The Decision

We had a decision to make, and we made it, and it’s done, and we’re moving on. Which feels good — really freeing, actually — but still bittersweet. The decision was whether or not to add to our family. Emotionless pro/con charts always came out decisively on the con side (which I think they would for almost anyone, if I actually cared to think about it anymore), although the pro points were big, important ones with considerable emotional heft. And besides, pro/con charts aren’t the definitive way to make this kind of decision. They are merely one of many tools we employed to try to convince ourselves to have one more child. In the end, we couldn’t convince ourselves.

What I’ll miss about not having another child: pregnancy, picking a name, infancy, breastfeeding, experiencing emerging wonder. Wandering the streets sleepily with a child in a carrier. I will miss never having a son. I will miss never watching my husband do the things he does best with a son, although I probably enjoy watching him do those things with his daughter much more.

What I won’t miss: doing further damage “down there,” not getting any sleep, washing diapers, buying diapers and shoes and…what the hell, we need more shoes again? Additional stress and incursions on my time and career and love life and body. Trying to entertain and coordinate activities and travel logistics for two children. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being a mother to one, it’s that I’m really not interested in all that stuff. Which I could have told you before, actually. But you may not have believed me. Or you would have tried to convince me that “all that will change.” That’s what my friends said. But then, they told me lots of half-truths in their attempts to get me to join their club.

Elizabeth Banks told a People correspondent that she really only felt like a mom when she had a second kid. She was vilified for saying that, but people took it way too far, in my opinion. She was likely just stating how she felt and not meaning to project her thoughts on her identity onto other families. (And even if she was, who the eff cares?! Her opinion affects our lives in no way whatsoever. Geez, people.) However, by that measure…well, okay then, I’m not a mom. Not sure what that makes me, but I don’t care, and frankly, I think that’s actually what I’m kind of going for. Some kind of pseudo-mom. Really, just me, but with a kid. I’ve stressed and blabbered about my “identity” many times here and over drinks and in my mind, so I won’t go on anymore. All I know is that this decision feels right for us. But today I mourn that second child nevertheless.

East End Mama

[image: Boy with Balloons by Kamala Kannan, National Geographic]

Slutty Babies

 I am a woman and now I have a daughter. Sometimes this makes me very, very scared. I have squeezed myself into ridiculous clothes and I have done sit-ups during every single minute of an episode of 90210. I have cried because a boy doesn’t like me, I have cried because a girl doesn’t like me. I have done things with boys because I wanted them to like me. I have done mean things to girls because I wanted a girl to like me. I have had bad haircuts and worn ugly jeans. I have done all those somewhat clichéd things and I know you will too, but I don’t want you to. I want things, even just one of those things, to be better for you. I want you to feel pretty the way you are and not be afraid to talk to the guy who isn’t on the hockey team because he seems nice. I want you to be okay with having acne and reject any pants that cause yeast infections. I don’t want you to be 21 before you even hear the word “feminism” and I want the glass ceiling to be a ridiculous notion by the time you choose a career.

Why am I thinking these things? Well, because I spent an entire day talking about how cute you were because someone gave you an outfit with a big strawberry on the bum. I even went so far as to point out your bum to your brother and say it was “adorable,” then I felt sick. What the hell did I just say? That my baby has a cute bum? Oh, dear. Then I started thinking about it and looking through your drawers. You had 5 outfits with decals on the bum, most of your summer tops are tank tops (as opposed to t-shirts) and you actually have a strapless dress – take a minute and think about this… what holds up a strapless dress? Boobs! Most of these clothes were gifts and I don’t fault anyone for buying them, they are what is in the store. And yes, if you don’t think too hard, they are cute. But when you dig a little deeper and compare them to a little boy’s closet you see some very LARGE problems. Even if I wanted to, I would never find shorts for your brother with a kitty cat on the bum, nor would I find animal prints or a tank top with a heart pattern that said something along the lines of “heartbreaker.” Eww. Just eww. Children aren’t heartbreakers; they are little asexual blobs of dirt and yogurt.

I have also made a conscious decision to stop talking about your looks so much. Yes, you are cute, and will likely be pretty as an adult, but I don’t want your brother hearing this talk. I don’t want to say to W, “You are smart! You are brilliant!” and then turn to his sister and say, “You are adorable! There is fruit on your bum!” I am definitely not saying anything new here, but merely realizing that even as an educated, employed, empowered woman, I have to stop from time to time, dust off my Naomi Wolf, and give my head a shake.

 The Mother's Prayer for its Daughter by Tina Fey. Watch here.

-Tightrope Mama

Who You Are at 2 and 10 Months

You run everywhere, and though you fall down a lot, you rarely get hurt. You are curious and smart. You remember everything we tell you and everything you read in a book or see on TV. You often talk to yourself and make up games about “turning into” your favourite things. At the moment your favorite things are Octonauts (a TV show), jellyfish, the big bad wolf, monsters, cars, race cars, trucks, tow trucks, 10-wheelers, your bike, and corn on the cob.

You really like to have stories read to you and you listen intently. All your teachers say you are best behaved during story time. You have a best friend at daycare and you ask about him when we are at home. Your favourite meal is breakfast and you call almost all meals “lunch.” You are a good eater and, while sometimes you eat nothing at a meal, you are not too picky. Your favourite things are pineapple, watermelon, yogurt, soup (with noodles), Cheerios, and Toad in a Hole (a fried egg in toast).

You like to help in the kitchen and will often stand at the sink “washing dishes” for as long as I will let you. Our sink has a sprayer that you often use and end up soaking the whole counter and the cupboards, but usually I just let you do it, because it makes you so happy.

You understand jokes and often say, “Oh, Daddy,” or, “Oh, Mommy,” if we do something funny. You make up songs and play an old mandolin of Daddy’s. Yesterday the words to your song were, “Sister, I don’t want you to be naked.” You always make a rock ‘n’ roll face when you strum and Daddy isn’t sure what to make of it all. Music is clearly in your blood.

Your dislikes are anything surrounding your diapers, getting dressed, or putting on jackets. However, you recently learned how to put on your own shoes, which makes you very proud.

You love to be told you are “correct” or “smart” and your eyes light up when I say it.

You, like most kids your age, are defiant. You sometimes play rough with your sister (who is 6 months old) but always are sorry when she gets hurt. She, however, is very tough. You often tell me you will do something “in three minutes.”

People often stop to look at you and say “Hi,” which you hate, and you often turn away. Sometimes you say you feel shy, but I really think you just like things on your own terms.

Your smile is absolutely brilliant and your grin is very mischievous.

You have a “stripe guy,” which you love to bits and want to take everywhere. I sometimes wake up in a cold sweat that we will lose stripe guy and you will never forgive me. I often force you to leave him at home when we go out, which you reluctantly do because you also fear losing him.

You beg for “one more story” at bedtime and I only let you win 100% of the time. I love you with every fibre of my being and when I look in your eyes I see years of happiness ahead of me as I watch you become a man. You are pure joy.

-Tightrope Mama

Fat Lip

My husband calls W “spirited,” and the other day W refused to settle down even after several warnings from dear old mom. (So shocking that he wouldn’t listen to me.) We were sitting on the couch together, and just as my internal voice was telling me to get out of the tornado’s way, an elbow or knee or something came flying directly into my lip. It hurt — badly. I couldn’t help it — I fell to the ground and cried. It felt just like a razor blade had sliced me. My tooth had gone right through my lip and it was bleeding. W started screaming and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” then HE cried.

It took me about 30 seconds to compose myself and start comforting him, but my lip hurt so bad that I didn’t forgive him immediately.

I recently read something online about how guilting your kids is not a good tactic, but I couldn’t help it. I made him feel bad.

I texted my husband and said I was bleeding, so he called to see if I wanted him to come home.  I said I was fine and I put ice on my lip while I calmed down. I did get a fat lip pretty quickly, and while W seemed to be over the trauma, I made him look at my lip and, well, feel guilty about it. He is getting stronger every day, and with a baby sister around I felt he needed to know the type of injury that results from playing rough. He looked at my lip and clearly felt really bad.

“I did that?” he asked.

“Yep” I said.

“Why?” was his response.

I think I said something like, “Because you weren’t listening,” and he seemed to be processing.

Then all day long, everywhere we went, I told people that W gave me my fat lip and I pointed to it. I did it so that he could hear me and see that I was in pain and that other people noticed Mommy’s feelings too. This wasn’t really premeditated; it just kept happening. Probably because I was self-conscious about the purple welt.

Before bed that night, when he was getting a bit rowdy, I said, “Settle down,” and he did! Miracle. Then the next morning at breakfast Elmo had a “fat lip” too, and W told me he was the one who gave it to Elmo. We kissed Elmo and told him to feel better. That little Elmo episode helped me realize W had been thinking about things and maybe, just maybe, he will think twice before going off the rails next time. Maybe?

-Tightrope Mama

[Image: Doctor Dan The Bandage Man book cover]

The Letter

My daughter turns three this week. So amidst my many-listed chores and preparations, I
have one daunting task to accomplish. The Letter.

Reflecting on the task at hand, I pull up the First Letter. I read. I marvel. I have forgotten
many things.

In some ways this blog of ours accomplishes a similar idea to The Letter. This blog
could be, in essence, a legacy for our children, for when they are curious about who
were these women, these mothers, who became so hardened in their ways, or so
unrelenting, or magnificent, or kind, or ill, or perhaps gone altogether. Let’s hope they
have questions, and that we may provide insight into their early days, and our bared little
mama souls.

Here is a very pared-down version of that first letter I wrote back in the spring of 2011.

Portrait of Your Mother during the First Year of Your Life
Chapter 1
April 8, 2011

Hi [Guppins]. You will be 18 today. Or perhaps this will surface some other way, some
other time. I am trying hard to picture you. Today I have a strong image of you walking
into our apartment as a grown woman (I will be surprised if we still live there, but you
never know): tall, short-haired, good-humoured, confident. Not complicated. Maybe
some secret complications that are only yours... (I am making stuff up now because
how can I know? You are just a sleeping baby as I write this.) What I mean to get
across is the feeling I have, imagining you now, and how it astonishes me. I have lived
my life intuitively. Maybe not made the best choices, or plotted things out, particularly
financially, so to have pulled off growing a young woman — at my age, of all things (I
am 41 writing this), is...well, it is a miracle. You are a miracle to me. Your existence has
taught me some very affirming things about myself. I know it may seem silly — women
have babies all the time — but still…to me, the growing-a-life thing basically put to right
some shady ideas I had about myself, my abilities, my normalcy. You have helped make
me feel normal, and capable, and able to love. You, my Dear Daughter, have sorted me
out.

This idea was given me by a playwright by the name of David Young. He said to me at
a New Years’ Day party, “Give her a yearly portrait of you as a woman. Every year ’til
she’s eighteen — write it until she’s eighteen — then give her the first on her eighteenth
birthday. Give her that.”

First of all, I am fairly narcissistic, so this idea does seem a tad…narcissistic. But then, I
thought — am thinking — well, what if I die? Something dreadful like that. I don’t know…
So I am going with it.

Portrait of a Woman: A Year in [Drama Mama]

Mother. Mother is new to me. Never have I been defined as Mother. Many, many years
of not being seen as Mother. And here I am. And it is fitting…my being cast in this role.
One of the things that has happened during your first year of life is I have been cast
to play Hermione in The Winter’s Tale. It is so…timely. Hermione begins the play on
the cusp of giving birth to a baby girl named Perdita. Perdita is lost to Hermione for the
first sixteen years of her life. And you might now be somehow lost to me. Growing up
does this. So you are my Perdita as you read this. When mother and daughter re-unite,
Hermione says:

Oh You Gods
From your Sacred Vials pour your Graces upon my daughter’s head.
Tell me, mine own.
Where hast thou been preserved? Where liv’d? How found thy father’s court?
For thou shalt hear that I, knowing by Paulina that the Oracle gave hope thou was’t in
being,
have preserved My Self to see the issue…

And so my darling [Guppins],

I call you Perdita.

(No matter where we are to each other, my heart is open to you, and I wish only to be
waiting in our private garden for when you return, and wish that all the world fills you with
grace, forever.)

Your loving mother.

-Drama Mama