Hippie Mom Wannabe

I have been thinking a lot about what kind of mother I will be, or rather what kind of mother I want to be. As with any new journey, the first step is often to look to those who have traveled the same road. Certainly, there is some wisdom to be gleaned from this, but mothers are as varied and individual as... well, as individuals. So I moved on to magazines and websites, and those that I gravitated toward have been telling me a lot about what I value and possibly what I aspire to. My favorite magazine so far is Mothering and others like it. These magazines are for what might be described as the all-natural, granola, hippie moms. And yes, I realized, that is the kind of mom I'd like to be. I want to use cloth diapers. I want to make my own organic baby food. I want to home school. But the thing is, I just don't know how feasible a goal such a lifestyle is for me.
Let me tell you what I mean. Michael and I have definite all-natural, granola, hippie tendencies. We are well informed on the green movement, and we consider ourselves environmentalists, albeit ones who stop well short of the composting toilet. A few years ago, we decided to become more educated about our food supply and decided that simply buying organic was not enough. We decided to plant a garden. But we couldn't just plant any seeds in this garden because we had done our research and learned all about genetic modification and the evil that is Monsanto. So we researched some more, and eventually purchased our seeds from Seed Savers Exchange. Except that by the time we had done all this researching and the seeds arrived in the mail, prime planting season had passed us by. The only thing that grew in our backyard that year was grass. Burned by our own ambition, we have not attempted our gardening experiment again. I wonder how long seeds keep anyway.
I can see me doing the very same thing with parenting. What if I buy a bunch of cloth diapers and find out that they are really more trouble than I care to go to? Will a daycare even accept cloth diapers? Can you even be a hippie mom if you also work a full time job? Do I really want to cook and grind carrots when I can buy organic baby food so much more easily in the grocery store? And how in the world can a blind woman home school a child? These are the questions that have been keeping me up nights. Because I worry, see. It's what I do. I plan and I worry, then I change my plan and worry some more.
And I have started to wonder about the hippie moms as portrayed in Mothering Magazine. How can they afford to buy the expensive, all-natural products if they are staying at home with their kids? Maybe they make everything themselves, in which case, how do they have the time to spend time with their kids if their days are full of carrot grinding and soap making? I have begun to suspect that the hippie moms, the ones targeted by the magazines at least, are married to corporate executives who drive Cadillac SUVs to work, and not in the HOV lane. And if that is the case, that's fine, I have no problem with that. I only have a problem reconciling that family dynamic in my mind.
Nobody is pressuring me to be this kind of mother, nobody but myself. Even after an honest assessment of the difficulties, I have decided I do want to breastfeed; I do want to make baby food, though maybe not everyday; I do want to grow a garden, but only if it's something I can enjoy later with Sprout. This is nothing new. Mothers forever have always tried to balance what is best for their kids with the rest of their world and the many demands made on their time. There is no universal answer, and comparing myself to some perfect ideal of mother is only setting myself up for failure, or at least for disappointment and frustration. I am coming to understand this, but what this all means at a fundamental level is that I am about to embark on the most important thing I will ever do, and I can't plan for it. I think I'm breaking out in hives. Excuse me while I hyperventilate.

A Bad Hair Day, with Love

I believe that I have solved the mystery of why women do not rule the world. It is because we are at the mercy of our hairdressers, those fickle, forgetful, easily distracted creatures who with one slice of the trimming shears can shape destinies, or destroy them. Melodrama? I assure you not. On Saturday, I got the worst haircut I have gotten since high school. I have naturally curly hair. When cut properly, it cascades down my back in lustrous waves and curls. When my haircut is not good, I get a swollen mass of frizz with a few feisty tendrils that leap outward, flame like. And this haircut is so bad, I'd actually love to have that mass of frizz. It would be an improvement. Currently, my hair is hanging in three very distinct, not at all blended, sections. Think 1992 grunge fallen on hard times. It is just hair, I know. It will grow back. Don't sweat the small stuff. This is what I keep telling myself, but so far, self is not buying it. I was in such misery last night that I was going to try cutting on my hair myself. I did not expect to do any real good, but at least the attempt would alleviate my feeling of helplessness.
Michael must have seen some gleam in my eye, because he very valiantly offered to do the cutting instead. Poor Michael. He really is a saint. A few years ago after my spinal cord surgery, he waxed my legs for me because I couldn't bend over to shave them. He regularly waxes my eyebrows now after seeing me suffer several hot wax burns from beauticians who were either incompetent or sadistic. And last night, with me standing naked in the shower, he cut my hair. Not drastically, just an attempt to undo the worst of the damage. I will still have to go somewhere, hopefully today, to get the layers shaped up properly, but at least I could come to work today without a hat.
So I'm trying to look on the bright side of this hair nightmare. This is just one more opportunity for me to realize and appreciate just how incredibly wonderful my husband is. And not a half bad hairdresser, come to that. So, I sure don't look like it just now, but I am a very lucky woman. Thanks Sweetie. What a trooper you are.

It's a boy!!!

It's official, Sprout is a boy!!! I must admit, this came as some surprise since both Michael and I had convinced ourselves Sprout was a girl. Likely, this is the first of many surprises this baby has in store for us. He is a healthy baby boy. Everything that could be checked, measured, or examined turned out to be completely normal. He has a good, strong heartbeat, swims like a fish, and has one heck of a kickboxing move. I am thinking this kid will be a triathlete.
I did not get to see the screen of course, but Michael and the technician did an excellent job of telling me what they saw. Their descriptions, coupled with the placement of the ultrasound thingy and the baby's movements told me all I needed to know about what my little boy was up to. Turns out, he is awfully busy in there.
Topping off the perfect day were the beautiful Valentine's Day flowers I got from Michael-- two bouquets, one big bouquet of Stargazer lilies (my favorites) in honor of V-Day, and a small bouquet of baby roses and baby's breath in honor of our first look at our son. We had lunch at a local Greek restaurant, and the day was just wonderful. Here's to a lifetime of wonderful days.

A Good Day

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone who is celebrating. If you don't have a sweetheart, then by all means, get yourself a truly decadent dessert at the very least. Hell, I suggest you do that even if you do have a sweetheart. Today has just been a wonderful day so far. A coworker in our office got a ... well, I don't know what you call it, but her sweetie sent her a singing barber shop quartet as a Valentine, which was just great because the whole office got to enjoy it. How creative and sweet of him. After that, another coworker offered to make a breakfast run for the office, so a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel sandwich should be even now heading my way.
What else is surely heading my way is a lovely bouquet of Valentine's Day flowers. Michael always does a wonderful job of getting me the perfect bouquet, a different kind every time. I'm always surprised, even though I know they are coming. See, I don't leave such matters to chance. I know that a lot of women wait in eager anticipation to see if their sweetheart will send them flowers. That is so not my style. I know Michael will send me flowers because he is just perfect and thoughtful that way, but I also know that he doesn't always have the firmest grasp on what day of the month, or even day of the week it is. He relies on me for that kind of thing, and I oblige, even in matters of holidays. I told him two weeks ago that Valentine's Day was coming up and exactly what day it was on. Since then, I have given him two reminders-- at least. It's a system that works for us. Some might say that takes the romance out of it, but I say wait until you see my flowers.
Of course, the main event for today is my ultrasound, which should tell us whether we are having a boy or a girl. I am excited beyond belief about this, and I am not by nature an easily excitable person. I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I have jumped up and down in glee. That's not to say that I don't get extremely happy about things, just that I'm not what you'd call an outward emotion kind of girl. I feel awkward at ballgames or concerts because while the rest of the crowd is on its feet, yelling wildly, I sit there and smile, and I might clap softly. But this, this ultrasound, has got me grinning like an idiot and telling everybody I pass, "I get to find out what kind of Sprout I'm having today." It's very thrilling, our first look at our baby. Just wonderful.
So Happy Valentine's Day! And keep your fingers crossed that we get a good report on a healthy baby and get to find out whether it's a boy or a girl.

Pink or Blue

In three days, I will have the ultrasound that can tell whether I am carrying a boy or a girl. Yes, I am going to find out. I am a planner. I know lots of people say they want it to be a surprise. It will be a surprise. It'll be a surprise on Thursday when I find out. That's enough surprise for me. I never even entertained the idea of not finding out. There have been several mini-milestones during my twenty weeks of pregnancy-- feeling the baby move, having to buy new blue jeans, and passing into my second trimester come to mine-- but this, finding out the baby's sex, is by far the biggest milestone so far. On Thursday, the baby will stop being "he or she" or as we have come to refer to it, "Sprout." On Thursday, the beginnings of an identity will form, at least in our minds. I hear many women say that they bonded more easily with the baby once they knew its gender, and I can certainly understand how that could be true. I think knowing a gender, and thereby a name, will make the baby less of a stranger to me on the day it is born.
As much as I am looking forward to some clarity on this matter, I find that I have enjoyed the ambiguity, much to my surprise. Michael and I have looked at little girl clothes and little boy clothes, we've talked endlessly about boy names and girl names, and we've looked at color schemes for both. On Thursday, half of the conjecturing will end. On Thursday, we will begin the real decision making work of preparing for this baby. We will no longer consider every color of the rainbow, but will eliminate either blue or pink in favor of one or the other-- metaphorically speaking. I find that I am unexpectedly sad that the time has come to say good-bye to "Sprout."
Michael and I realize that we have become somewhat conflicted these last few days. When people ask us what we want, naturally, we say it doesn't matter. That's what you're supposed to say. And we had convinced ourselves that it really didn't matter. But now, as the date to know draws nearer, we have come to realize that we do indeed have a preference, and we find ourselves feeling sort of guilty about that. It feels like we've chosen one child over another. Even though there is only one child, there are two potentialities, and we feel like we've done wrong by one of them. I will not go so far as to say that we could be disappointed with one or another outcome-- we absolutely will not be. We will not mourn or bemoan the way it might have turned out. In the end, we will get what we wanted so very much, a baby. Still, there is no denying that Thursday will bring the beginning of one identity, and at the same time an ending to another one, if only in theory. So yes, I am excited about finding out what kind of Sprout I'm having, but there is a bittersweet hint to it as well. These first twenty weeks, though not always pleasant, have been amazing. It has been fun to wonder and speculate on whether I'm carrying a boy or a girl. We've enjoyed doing all the old wives tales, the results of which were inconclusive, split 50/50. Only one thing is certain at this point, and that is that we will be immensely happy on Thursday. How's that for a Valentine's Day gift?

I am not making this up

My employer recently released our crisis procedures manual. Among other things, the manual outlines a list of questions one should ask in the event of a telephone bomb threat. No, I'm not joking.
Where is the bomb?
What does the bomb look like?
What kind of bomb is it?
When will the bomb go off?
How will the bomb be detonated?
Where are you?
Where do you live?
What is your name?
Right. Because naturally, the threatener is going to readily supply identifying information. And wouldn't it be prudent to get off the phone and call the authorities? Just, you know, a thought.

Barefoot and Pregnant

What image does that phrase, "barefoot and pregnant," bring to mind? Let me guess. A pained looking woman wearing a sack dress, probably with coal-rich mountains rising in the background? Or maybe you think of a woman wearing her boyfriend's blue jean cut-offs and a tank top, posing in front of a 1972 Camaro, maybe with a Camel Light dangling from her lip? I have begun to wonder what it is about that phrase that evokes such hard luck images. I mean, I bet nobody thinks of a pregnant woman with bejeweled fingers and Versace sunglasses lounging, pedicured feet outstretched, beside the pool at the country club. Why is this, I wonder?
I have started to understand barefoot and pregnant. I'm not even on my feet that much, but they get sore. Two days of swollen ankles was enough to make me long for springtime sandal weather. Here's a secret: On my lunch break, I take off my socks and shoes and sit with my feet propped up in a chair. The first thing I do when I get home is remove socks and shoes. Last night, I changed the sheets on the bed, and thoroughly enjoyed sliding my bare feet over the cool, clean sheets. When I can get her to cooperate, I have my dog lie down in front of the couch so that I can pet her with my bare feet. Seriously people, shoes have become my enemy.
Today, here in my part of Kentucky, it is seventy degrees out, a warm indulgence that we will likely pay for with wicked storms later this evening. Standing in my closet this morning, I longingly fondled my strappy pink Birkenstocks. Oh, how much I wanted to wear them, but I know the cruelty that would come tomorrow, after the storms, when the temperature is back down to normal February levels, and I'll be forced to coax my feet into socks and real shoes again. I know that I am not up for that kind of disappointment, so I turned my back on the pink sandals, and chose instead my trusty black suede Bostons.
I realize of course that there is an entire anti-feminism connotation at the core of the phrase, the origins and history of which can be found in this article. I am a nerd for useless information. Read the article if you have the stomach for that kind of gender politics debate, which I do not. Because let me just tell you, if you are pregnant, then barefoot is the way to be.

Traditions

Michael and I are not what you’d call traditional people. We each have something of a rebellious spirit, and that makes us bristle at anything that so much as hints at being told what to do. And what is tradition but a dictate on your time? That said, now that we are about to be parents, I have started to wonder if maybe establishing some traditions might serve to give our kid some roots. I’m not talking about anything elaborate, just maybe sitting down at the dining room table for dinner on, say, Thursday nights, instead of eating at the breakfast bar, our usual evening habit. Or maybe Sunday dinner with the grandparents. Or maybe we have movie night on Fridays. I just want to give our kid something reliable, something he or she can count on no matter how busy the week was. There aren’t really any traditions that Michael and I grew up with that we can pass on. Oh sure, we had the annual traditions that revolved around holidays, but those aren’t unique to our family. This lack of experience in creating and maintaining traditions means I’m at something of a loss as to how to start one now. I suppose a tradition is anything you make of it. I guess Michael and I have a tradition of grocery shopping on Tuesday nights. But wouldn’t that fall under the heading of routine rather than tradition? See what I mean? I am no good at this tradition thing. I wonder too if when our kid gets older they will roll their eyes and grumble about whatever weekly tradition we thrust upon them. Is tradition with flexibility the key? I wonder.
Wait, now that I think about it, Michael and I did have a tradition when we first got married. We used to have pizza night. We were pretty poor back then see, and we didn’t get to eat out much. But once a week, we would order pizza (coupons were a God send) and watch TV. I believe back then it was the ABC Wednesday Night line-up, which if I recall correctly was “Dharma and Greg, “”Home Improvement,” and “The Drew Carey Show.” I think maybe “Ellen” was still on then too, back before she was a talk show host. That those simple Wednesday nights still stand out in my mind ten years later attests to the power of tradition, no matter how simple or seemingly insignificant. I bet Michael is reading this and grinning at the memory. You have to understand, this man really loves his pizza. And no, reviving pizza night is not an option, Sweetie. I’m pretty sure pizza night is responsible for the fifteen pounds I put on during our first year of marriage. Pizza night was nothing fancy, it was just us and Papa John’s and a blanket spread out on our tiny living room floor, but it was something we looked forward too, something to break up the boredom of the weekly grind. Given that I’d like to instill healthier habits in my offspring, maybe pizza night could be make-your-own-granola night. Maybe? Or possibly a weekly walk in one of my town’s several public parks would be the thing.
So suggestions would be appreciated. Anybody out there want to share your traditions? What is it that you look forward to every week? What traditions do you remember from your childhood?