2012
Happy Birth Day
From Friday, before The Worst happened.
***
One morning (this morning) something happened that wasn’t entirely unexpected but nonetheless left me slackjawed with wonder. My baby turned four.
The concept is overplayed that the birth of a baby is also the birth of a mother, but we also all know that deep-felt sentiments of this sort have a way of ringing true both loudly and clearly through the noise of all that eye-rolling. So I will say that yes, a new me was born on the day my first son was born, even though I didn’t fully realize it at the time. I’m actually still realizing it, bit by bit, and I do a little more each time I find myself caught up in something strikingly, mundanely mommish: lacing him into his first pair of (impossibly tiny) Chucks, writing his name into the tags of his clothes before sending him off to daycare for the first time, sway-dancing with his (impossibly long) toddler limbs in the lantern glow of his room, or comparing his hard little noggin to the diagram on his first Ouch Report from preschool. As a mother, I am born and reborn and then reborn again.
When the French want to say “Happy Birthday,” they say “Joyeux Anniversaire!” Ever our logical friends across the pond, they are wishing you a joyous anniversary of the day on which you were originally born. This makes good sense; if English made good sense, we would figure out a way to say that too. Instead, though, we say “Happy Birthday!” which, at least to me, always feels funny and different and clever to say to a baby on his literal Birth Day. For Americans, birthdays usually start when you’re one, not when you’re zero.
(I said usually.)
Now stand back, because here’s where I’m going to throw linguistic caution to the wind (because I do so love to live dangerously): I’m going to suggest that, when one is feeling particularly sentimental *waves*, calling the occasion at hand a “birthday,” or, rather, a “birth day,” can be more than just an inaccurate, roundabout way of labeling the anniversary of a birth. Instead, let’s let it be–let’s make it be–an invitation to be born again, as a newer, older, maybe wiser, maybe braver, maybe kinder, maybe more joyeux version of ourselves. Blowing out the candles will be a baptism. New year, new you, and all that. Let us celebrate that we have this chance to renew ourselves every year. Let us celebrate that we have this chance on our own birthdays and, as mothers, also on the anniversary of the day we became mothers.
Having a second baby simultaneously brings the babyhood of the first remarkably near while also pushing it deep into the past. Wombat’s infancy and toddlerhood is sometimes hazy and distorted, like looking at that time through the ripples of a pool, and then sometimes it’s brought into such sharp relief I feel its unforgiving stab right there under my breastbone. I look at him and I look at the baby and I look at pictures going farther and farther and farther into the past. He was that, now he’s this, and soon he will be something else entirely. Someone else. Someone I don’t yet know.
(And who will I be then? Probably not who I am or who I was.)
The world is an oyster and you are the pearl still forming out of that single grain of sand. We are all pearls.
So happy birth day to you. And happy birth day to me too.
Make a wish. Make lots of them.
2012
My Santa Can Beat Up Your Santa
Until I moved out of my parents’ home to California at age 22, I’d never celebrated Christmas morning anywhere but the house I grew up in. Actually, that’s not even true, as I flew back to Salt Lake for Christmas and celebrated there every year until, I think, Wombat was born (and Christmas that year–with an eleven-day-old infant–remains the only one I’ve celebrated in this house since we moved here in 2007). So that’s, what…twenty-nine Christmases in Utah, plus last year and the year before (Simon’s mom was with his sister in England), plus the year before, when we spent Christmas morning with my parents and then flew to Orange County to spend Christmas night with Simon’s mom, sister, and 9-month-old niece, and…holy crap. I’ve only spent ONE Christmas in my entire life anywhere other than at home with my mom and dad.
Hello! No wonder I’m feeling a bit angsty about not going home for Christmas this year! Missing family and friends, seeing snow, time-honored traditions, blah blah blah…obviously the real issue is that not only am I used to doing Christmas a Certain Way, I’ve actually always done it that way. I’m an old dog and you want me to do what now? A triple backward flip with my eyes closed?
We’re spending this Christmas in Southern California with Simon’s mom, her boyfriend, my sister-in-law, her husband, and their two daughters, ages five and two. It will be a full house and you will therefore find me hiding in a closet with my book and a headlamp at some point, but it will also be awesome because every one of those people is lovely and wonderful, and I’m especially looking forward to Wombat spending time with his only cousins, whom he’s seen…once? That can’t be right. But nope, ONCE. (They came for our wedding.) Plus, we’re going to Disneyland! (I hope they have closets and books there too.)
I’m trying to be zen about the chaos that will surely rein during this foray into Exxxxxtreme Family Togetherness, and so far the only path I know that leads to zen (or at least in the neighborhood of zen) is imagining in painful detail every possible thing that could go wrong. I’ll spare you the individual scenarios and accompanying Munch face and instead ask for your words of advice/encouragement/warning about one specific thing: How To Do Santa Someone Else’s Way When You’ve Only Ever Done Santa Your Way [Which Is Obviously the Best Way].
Santa never wrapped our gifts. Santa always wrapped Simon’s gifts. Santa alone packed our stockings full of goodies and left each near the pile of loot for that same person so when you entered the living room on Christmas morning you were greeted with a bright and shining smorgasbord of everything you’ve ever wanted. Meanwhile, at Simon’s house *sad music*, stockings were hung on the doorknob of each kid’s room, as a way of tiding them over before the great unwrapping commenced. (BUT THEN HOW CAN YOU CAPTURE THE MAGICAL STOCKING MOMENTS ON VIDEO, I ASK?) At our house, everyone got a stocking–kids, adults, even cats. This year, we’re all contributing to the kids’ stockings and that’s it. This last change I’m mostly happy about because, trust me, I don’t need my own stocking full of candy I won’t eat, but on the other hand, I’m worried Wombat will be suspicious if the adults get nothing at all from Santa. The Santa I know is not an ageist bum. Santa wants mama to have a new pair of slippers.
Last week I messaged my SIL to make sure they were even doing Santa (they are; phew) and, if so, how much Santa stuff their girls would get considering they’d have to fly back to England with it. (I didn’t want Wombat to get five things plus some gifts for the whole family while the cousins got only one or two.) Turns out, we’re both going the route of having a few toys for the kids show up at Gramma’s house and then some extra things waiting when we all get home, which I think is swell. And although I’m still mourning the grand display of unwrapped gifts, I’m mostly just hoping Wombat doesn’t catch on that Santa has more than one way of doing things and those ways are directly dependent on where he visits you and/or with whom you’re sharing the company of Christmas Day. Santa has his reasons! Do not question the magical methods of the man in the red suit!
So, people who have had more experience doing Christmas with more than one family: How do you do it?
Additional question because I always find people’s answers to this one fascinating: Who gives your kid(s) the Big Gift(s)? Do you get to be the hero and swoop in with that Thing Most Desired, or does Santa get all the credit? Personally, I like to let Santa be the champion here, as it adds to the magic and also reinforces the idea that parents are not just People Who Give You Whatever You Ask For. Growing up, I loved that Santa would sometimes bring me stuff I knew would never fly with my parents, and only once was I disappointed: the year I wanted a Cocker Spaniel named Sandy. Similarly, for me, Santa is the leeway that will allow Wombat and Fox to have things I don’t really want to spend my money on (like the stuffed reindeer Wombat neeeeeeeeds even though he already has 312 stuffed animals).
Oh, and one more question: It’s okay to give Fox a few things I’ve pulled out of storage that used to be Wombat’s, right? Santa’s totally down with recycling!
And a bonus question (the baby’s taking a long nap and I can’t staaaaahhhhhp!): Elf on the Shelf, Y or N? Wombat would be ALL OVER THAT SHIZ, and I worry that when he gets a bit older and hears about other kids’ elves he’ll wonder why we don’t have one, but boo hoo, too bad for him because je refuse the elf on two basic principals: (1) we don’t believe in getting good behavior out of children because they fear a consequence; you act good because that’s what you do as a decent human being, not because you don’t want the elf to snitch on you to Santa (see also: one reason religion has no wings here; can of worms! can of worms!), and (2) the elf is designed to look all old-timey and charmingly retro, and he’s billed as a time-honored tradition that has lasted throughout the ages (the full name is, in fact, “Elf on the Shelf®: A Christmas Tradition”), but THAT’S FUCKING MARKETING. Had anyone heard of the elf before about 2005, and probably even later than that? NO. So, yes, I’m boycotting the elf out of spite. Bah humbug, etc.
2012
Being Mom
1.
Join us in bed for a second:
“Morning, bud.”
“Morning, Dad.” *clambers in with what feels like six elbows and fourteen knees*
“Did you have any dreams?”
“I had five! Let me tell you about them.”
“Okay.”
“So. I was walking in New York–”
“Pause! How do you know about New York? Do you know what New York is? Tell me what New York looks like.”
“It has skyscrapers [ed: ?!] and tall buildings and one tall building with a sharp point on the very top. And I was walking around and it was dark–and I was eighteen so I could be alone–and do you know what I saw on the top of that sharp point on the building?”
“What?”
“A person! And do you know who the person was?”
“Who?”
“It was mom!”
“Mom?”
“On the top of the point! So I went to the building and I looked up at her. And then I started to climb the building, because I had sticky hands and feet. But it was raining so hard, so it was really just my boots and gloves that were sticky.”
“Of course.”
“And you know what?”
“What?”
“I saved her, Dad. I saved her. That was my dream.”
***
2.
I took Wombat for a flu shot last Wednesday. I remembered that he was dosed with the nasal mist last year, but just in case that wasn’t an option again, I made sure we talked and talked about the shot for a few days in advance, since it had been almost two years since his last immunization stabs and I wanted him to be ready. I told him we all had to get a flue shot not just to keep ourselves from getting sick but to protect Baby Fox, who’s too young to get the shot himself. I told him Dad had already gotten his, and then I waited to get mine so we could do it together.
At the clinic, the nurse asked me if we were going to do a shot or mist for Wombat, and I barely even hesitated before I whispered, “Let’s do the shot.” (Am I the worst?) It’s just that we’d done so much prep and he was all geared up to be brave in service of his little brother, and it felt wrong to then go, “Oh, never mind. Here, let this nice lady spray some stuff up your nose.” (Besides, at that point, I was still unconvinced the mist was the more comfortable option, but then I got my flu shot and my baby-carrying arm ached for two days and my other arm got really tired of all the fist-shaking I did in response, so next year, the mist it is.)
I got my flu shot first, then Wombat sat in my lap to get his, and not only did he barely flinch and not cry at all, his initial reaction was a pleased, “Hm!” and then, to an audience of amused nurses, he declared, “I love flu shots!” (I believe this is not so much evidence of a true affinity for immunizations but standard procedure for a kid who is, like his father, both theatrical and a people pleaser. Then again, the next day, he used his Etch-a-Sketch to create one of those tell-tale right-angle scribbles, which he informed me was a map of a building with lots of rooms, and in every room you get a flu shot! Kind of messed up. Is this how the creators of Saw started out?)
The nurses thought he was a riot and awarded him three stickers. He chose Spider-Man over Cars (mah baby’s all grown up!), and after slapping two of them on right smack in the middle of his belly (okay, not so grown up), he turned and gave me one, for being brave when I got my shot, which I wore sticky-stuck right smack in the middle of my belly all day too.
**
3.
Something happened in the weeks after Fox was born. I started feeling like a Mom, not just some girl with a baby. I don’t know what changed–that I had two kids, that I got older, that I’d had time to grow into the role, or that Wombat is almost four and is all…persony. Being a mom to an almost-four-year-old is light years away from being a mom to an infant or toddler; four means my kid has gone from being a thing that belongs to me–who is mine–to an individual who takes ownership of me back; I’m not just a mom, I’m his mom. I belong to him too.
Before Fox, Simon worried (out loud) (often) (ANNOYING) that having a second kid would turn us into capital-P Parents. He was afraid we would only do parenty things in parenty ways forever and ever, so help us Ferber. Now, there’s some truth to this–like I said, I now feel like a capital-M Mom instead of just some chick with a kid–but the result of that shift has not been detrimental to my sense of self but, in fact, a huge boost to my confidence. I became a better mother when having two kids instead of one forced me to make them a bigger priority in my life. I became a better mother when I accepted myself more fully as a mother. This time around, I haven’t been afraid to take the baby to the grocery store alone. I’m not afraid to be solely in charge of preschool drop-off and pick-up and lunches and Share Day and co-op hours and making two dozen cream puffs for the Thanksgiving potluck. I flew in an airplane, alone, with a three-year-old and a five-week-old, and it was no biggie. I’ve stopped looking at some parenting tasks in terms of good/bad, fair/unfair, gross/grosser; I just do them because they need to be done.
This all may be standard for a lot of you, but let’s remember, I’m no martyr. For instance, I will never wake up early without feeling my soul scream at the injustice of not getting ten to twelve hours of sleep in a row. I do it, yes, because I have to, but it never, ever, ever fills me with the warm glow of self-sacrifice that some mothers enjoy.
Wombat turns four in a little more than a week. I remember four. I remember the pink dress with the puffy sleeves and pink butterfly buttons my mom made me for my birthday. I remember wearing it with pink Velcro tennis shoes and tube socks with pink stripes, the tops of which are clearly visible in the photo my mom took of me standing in front of my “Leah Is Four!” birthday sign with the front of my dress pulled up over my head because I was being sassy. I remember being four, and I remember my mom when I was four. (Only the most specialest, most beautifullest woman in the world.) Four is where the memories get sticky. Four is where parenting really starts to count.
(We worry a lot about what happens in the early years, but that’s more about us than the kids, right? It’s a blessing, actually, that children begin as babies because that’s a built-in grace period for those of us who need a few years to figure out what the hell we’re doing. (Not that we have it all figured out now, not by a long shot, but you know what I mean.))
When I say this is when “parenting starts to count,” I don’t even mean it the way it sounds. I’m not talking about being on duty to train the kids to behave in restaurants or make sure they respect boundaries; what I’m concentrating on now more than ever before is doing what I can to be sure my sons have good memories of me, of the type of person their mother is. On the one hand, I firmly believe parents should be their children’s parents, not friends, but I also really, really, really want my kids to like me.
Like I said, I think the biggest difference in my perception over the last few months has been this: My relationship with Wombat, age almost-four, is no longer entirely about who he is to me–how he fits into my life–but about who I am to him. My perspective has shifted from being about how our relationship looks from here to how [I imagine] it looks from there, through his eyes. It’s less important how he acts as a character in my story because I suddenly (shockingly!) care more about his story, about what kind of mother he has and what memories he will have of her from his childhood. I am his passenger. This thought came rushing at me fully formed when I picked him up from preschool a few weeks ago and he saw me from the other end of the playground and yelled “Moooooooom!” and dropped what he was doing and flew at me like a rocket in tennis shoes. In that moment, he wasn’t mine, I was his.
I don’t think I’ve lost part of myself to parenthood, I really don’t. If anything, I’d always felt I gained two parts when these two little boys came into my life, when I was me and they were mine. Now that Wombat is growing up and becoming his own person and separating from his parents in the way that all kids eventually should (and probably do over and over, at different stages), you might say I’m losing that part I gained. You might even notice that when Wombat took that part of himself back, a part of me stuck on to that part of him and was carried away. But it’s not true. Here’s what happened: I let my son have himself back, and I also gave him part of myself to keep forever. He was mine, now I am his. This is the way it’s supposed to be.
