At some point, I will develop a sense of shame. Also, some dignity.
January 31, 2010
Once in a while, I rock back on my heels and try to remember exactly what happened right after I delivered Aura in the hospital over three years ago. My memories are all very fuzzy and tinted with excruciating pain, but I do suspect that the doctor, as she was magically disappearing the placenta, may have asked if I wanted her to also magically disappear my self-respect. Additionally, I suspect that I may have groaned, waved a hand idly, and muttered something along the lines of “Do with it what you will.”
Case in point: As I was grocery shopping last night, I caught myself singing and dancing in the middle of the bread aisle. And when I say dancing, I mean I was really breaking it down, snapping and then twirling, Michael Jackson–style, smack in front of the English muffins. I have no idea how long it had been going on before I realized what I was doing. I can tell you that there was a gaggle of stockboys gathered at the other end of the aisle, all of whom were clutching their scrawny teenage sides in hysterics while holding onto a nearby shelf of pumpernickel, lest they collapse completely.
The worst part? The song that inspired all this was by…Hall and Oates. It wasn’t like I was making a fool of myself to Lady Gaga or Jay-Z or any other musician who was at least BORN IN THE LAST FOUR DECADES and who performed WITHOUT A MULLET. While I’m sure John Oates is a perfectly wonderful man, I feel that it is not terribly farfetched to postulate that he used to look like a serial killer. A serial killer WITH A MULLET.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that this kind of thing has happened more and more since Aura arrived on the scene. And after hearing another mother’s take on the unexpected joys of parenthood over at A Day in the Life of a Surferwife, I’ve been throwing around the idea that my widening dearth of self-pride, my newish ability to unconsciously make an ass out of myself, might actually be one of these joys.
Think about it. Even if you are the most self-absorbed, self-conscious person in the world, you won’t be once you have a kid. The math is simple: There’s just not enough time, and there’s definitely not enough energy. It’s just easier to squeal at the toy store than remain composed, less work to race your child down the slides at the playground than insist you’re happier sitting on a nearby bench.
As someone who used to worry compulsively about her appearance and behavior, a little—and maybe a lot of—complacency is actually pretty welcome. Aura has put things in perspective. While it’s highly unlikely that the neighborhood stockboys will remember my dance a month from now, I like to think that Aura will remember, in some hazy, nebulous way, that I used to make up loud, silly songs with her in restaurants, that we galloped like horses, side by side, in very public parking lots. And I hope she’ll never realize that before she came along, I was afraid to do all that.
In the meantime, I’m hedging my bets and trying to save most acts of potential stupidity for situations where they won’t draw too much attention. Like bowling. When everyone around you is also wearing the world’s ugliest shoes, it’s impossible not to blend right in.
Cutest hair clip ever, yes? Made by friend and fellow mom Jen at linaloos.com.
Jubilation! Oh, and mom porn.
January 28, 2010
Ding dong! The cat is gone! Which old cat? The wicked cat! Ding dong! The wicked cat is gooooooooone….
I could just keep singing and singing. You know why? Because singing is what you do when you are ECSTATIC and SUPER HAPPY and OVERJOYED. Such as when you kick your first soccer goal or fall in love or hold your newborn, or when you drive your mother’s devil-spawned, evil-incarnate cat back to Rhode Island, where he can torture the catsitter for a couple of weeks while Mom continues to rehabilitate up here with us.
Of course, when Smokey Jo is at my mother’s house, he’s a different cat. I swear, I could wave the world’s most delectable leather couch in his direction, matador-style, and he wouldn’t even flex one claw. But here he tore and shredded and consistently pooped precisely two inches outside the litter box, usually while looking me straight in the eye. I would have almost admired his chutzpah if my faculties weren’t so clouded by pure, unadulterated hate and the fur he shed 23 hours a day.
Presenting the household traitor. As well as He Who Shall Not be Named.
In other happy news, my mother received a glowing report from her hip surgeon during our short foray to the Ocean State, though she pulled a muscle last week, shortly before I twisted my knee on the garage stairs. (Grace and coordination are not our strong suit. We are, however, geniuses at cribbage. It all evens out.)
We were three generations of health in that doctor’s office, let me tell you. As my mother stumped into the office on her crutches, I hobbled feebly behind her, favoring my tender knee. An hour into waiting for my mother’s name to be called, Aura began her I-have-to-pee-but-refuse-to-do-it-anywhere-but-home routine, where she kind of drags her legs to prevent errant urine from escaping. By the time we left the waiting room, I caught the other patients sneaking sympathetic glances our way, the kind you’re prone to giving when you see a family made up entirely of cripples. I briefly considered capitalizing on the general atmosphere of pity and making a play for my own bottle of Tylenol #4 with codeine, but eh. My first preschool parent-teacher conference is tomorrow and I need to be SHARP. One cannot become too lackadaisical, or drugged, when it comes to discussing her child’s deftness with fingerpaints.
Oh, yes–one more thing. I was glancing over the different search terms that have led people to this blog and was a bit taken aback. Think of how bitterly disappointed the person who searched for www.bangamommy.com must have been when he/she ended up here. (You’re curious now, aren’t you? I’ll give you a clue: It’s a .org, not a .com. Apparently mommy-banging qualifies as an organizational activity. Just so you know.)
In search of socialization, with a side of masterful penmanship
January 25, 2010
It was around this time last year that I began thinking about where Aura might go to preschool. At get-togethers with my moms’ group, the conversation would inevitably turn to the Preschool Dilemma: where, how much, what kind. Despite a few differences in preferred preschool philosophy, we were all in consensus that we wanted to find schools where the kids could comfortably be and enjoy themselves.
“I just want her/him to play and have fun!” was a common refrain. “It’s all about socialization and forming new attachments!” was another. I think I may have even offered up some load of crap along the lines of ”I want Aura to be able to exhibit the confidence she shows at home in other environments!” (Even I couldn’t stomach that one, though. I think I apologized for making the world’s most eye-rollingest statement shortly afterwards, then burned all my parenting magazines in a really huge bonfire. Or at least I hope I did.)
Look at her, exhibiting.
Yes, we were a thoughtful group. And we really did want to find schools that focused more on play than structured academics. But while we were all expressing what we kind of wanted, none of us said what we really wanted: NAPS. We wanted a school that offered so many opportunities for play, such thoroughly exhausting activities, that our kids would come home, throw back a lunchtime bowl of mac and cheese, then promptly march themselves straight to bed, where they would sleep for approximately four hours.
So far, the preschool we chose last fall has worked out well in all regards, naps included. Aura loves the place, has grown much more comfortable interacting with other children and being away from me, and shows a lot more confidence in physical activity. I feel great when I drop her off those two mornings each week, knowing that she is safe and cared for and entertained.
But. I’m starting to feel a little squirmy by just how much playing there is. Should preschool really be this fun? Shouldn’t it involve a bit more about numbers beyond 10? How many times does Aura have to hear about shapes and colors and sharingblahblahblah before she gets to take a stab at writing an actual letter? How about telling time? Identifying coins? TACKLING QUANTUM PHYSICS?!?
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly so fixated on the academic aspect of preschool. We already work with Aura at home on writing and phonics and all the other stuff that will soon lead her to book her own early-childhood, I-hate-my-parents therapy sessions. (Which I will have to drive her to, of course, making the entire thing so much more inconvenient.)
Honestly, it was last week’s mittens theme that really got me started on this academics tangent. The kids painted paper mittens, brought mittens for Show and Tell, read books about mittens. I suspect they would have had mittens for snack, too, if the teachers could have figured out that one.
I admit: I'd wear these.
All I could think of: Why mittens? Why not gloves? At least with gloves you can count up to five, or ten, or maybe learn about the names of each finger. I mean, seriously: Why have I sung along to ”Where is Thumbkin?” 650 times if not for Aura to be able to show off her knowledge of Ringman and Pointer and Pinky? With mittens, you get, what? A thumb? A bunch of other fingers mashed together? Unimpressive.
Yet I’m thinking this is one of many times when I need to back off and forget about it. Preschool is preschool is preschool. And for all I know, last week’s foray into the world of mittens led to profound Circle Time discussions on warmth and seasons and perhaps the utter frustration of global warming.
Plus Aura already knows the one word that counts the most:
