Another successful day of mothering

down the drain.

Hey, I have an idea: let's have a bath! Relaxing, cleansing, fun. Right?

Tell that to the two tearing around the upstairs hall shrieking at the top of their lungs (now with fighting!). I warned Dude that standing up in the tub meant an automatic end to bathtime and he didn't believe me. NOW he wants to wash his hair, which I couldn't bribe him to do with all the tea in China (or jellybeans in the candy factory, which is a far more likely option). Perp didn't want to get out because she wanted to play mermaid, but I really want to get them fed and down early. So I wrestled him out, threatened her out, and now they're banging on my door and trying their level best to break the sound barrier.

TO hell with the kids, it's a wonder any of the parents survive.

I wish you could hear them. It's really quite astonishing.

Because I so totally want to win this

I'm clueing you in, too. Simple Mom has an awsome contest up at her site (closes tonight, so hop to it!). She also had a great post today about tasks. Multi, single, reallynotnecessary, and how they can get in the way of parenting. (guilty).

Thank you for your support

I own two three non-nursing bras. I bought the main two when I was pregnant with Perp, which means I got them in October 2003. I have not replaced them nor even considered doing so until recently. I mean, they're holding together remarkably well, they're still white, and I don't appear to have changed size, even if I have shown remarkable, uh, attention to the laws of gravity.

So why haven't I gotten new ones since then? Is it because I find it painful to buy new clothes for myself? That replacing them when they aren't torn, snagged, or stained seems wasteful? Or maybe I don't want to show my new boobs to a stranger when I get sized (just curious if I'm really the same size or if all that extra just happens to fill the same space, when you smash it into the cup).

I think part of it is that while I have no problem buying clothes for everyone else in the family, I feel guilty when I do it for myself. I almost only buy from Target, and only if it's on deep discount. I only get utilitarian things, which makes sense given the likelihood of my being covered in random food substaces or pig/goat/chicken shit.

Part of it is also that I hardly ever wore a bra before I had the kids. I wore these little sports-bra-meets-camisole dealies that did nothing but add another layer, and that was okay. Back in the day I had these gravity-defying funbags that had to be seen to be believed. Oh, how I wish I'd taken pictures of them. The things you never thought you'd say..

So anyway, I didn't wear them, or when I did they were entirely the wrong size so I got rid of a bunch and never replaced them. And now I have my trusty friends, workhorses that WILL NOT DIE SO I CAN REPLACE THEM.

Maybe it's time to hold an old-fashioned bra burning.

Look back in anger

Please read this. Then go and read the Lamott piece as well.

Between them they say more than I ever can hope to, and far better. Know, also, that anger is okay. It's how you express it that makes the difference. It's my new project, working on my anger. I'll let you know how it goes. But don't expect me to be cheery about it.

Dig my style

It's been several months now, but I had a supreme Mom Moment this summer that Husband reminded me about tonight. I was going out with some friends and I carpooled with one of them. We went to a local brewpub for a well-deserved snort (mango martini thankyouverymuch [I don't care what you say, it's a martini to me, so shut UP]).

We were pulling into the ramp (parking structure/garage/?? to them what don't live Oop Nort') and I spotted several kids Making Mischief. There's this large metal U that is pinned to the ground upside down (does that make sense?), designed, I suppose, to prevent motor vehicles from driving down the path. I've searched high and low for a picture but since I don't know what it's called, it's a little hard to find. At any rate. The boys had removed said U and were dicking around with it.

I stopped the car (okay, van, I drive a minivan, might as well get that out in the open. Do you hate me now?) and, in my best snarky mom voice said, "Whatcha doin??" Like, I totally know what you're doing but I want you to tell me because you KNOW it's fucking stupid and did you really think you wouldn't get busted? The main culprit hung his head and muttered, "Nothin'."

"Doesn't look like nothin'. You're gonna put that back, right?" He struggled with it for a few minutes while his idiot friends watched. I eyeballed one of them and said, "You aren't going to help him?" and he shuffled over after protesting that he hadn't taken it out, grumble grumble whine.

All in all, a most satisfactory night. We searched for our parking spots, cackling with glee. And I didn't even get keyed!

The drinks were delish.

On resentment

My dad and stepmother are here for the Great Turkey Slaughter of 2006. SM and I spent several hours today looking for a decent interim dollhouse for Perp and a tea kettle for me. We found the kettle ("This is a righteous kettle!") but not the dollhouse. Alas. It's too bad because Perp only has enough toys to last her until she's 4.

As we drove hither and yon, SM accosted me about the idea of having another baby. Maybe. Some day. I don't know. It's not like I have to decide right now; I've got all these eggs laid by. Heh. Mostly her concern was that I would grow to resent the kids, perhaps the last one the most, and not fully realize my potential, whatever that means.

I pointed out that I already resent my kids from time to time, and adding another to the mix probably wouldn't make things a whole lot worse.

It makes me crazy in the head when I hear women say that motherhood is the best job they've ever had, that it's the most fulfilling experience they can imagine, and nothing can compare to the joys of being a mom.

Bullshit, I say. Bullshit! Yes, it's got moments of incredible joy and wonder, and I do enjoy myself immensely a lot of the time. Probably most of the time, in fact. But I wipe up shit. I catch puke in my hands. I listen to screaming, whining, and the same question six or seven times in a row all day. Every day. I don't think I complain about it much, the shit and puke part, at least. It's part of the job, after all. It's even in the job description.

But spending the day with a 2 year old and an infant (or just the toddler, actually) is tiring. And frustrating. And funny. And it is fulfilling, though not endlessly or totally. To suggest (by omission if not by actively saying so) that it's a lie of eternal bliss is to deny the real and deep feelings of, yes, resentment and despair that motherhood can bring.

If a mother tells you that she never resents her children, she's either lying or living in complete denial. I truly believe that. It's impossible to go from living your life as an independent adult who can engage in intelligent conversation and operate a lawnmower to a flabby-brained nutjob who can't remember to eat and who speaks in third person (you know you do it) without missing your former self and resenting her loss just a little bit. It's perfectly natural. It saddens me that more women won't admit their feelings and acknowledge the loss. I think overall it's a fair trade, but that doesn't mean I don't have moments of buyer's remorse.

When I talk with my other mom friends and hear them making frustrated noises, I make it a point to 'fess up to my feelings of inadequacy as a mother and of occasional resentment and anger toward my children. It does not mean I don't love them, or that I am somehow not a good mother. It means I am human and fallible and not afraid to admit it. Nothing wrong with that.

Apparently I DO hate my kids

So there's this pretty heated debate going on this week, and I've come to the conclusion that the only reason I went for my homebirth is because I wanted to die, and take my baby with me. Why else would anyone want to stray from the warmth and safety of their local hospital? Well, there's nosocomial infection; iatrogenic problems; avoiding unnecessary and often unadvisable interventions; docs dismissing birth plans out of hand, even when the bullet point in question is valid. For instance, I requested no cord traction, recognizing the increase in uterine involution and subsequent hysterectomy, and my doc said, "Yeah, well I like to do a bit of traction." Um. I'd like for you NOT to, so let's just leave it at that. For starters.

Anyone who knows me from CM knows I wanted my homebirth and that I did a lot of research and soul searching over my decision. Anyone who knows me IRL probably isn't reading this, but they would know the same. Anyone who tries to tell me that I didn't make an informed decision is living in a dream land, as was the resident who told me that the Terbutaline they wanted to give me with Perp's pregnancy was "for slowing down contractions and relaxing the uterus." Actually, Uninformed Resident, it's an asthma medication that just so happens to have the salutory effects you listed. You did not let this little fact slip past your pursed lips, however, so my consent was less than informed, wouldn't you say? The information you did give me was related to the immediate side effects (increased heart rate, primarily). It was a breach of our doctor/patient relationship that you left by the wayside a pretty important fact: Terb isn't approved by FDA for obsetrical patients, it's used off-label and that, my friend, is information a patient needs to make informed consent.

So, off that particular soapbox and back to my primary point: women who choose homebirth are not unfamiliar with the potential problems, even disasters, that may await them at home. Nor are they unaware of the same potential problems or disasters that may await them at the hospital. So they take a calculated risk and choose to have their babies at home where, according to WHO and any number of studies (despite Dr. Amy's statistical gymnastics strongly felt opinion), they are deemed to be *less* at risk of death or injury than they are at home.

The attending at Perp's birth did at least three things that were directly contraindicated in my case. They were interventions that would see a midwife excoriated for dangerous practice, if not outright malpractce, but in hospital they were considered standard procedures.

So I chose to have my baby at home. With a qualified midwife, and just to prove I'm not entirely down on the medical profession, with parallel OB care up to 38 weeks when my OB dropped me because she didn't approve of my plan and didn't want to be liable. How that would ever be possible is hard for me to figure, but okay, now I know where we stand and I won't ever set foot in her office again. Fair dinkum.

And here I sit, 9 weeks later, my homebirthed son in my lap, and I am glad.