What the Fuck

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I were driving home and someone cut us off. It was not
serious but it was jarring. J-man, from the car seat in the back, screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK!” I
turned around to look at him, having not even really heard my husband say it first. J-man looked
at me, and in his most assertive two-and-a-half-year-old tone, he said, “Not nice car. Don’t do
that,” pointing his finger.

He didn’t repeat the phrase again for a couple of weeks. I wasn’t there at the time that he did,
but apparently he and his brother were playing at my mother-in-law’s house, and clear as a
bell he said, “What the fuck!” When my mother-in-law sternly looked at the twelve-year-old and
asked where the baby had learned that, J-man proudly announced, “Daddy said dat.”

The real humour in all of this, for me anyway, is that my husband never swears, and he is
poshly offended when others do. I, however, come from a home and an industry where profanity
is like punctuation. In the early part of our relationship we would fight, and inevitably the fight
would turn into a fight about the fact that I had used some bad word and how dare I direct it at
him. In any event, we worked hard at correcting the phrase and turning it into, “What the heck.”
It seemed to work and we thought J-man had all but forgotten it.

That was until the other night, when we were in the car going to my in-laws’ house to pick
up the twelve-year-old. My husband got a disturbing work email, and in total frustration he
blurted out the dreaded phrase. That was it; it was non-stop and everywhere I went. J-man now
says “WHAT THE Ffff,” and then looks to see our reactions and laughs hysterically.

So what to do? Well, I’ve started telling J-man not to say that bad word. I tell him he can
say “What the heck.” I’m no child psychologist, but he seems to understand what I am saying
to him. My husband thinks that telling him it’s a bad word will only make it worse. He has been
allowing him to say “What the fuck” without reaction, and tells him jokingly, as if it were a game,
that “What the heck” is a bad word. This is the conundrum of co-parenting, and J-man has to be
nothing but confused. I can hear his little mind working: “What the fuck are my parents talking
about? What’s the bad word? I am sooo confused.” All I can say in response is when it comes to
erasing phrases from a two-year-old’s vocabulary — I’m confused too!

-Sleepwalking Mama

The Ultimate Workout

A little while ago I wrote a post about vaginas and how pregnancy RUINS EVERYTHING in
that particular department. Well, enough whining, ’cause a little ago I watched Weeds and
discovered something called vaginal weights. Yup, weights for your vagina. Then Tightrope
Mama told me she was at a baby shower where someone gave them as a gift. I threatened
to get some for her after she pops out Number Two. But first I needed more information. The
Interweb obliged.

So, apparently you stick a weighted cone up your hoo-ha, and your pelvic muscles automatically contract to hold it in. Or they might. If you have to work to keep it from falling out, well, there’s your workout, and you keep working with that weight until your pelvic muscles hold it in on their own, for 15 minutes a go. Most of the sites I came across advised against walking around in the world whilst lifting your weight, just in case. It falls out. On the ground, in front of people.

And then you move up to a slightly heavier weight and do it all again. It’s called “pelvic floor
re-education.” Awesome. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. And clenching. That’s probably
all the pelvic floor re-education I can handle for now, until I can get motivated to start running
again, or cold and flu season sets in.

But if you’re interested, I found two purveyors: vagacare and ladysystem. Neither come in cheery hot pink like the one on Weeds, but just buying something called Lady System should be adorable enough. (Speaking of adorable names, I got much of my info from the adorably named site laughing without leaking) And if you’ve actually used them, pleeease tell me: is it a brilliant push present or what?

-East End Mama

[image: Queen of the Barbells via tumblr]

Nourishment

The thing about having a kid is you have to give up. You give up your freedom,
you give up your sleep, you give up your arms. You give up your income, you
give up your time, you give up your relationships. You give up your nights, you
give up your nice clothes, you give up coming first. You give up.

Sir Dick isn’t talking to me. He isn’t sending his usual blasting emails, he isn’t
calling. Silence. I am starting to worry. I am back in my Toronto apartment (for
a few days, ’til the subletters arrive), he is in our Granny House in Smalltown
surrounded by a mess of boxes and hopelessness.

I hadn’t tried living with anyone for twelve years. Within a week: explosive temper
tantrums from him, hysterical crying from me. Sir Dick gave up his independence.
I am giving up my fantasies. Not sure where to go from here. What I am sure of:
this explosiveness isn’t good for the Guppins.

I have been comforted by emails from the group: Sleepwalking mama’s report of
unwrapping the iPad she bought her husband for Christmas and whipping it at
his head, for example.

But through all this, this mad journey, including a rather good visit (shockingly!)
with my mother on her Frozen Lake, I made a discovery.

The Guppins has been a little bit sick, restless, all over my boobs.

I long ago gave up trying to give the Guppins a bottle. She would give me a look
when I tried, as if to say, “What kind of head fuck are you trying to pull on me
anyway? That’s not your nipple! It’s you, but it’s not your nipple!”

We tried and tried, I pumped and pumped, but to no avail. I would go out, Sir
Dick would try (of course, not knowing he had to remove that stupid cap thing
that stops the milk), nothing worked. Once she was on solids I tried giving
her milk in a cup. No interest. I have been concerned for her weight, and she
pounces on my boobs whenever possible, still, at 20 months. Not much of a
sleeper, not much of an eater.

Yesterday I visited Tightrope mama. Her son loves milk. She warmed some on
the stove, put it in a bottle, popped the soother out of his mouth, and he took it.
Guppins pointed, looked at me, and said,

“Uh?”

I asked if she had an extra. I thought, maybe…maybe… it sure looked good the
way she so effortlessly did it, I sort of wanted some too. I heated the milk, put it in
a five-ounce bottle, and wouldn’t you know, my daughter drank an ounce and a
half!

Cheered, I took her home and pursued the business.

She fell asleep, heavily, unprecedentedly, during our nighttime book routine, after
downing a total of twenty ounces, and almost no breast milk. She only awoke
once during the night, then back to sleep ’til morning.

Like a miracle. I texted Tightrope. “You are a friend Like A Miracle.” Because it’s
not what we necessarily do for each other. It is just that we are there. You learn
by imitating. We all see it, even in our children as they play computer, play wash
the stove (well, maybe not wash the stove), as they do as we try courageously to
do.

My friend doesn’t want to take credit; of course it’s no big deal. But it is to me.
Having her for an hour, having someone who is giving up just as much as I am,
made me give it a try, give it one more try.

Nourishment.

We all need it. Sometimes we just don’t know where to get it. But without it we’re
just hollering at a tired old boob.

-Drama Mama

[image: milk bottles via Pinterest]

Number Two

I am so not into being a parent. I love my daughter, I really do, but I am never going to get
excited about mom-to-mom sales or soccer practice or anything where I’m forced to identify
myself as a parent. I have no problem telling people I’m Cookie’s mom, but I stay away from
calling myself “a mom.” Delusions, semantics, whatever…I’m struggling with my identity here, people, so just give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m raising my child in a safe, loving, stimulating home, and that’s the important thing.

But now everyone I know seems to be pregnant (including our own Tightrope Mama — I’m sooo excited about that pending arrival!) or has just had their second child. I’m not entirely sure why— it was actually a pretty mild winter, so was there just nothing on TV? This means the big question — “Are you going to have another?” — comes up a lot in conversation, and when it does, I panic. I just don’t know how to answer it. Part of me wants a vibrant home full of fridge art and people who love and support each other, not a quiet little WASPish cluster of three, but part of me wants to just be ME. Not a parent. With one kid, you can come off as being a fun, funky couple who just happens to have an adorable, brilliant child; you can travel and eat in nice restaurants with minimal chaos; you can wear nice clothes a good forty percent of the time. But with two, you’re a “family.” All of a sudden, preparing healthy snacks and researching organized activities is your life, rather than something you sneak in during commercial breaks of The Daily Show after the kid has gone to bed. Restaurant dining happens at the McDonald’s with the best play place. Laundry is a career unto itself. I totally realize that I can be a parent and be my own person, but I’m pretty sure that with more than one kid that would only realistically be feasible if I had help (see our “I Don’t Know How She Does It” post or, say, Angelina Jolie, and you’ll understand). Well, I don’t want help. I don’t have room.

Keep in mind that this is just my point of view, reflecting my limitations. You may have
boundless energy and willpower and babysitters in your Contacts folder, so you’re entitled to
disagree. But I think it explains part of why I’m so hesitant to jump right in and get pregnant.

And then there’s the family dynamic. Hasn’t our relationship already suffered enough? Will
Cookie continue to thrive? I’m so looking forward to finding time to watch this documentary on CBC, Sibling Rivalry: Near, Dear and Dangerous, about siblings who hate each other. That should add some fun shit to the debate.

When I confess my misgivings about having a second to people, they inevitably ask, “How does your husband feel?” I wish I knew. When I ask him, he says he’s just as baffled and on the fence as I am, but he’s probably just humouring me. Really, all I want is a strong opinion, one way or the other, just this once. Please?

On top of everything, we’re operating under a deadline. As my doctor likes to remind me, I’m
running out of time. Charming. Decisions must be made. The debate will continue.

-East End Mama

[image: big sister tee via etsy]

Re: Work

Like a child on her first day of school, I set out this morning for a new adventure. J-man is
almost two and a half, and so for the last three years my life has almost exclusively been about him. But not today. Today I start a new job. A new career, really. One that will require complete dedication. One where I compete with twenty-somethings willing to work twenty-four hours a day. A job where being a mom is a liability. Today I tip-toed around the house and was out the door before J-man awoke.

Last year I couldn’t do this. J-man was still waking multiple times per night, staying up well past 10pm, and my only real sleep was in the period of the morning that I used today to shower, dress, and have a quick bite. I spent almost two years walking around like a total zombie. Today I feel ready. J-man is almost a real little boy and he doesn’t really need his mommy to get him ready for pre-school. His dad is more than capable of taking care of that.

The real problem is that I am not totally certain that I am ready to let go. Okay, that’s a lie; I
know that I am not ready to let go. I am distraught about not being there when he wakes up.
Beside myself, really. I am afraid of how much I will miss, the important time, and I resent that
the only way I can improve professionally is to take time away from my family. He has grown up so fast, and not seeing him in the mornings, not taking him to daycare… well, it plain ol’ breaks my heart!

When I think about it rationally, I actually think it will be good for the relationship between J-man and his dad. He is a wonderfully loving father, but my overbearing mothering style allows him to be a bit stand-offish. I am clearly the primary parent. Not by necessity but by design. This does not mirror the family that I grew up in nor is it the stereotype that I want J-man to internalize. It is also probably a bit selfish as frankly I don’t leave them as much space as I probably should.

In any event, mother guilt and my broken heart aside, today I discover what it will really take
to balance a true career with being the mom that I want to be. Today I start to depend on my
spouse, my parents, and our friends. Today the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” will be put into practice. Today I learn to cope with sharing my time, my life, my son. Wish me luck — it is a new adventure.

-Sleepwalking Mama

[image: vintage scale via Pinterest]

“Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom” by: Amy Chua

I first learned of this book while reading a completely compelling, heart
wrenching article about an entirely different kind of parenting then the one
explored in this book. There is a link to this article at the bottom of this post; I
can’t put it here because if you read it now you will cry so hard your eyes will go
blurry.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother is one woman's struggle to raise her half
Chinese, half Jewish daughters in the ‘Asian’ way (hours and hours of piano and
violin practice, no sleepovers, no school plays and A’s are the only acceptable
grade - among other seemingly strict guidelines). While I can't imagine practicing
most of what she preaches (I am what she would likely call a soft Western,
guilt ridden parent) I devoured this quick read and found it to be extremely
thought provoking. It made me think not only about my own parenting but
also my upbringing (there was no Asian discipline in my house, not that I am
complaining, but it did result in many half hearted attempts at various instruments
and sports throughout my life). She writes, “Western parents worry a lot about
their children’s self esteem. But as a parent, one of the worst things you can do
for your child’s self-esteem is let them give up.” I underlined this passage and am
still mulling that over.

Much has been said in the mainstream media about this book, just Google it, but
what I found refreshing, and what I think a lot of the reviews failed to recognize
was acknowledging Amy’s honesty. As I have written before, I don’t think moms
are ever given enough credit for talking candidly about our unique experiences.
It is hard and painful to truly let people in to your daily life, especially when
it pertains to your partner and your kids. Your closest friends, let alone total
strangers with the anonymity of the Internet shielding them, often pick even the
most minute parenting decision apart.

Amy Chua knew full well that she was struggling and that her precious
relationship with her youngest daughter was slipping away when she sat down
to write this book. She knew her husband was none to happy about her behavior
as a mom at the time, and she knew her own Chinese mom wanted her to ease up.
She knew that she was making some mistakes but she wrote it all down so that
others could not only learn but also possibly feel relieved that even strict Chinese
Yale professors screw up sometimes.

What was always evident in the book is that she loves her kids, and she knows
what they are capable of - Julliard, Carnegie hall, and top of the class, the
works. She knew that she wouldn’t sleep at night unless her girls were giving
their absolute best at everything, she saw it as her duty to prepare them as fully
as she could for adult life the only way she knew how – with discipline. She
writes “My goal as a parent it so prepare (my kids) for the future – not to make
(them) like me.”.

A passage that struck me (and a lot of reviewers) was an instance when she
refused to accept handmade birthday cards from her daughters. She knew the
girls quickly made the cards and put no thought whatsoever in to the hastily
written “I love you Mommy” messages. They treated her as an afterthought and
she didn’t hesitate to tell them that was not OK. She requested they spend a little
more time on the project and try again, she also asked them how they would feel
if she put that little effort in to their birthdays (Genius!). They remade the cards
and she kept them forever. Honestly, I am a relatively new mom but I get where
she is coming from. Amy was doing it all – dog walks, piano lessons, full time
job, the works and she wanted some good old fashioned R-E-S-P-E-C-T. It is a
ballsy thing in this society to tell your kids everything they touch isn’t magic but
sometimes it needs to be said. When Googling Amy after reading the book, I
found her daughter’s response in the NY Post where she talks about what she
learned from the birthday card experience;

“Everybody’s talking about the birthday cards we once made for
you, which you rejected because they weren’t good enough. Funny
how some people are convinced that Lulu and I are scarred for life.
Maybe if I had poured my heart into it, I would have been upset.
But let’s face it: The card was feeble, and I was busted. It took me
30 seconds; I didn’t even sharpen the pencil. That’s why, when you
rejected it, I didn’t feel you were rejecting me. If I actually tried my
best at something, you’d never throw it back in my face.”

Finally, there is just one more passage that I have to share, she writes:
“It’s not easy to make your kids work when they don’t want to, to put in grueling
hours when your own youth is slipping away, to convince your kids they can do
something when they (and maybe even you) are fearful that they can’t”.
Your own youth is slipping away – Amen.

Even before reading this, I knew I wasn’t a Tiger Mom, but I am going to do a
little research on the Chinese Zodiac and get myself a mascot. I think a motto
and a firm resolution in certain areas could be a very useful thing.

*Here is the article where I first heard of Tiger Mom, please do read it but be
warned, you will cry. It is heart wrenching.


-Tightrope Mama


source: Chua, Amy. Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. Penguin paperback edition, 2011.