The Worst of It

Over at Work It, Mom, I'm talking about working-mom guilt, but not the kind you think. (Click and read to see what I'm talking about.) It's just one of several things that has surprised me about parenthood and that falls under the umbrella of how much having a baby has challenged the notion that, at twenty-eight (and then twenty-nine, and now thirty) I could say I really knew myself and could accurately predict how I'd react in a certain situation.

For instance, I thought I knew how I'd feel about going back to work (devastated), about being a part-time SAHM (endlessly enthusiastic), about labor and delivery (weird), and about my kid growing up too fast despite all efforts to stop time (morose and borderline suicidal), but it turns out I didn't really know what I was talking about. (Is that a chorus of "I told you so"s echoing in the distance?) As a person who likes to PLAN and PREPARE and BE SURE everything will go the way it's supposed to, I realize now that reassuring myself that I knew exactly what I was getting into (and then preparing myself for each individual scenario) was mostly just a mechanism by which I protected myself from the plain fact that I was cliff-diving into the great unknown. Yes, you can prepare to be a parent, but you never know just what type of parent you need/should/can be until you're in the thick of it.

The one thing I was always openly unsure about was breastfeeding, and only because I know too many women who have trouble with it and then label themselves failures. Whenever someone asked if I would be breastfeeding, my answer was always "We'll see." I didn't want to set myself up only to disappoint. Even though breastfeeding didn't end up being an issue for us, I recognize in hindsight that there was wisdom in my wariness--wisdom I might have applied to other areas of my life as well. I've realized--even as a person who likes to PLAN and PREPARE and BE SURE everything will go the way it's supposed to--that being comfortable with unsurity is the best way to prepare for the unknown. "We'll see" should have been the answer to a lot more than just breastfeeding.

One thing I felt certain of, though, knowing myself as well as I did at twenty-eight (and then twenty-nine, and then thirty), was that I'd be a worrier. I'd be calling the pediatrician and my mom and the local news media every time the baby rubbed his nose. As it turns out, it's shocking (and worrisome?) how little I worry about the day-to-day health and well-being of wee Wombat. I check to make sure he's breathing before I go to bed, but I don't wake up and check every hour on the hour throughout the night. He's had a morning/evening phlegmy cough for about ten days, and I haven't so much as taken his temperature. Some days he skips his solids meals, and I don't find this cause for alarm. As long as he's bright of eye and sunny of disposition, he's fine. I still worry a ton about the big, unlikely, outrageous and elaborate what-ifs like What if he's babysnatched from the cart at Target while my back is turned to pick out lip gloss? but for the most part I've been able to live in reality when it comes to mothering an infant. Zen mommy FTW!

Something had to give, though, and here's where it gets lame and kind of pathetic. In exchange for not worrying about Wombat, I've started to worry a ton about other things--little things--TINY things--stupid things. I worry about how clean the floor is and how stocked the fridge is and how organized my craft supplies are and how it's been almost six months and I still haven't written up Wombat's birth story. (There's a distinct possibility that I'll have it done by Friday!) More than ever before, I blow dumb things all out of proportion, like and such as that time I told Simon to sit down because we needed to talk about something serious, and then I held both his hands in mine and admitted that I had an addiction--an addiction that I didn't want to break--an addiction to something that I thought about constantly to the point that I found myself wishing for night and sleep to come sooner just so I'd be that much closer to getting my morning fix. And what was it? I was talking about tea, people. Tea. DECAF TEA. And I was seriously worried that we had a real problem on our hands. It's a wonder no one's staged an intervention...to cure me of my DRAMA.

So, yeah, while I can say with no reservation that I'm a much calmer, saner, go-with-the-flow mother than I ever thought I'd be (and no one's more surprised about that than I), I think I'm actually a crazier person, not to mention a less-pleasant spouse. On that last point, I can feel it happening--the furrowing brow, the mounting impatience, the *snick* of my nagging claws--and I hate that I've turned into such a textbook example of what can only be a classic case of "I must have control and order in my surroundings to soothe the chaos I feel inside." For there has been chaos: (a) the realization that my new part-time (minus 10 percent, grrrr) salary means our savings account is going down, not up; (b) panic over needing childcare ASAP because Simon scored a new contract that would solve problem (a); (c) news that Simon's contract fell through, which made (b) moot but (a) more upsetting; and (d) narrowly avoiding being mugged outside our own home last week by a guy who was walking around at night with two small children and his private parts out in public. (Yeah. Ew. Police were called, firearms were discussed, and no harm was done save for psychologically.)

I don't really know where I was going with this except to say that I wish I could be as calm about Life as I am--against all odds--about Motherhood. The world is a big, scary place with bills that will bankrupt and nannies that will scam and Target shoppers that will babysnatch and near-muggers who will make you want to pop out your eyeballs and soak them in bleach. But when it's just about the baby? It's easy. It's "feed me" and "change me" and "play with me." I can do that! It's "sing to me" and "read to me." You got it! It's "kiss me" and "hold me" and "love me." Baby, you couldn't stop me if you tried. It's "Tell me the world is a bright, shining, wonderful place and that everything will be okay." We'll see. First I have to convince myself.

wrote Leah at 6:36 AM | Comments (10)