks of pregnant strangers' cars and volunteer in empoverished African countries over the summer months. They'll write poetry instead of having sex, enjoy a good classical outdoor concert instead of tuning out the world on their iPods, and won't taste a sip of alcohol until they're of legal age.
Of course, they'll do all this because I'm an amazing parent with just the right balance of love and discipline. People like me raise upstanding citizens who care about the world around them. Not bratty, self-centered teens.
(Incidentally, I've been interrupted this entire post because Gutsy wants Intrepid to play with him, but Intrepid doesn't want to because he's drawing, and Gutsy's upset so he's yelling at Intrepid, who's poking Gutsy, and both are coming to me one at a time to tell on the other one. Naturally, this has no reflection on their future teen years nor my incredible parenting skills. This is all genetics at play. When they behave themselves, that's my parenting shining through.)
*sigh*
Why is parenting so difficult? Why?! Why is it you don't need a license to be one? If there were a test I would have failed it miserably and then I wouldn't be wondering how I screw up so much. I'd be able to say 'Well, I guess I wasn't cut out to be a parent' instead of 'Ok, I am now a mother and I have to figure out how NOT to screw up my children for life.'
(Incidentally, while writing that paragraph, I was interrupted several times because I asked the gremlins to clean the playroom and had to deal with vehement 'no!'s from Gutsy and 'I hurt my foot!' and 'MoooOoOoOooom! He's not cleaning up!' comments from Intrepid.)
I admit to having engaged in 'mommy wars' like breastfeeding vs. formula feeding, staying at home vs. working outside the home, circumsizing vs. not circumsizing... and you know what I've concluded? Everyone knows they're a massive screw up in some ways, so we have to find something we believe we're doing right and construct this big pedestal upon which to stand and frown at all the people who are, in our opinions, doing that one thing horribly wrong. It makes us feel better about all the things we fear we're messing up on. Things like, oh, I don't know, not wanting to move out a computer chair and actually deal with a fight between two children because we're eight months pregnant and tired.
(Incidentally, I took a break after that last sentence, removed my giant rump from the computer chair and went off to help my children sign a peace treaty and show them exactly what I wanted cleaned up in the playroom.)
I know I did some things right for my family. I breastfeed my babies because I know it's good for them and for me. I stay home with them because I know that, despite my fumbles, I'm the best for the job and our financial situation allows me to do so with minimal stress. We circumsized our first child but not our second and feel we made a more informed decision the second time. But none of these things make me a perfect parent and none will guarantee that my children will be the nicest, smartest, happiest children and adults. In the end, they're likely to remember the times I yelled just as much as the times I hugged them. I only half-joke when I talk about rolling their education savings plans into therapy funds.
Gutsy starts preschool this fall and a part of me dreads it. I worry about how he's going to behave and, in true Maven self-centered fashion, how that will reflect on me and my parenting. I know I'm not the only one who passes judgement on others. However, my (wrinkled, stretch-marked) skin is thicker than it used to be when Intrepid was this age and I know I can handle it more gracefully. Also, having been someone who looks down on people, I know that it usually comes from a place of deep insecurity.
So, in short, if someone judges me, I can feel sorry for them because they're insecure. Then I can feel knowledgeable because I've been-there-done-that, and therefore be in a superior position and look down on them. Problem solved.
Good lesson, isn't it? It's a wonder I don't have my own mountain to sit on where people can ask me important life questions.
My mother called me not once, but twice today to ask where my entries are for yesterday and today. I've created a monster.
The thing is (mother), I've had two days that would normally be fairly low key, but because I'm in the final stretch of InUtero Boy's gestational period I pretty much find anything more than blinking to be tiring. I get home after sitting around at someone's house and I'm ready to take a nap. Who knew that putting my feet up at Mrs. Wailing's (where we spent the afternoon yesterday) could be coma-inducing upon arriving home? I suspect she's slipping drugs into my ice water. That's probably why her baby is so mellow. I'll have to keep an eye on that one.
Today was another friend's birthday. A brave friend who is raising a teenager. Yes, she has one of those loud, obtrusive, yelling things that stomps around and slams doors. Well, this is the theory, anyway. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her daughter yet, but I have seen pictures and she's always smiling and looks really sweet. Surely she can't be that bad.
Personally, I don't buy into the horror stories about teenagers having attitude. That's something more seasoned parents tell us less-experienced folk so that we can admire them and think that they've earned their parenting merit badges. Obviously, my spawnlings will be polite, thoughtful and considerate between the ages of 13 and 20. They'll help old ladies cross the street, load groceries into the trunks of pregnant strangers' cars and volunteer in empoverished African countries over the summer months. They'll write poetry instead of having sex, enjoy a good classical outdoor concert instead of tuning out the world on their iPods, and won't taste a sip of alcohol until they're of legal age.
Of course, they'll do all this because I'm an amazing parent with just the right balance of love and discipline. People like me raise upstanding citizens who care about the world around them. Not bratty, self-centered teens.
(Incidentally, I've been interrupted this entire post because Gutsy wants Intrepid to play with him, but Intrepid doesn't want to because he's drawing, and Gutsy's upset so he's yelling at Intrepid, who's poking Gutsy, and both are coming to me one at a time to tell on the other one. Naturally, this has no reflection on their future teen years nor my incredible parenting skills. This is all genetics at play. When they behave themselves, that's my parenting shining through.)
*sigh*
Why is parenting so difficult? Why?! Why is it you don't need a license to be one? If there were a test I would have failed it miserably and then I wouldn't be wondering how I screw up so much. I'd be able to say 'Well, I guess I wasn't cut out to be a parent' instead of 'Ok, I am now a mother and I have to figure out how NOT to screw up my children for life.'
(Incidentally, while writing that paragraph, I was interrupted several times because I asked the gremlins to clean the playroom and had to deal with vehement 'no!'s from Gutsy and 'I hurt my foot!' and 'MoooOoOoOooom! He's not cleaning up!' comments from Intrepid.)
I admit to having engaged in 'mommy wars' like breastfeeding vs. formula feeding, staying at home vs. working outside the home, circumsizing vs. not circumsizing... and you know what I've concluded? Everyone knows they're a massive screw up in some ways, so we have to find something we believe we're doing right and construct this big pedestal upon which to stand and frown at all the people who are, in our opinions, doing that one thing horribly wrong. It makes us feel better about all the things we fear we're messing up on. Things like, oh, I don't know, not wanting to move out a computer chair and actually deal with a fight between two children because we're eight months pregnant and tired.
(Incidentally, I took a break after that last sentence, removed my giant rump from the computer chair and went off to help my children sign a peace treaty and show them exactly what I wanted cleaned up in the playroom.)
I know I did some things right for my family. I breastfeed my babies because I know it's good for them and for me. I stay home with them because I know that, despite my fumbles, I'm the best for the job and our financial situation allows me to do so with minimal stress. We circumsized our first child but not our second and feel we made a more informed decision the second time. But none of these things make me a perfect parent and none will guarantee that my children will be the nicest, smartest, happiest children and adults. In the end, they're likely to remember the times I yelled just as much as the times I hugged them. I only half-joke when I talk about rolling their education savings plans into therapy funds.
Gutsy starts preschool this fall and a part of me dreads it. I worry about how he's going to behave and, in true Maven self-centered fashion, how that will reflect on me and my parenting. I know I'm not the only one who passes judgement on others. However, my (wrinkled, stretch-marked) skin is thicker than it used to be when Intrepid was this age and I know I can handle it more gracefully. Also, having been someone who looks down on people, I know that it usually comes from a place of deep insecurity.
So, in short, if someone judges me, I can feel sorry for them because they're insecure. Then I can feel knowledgeable because I've been-there-done-that, and therefore be in a superior position and look down on them. Problem solved.
Good lesson, isn't it? It's a wonder I don't have my own mountain to sit on where people can ask me important life questions.