SAHMo

A rediscovered draft from three years ago. Funny how much has changed...and how much hasn't even budged.

June 20, 2011
For the time being, I have pretty much given up on myself as a free agent. We are a team. Wendy and I, plus my barnacle (baby). We move as a unit.

Downstairs for breakfast and tea (together). Upstairs to get dressed (together). Outside with no shoes on to plant things in the dirt (cilantro, tomatoes, basil, zesty! salad! mix! and parsley, together!) and get dirt everywhere, including baby mouths. Putting Liam's feet on the ground so he can pound the grass under his heels until he goes all wobbly, then meandering around the yard, following his sister's babble of stories and stream of honey-brown hair until he finally sleeps on my shoulder. Inside again for laundry.

And more laundry.

And more.

Together here too, though this looks like Wendy watching TV from the basket while Liam and I play peekaboo with Daddy's underwear, because my barnacle doesn't nap. My Fault. I'm bad with schedules. I wish he would overlook this flaw of mine and do it anyway.

I could never fake the gorgeous moments as Stay at Home Mo that fall on me like a ton of bricks every day, when I am not ready or expecting. The kids in the garden. Liam laughing at Wendy running.  Wendy's face in a mask of concentration as she applies Manic Mango Hanna Montana glitter gloss to my lips, her eyes wide and focused, her own mouth tense and curling ever so slightly at one corner. This, I suddenly know with great clarity, will be the expression on her face when she is someday working on complicated math or painting her art class masterpiece or putting together an Ikea desk or performing brain surgery.

Thank you, SAHMo, for saying "yes" to the makeover. That face that I saw? That is a gift. (Plus glitter lips!) Try to say "yes" more. 

Outside to check the sunflower sprouts, then to story hour at the library and listen to the other moms sing preschool songs that I've never heard in my life (HOW DO THEY ALL KNOW??), while Wendy gives me the side-eye. I know she is scanning my reaction and deciding if these people who sing nine rounds of Duckie songs are cracked, or if this is totally awesome and I have just been holding out on her. Yes, Wendy. A whole world of music-and-motion with Miss Sara, and I've been keeping you in the quiet-and-still in a grey house of decaying dreams.   Dancing at the end credits of EVERY MOVIE WE WATCH just isn't quite as relevant as a few weak Ducky-related verses. If only I'd let you watch Barney, your life would be complete.

Library trips do not count, I don't think, as "out." I try to talk to the other moms, but there is always the sizing up that interferes from all sides: does your kid share? so you are just going to let her throw that block, huh? Who is your Husband and What does he Do? are you at home on purpose, or just unemployed? How about breastfeeding? church? preschool? dance class? Hey. Nice shoes.

We move as a unit-a three person society-but Wendy plays with the other kids whole-heartedly and un-selfconsciously. I am still vacuum-sealed away from the outside environment. Like the ground bison meat at the grocery store. It's like the hamburger and meat loaf mix...but obviously not from around here.  Not something you are quite sure you want to try.

What do you think? Will I scare the Library Moms away if I just skip all of that and start every conversation with "hey, what's up with whole parts of your personality dying and falling off like gangrene-infected toes when you become a mom? is it bad that I don't even miss those toes? do you always walk all tilty, do you think? are you looking for new friends?"

Probably freak them out, right?

The time stretches out in front of me, and I have to truly talk myself through every second and breath of some of the longer hours and some days I actually don't want to...and I am glad for my team, then. I know they are with me, and they know I'm with them.  That makes it worth it. It doesn't fix everything, but it balances.

Try to say "yes" more, and these gifts will fall at your feet. It's so worth it. 

Three Kinds of Awkward

1. Having to explain to several medical professionals that not only do I not know when I last had a period, I have no idea when I last had sex. If ever. What is this...suhh-ex you speak of? You see, there is this three year-old that lives in my house who's shrill demands pretty much eradicate the human brain's ability to form thoughts, let alone measure space, time, and...huh-? what was I-? babies?

2. Running into one of my students in the Planned Parenthood waiting room. She clutches her wallet and box of birth control; I make no attempt to explain why I'm there. I return her hug, highly amused as she pelts for the door with a high-pitched stage whisper to the slouchy guy waiting for her: "hohmygodthatwasmyteacherjeeeezus."

3. My sister (also pregnant) and I, breaking into dance in the crackers and juice aisle of the grocery store upon hearing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" over the loudspeaker. We were flinging our hair and girating our be-sweatpantsed rumps, enacting early-, family- and crazy- era Brittany at the same time. This is not awkward in itself. It is only made awkward when we disolve into giggles but keep throwing our butts around when we realize that the guy at the end of the aisle definitely made a U-turn with his cart just to watch with a big stupid grin on his face.

Good times.

No Reservations: Party of Five

Hello, my name is Morgen. I am pregnant, and I have been avoiding my blog.

At first, it was because I hadn't told anyone that I am spawning again, and didn't want to have the very important people in my life find out via blog-*ahem*-like last time. To be fair, the first time around, I had an excuse for informing my friends and family by way of an internet announcement: UTTER TERROR AND DENIAL.

I don't have that excuse now. About a month ago, I took two tests, and they both said the same thing. (Carl: why? did you cheat on the first one?) No denying it. Can't possibly. My tummy's already poking out and I can't get enough peanut butter down my throat to save my life. Also Wickles. But not at the same time. That's just sick.

Fear? I suppose. However, I have both been here and done this. Nothing to fear but deep vein thrombosis, baby names that suck, and fear itself.

And now, after my cousin's graduation party on Saturday, my family and friends are all officially informed. No reason not to blog away.

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It's a matter of an emotional freeze. For the past month, I've been waiting for the wave of emotion to break over me....whatever it was going to be. Utter despair? Career-related hand-wringing? Stupid mushy baby-centric giggling? I don't know what I've been expecting, but I've spent the past month holding my breath til it happened. I thought that when my sister got here for her summer visit, and I was able to tell her in person, it might hit me. Or that when I saw Wendy and my nephew Eddie playing together, I would see how it will be for me someday...with two.

Four years ago, when I finally stopped clinging to the flimsy scraps of denial, the wave that crashed over me was dread. Also, hysterical laughter at the preposterous image of me as a mother. I then spent months treading in that drowning pool of dread/crazy, until she arrived and proved that all of my angst had been entirely off-track and totally insufficient at the same time.

I've been waiting for something like that.

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Yesterday, I had lunch with Steph. Suddenly, a hundred people we know have just had babies or are about to. So naturally, we talked babies and looked at baby sewing patterns and clucked in disapproval over the ridiculous $300 yarn cost for a cashmere baby blanket in this knitting book...(I mean, really?? a $300 cashmere spit-up catcher??) Somewhere in that, the following came out of my mouth: "trying to figure out that this isn't my life getting sidetracked, but is my actual life." This bit of musing was had over a peanut butter sundae at Friendly's, and has echoed around in my brain for two days.

Logically, I should be terrified. We are in litigation over our house with no resolution in sight, no one will hire me, and we already have one teenager and one holy terror of a preschooler running around here leaving destruction and despair in their respective wakes. Adding a fifth person to our family will undeniably complicate everything.

I thought that right now, I'd be writing sardonically about having to put everything on hold again for the impending doom that is pregnancy and a new baby, but I'm not. I have been waiting for the wrong thing to hit me. The hurricane of dread? Not coming. The water is clear and calm. The sun is breaking through the fog, and I get it now.

I have finally unfrozen my will to write about this: my actual life.

In my actual life, I am having another baby, and I am happy.

Upon the Sudden and Glorious Whisking Away of the Three Year-Old in Honor of a Mother's Day Wish for Solitude

Alone in the house.
No demands echoing from
the walls; I miss them.


I miss them; Somehow
I must drown my wistfullness.
Haagen-Dazs; hot bath.


Bubbles. Not for me
mostly; for her-a playground.
Moms should get a turn.

I wallow-Quiet
crackling suds envelop me
book propped, wine handy.

Oh, Right. I Blog. With Pictures.

It has been a while. Isn't it good to know that I didn't die by way of freak icicle accident? Although, there was this:

and this:

You have already read all of the blogging that you need to read about snow. One thing I will add to this: Ow, ow, my back- and other snow-shoveling-muscles. Ow. We have a lot of driveway, and we do not own a snow blower. We also can't afford to pay someone to come plow....so, ow.

Even for someone in great shape, shoveling is one of those surprise activities that will hurt you. And I'm not in great shape. I have been trying to keep up with some yoga practice, but it's hard when you have a little kid in the house.

Three year-olds, come with time limits. Over every activity, there is actually a hovering stopwatch counting down the seconds that you are allowed to enjoy productivity. I crack open my laptop, and it starts...tick tick...check email, respond to students....tick, tick...check job sites, pay a bill...tick...post Carl's Craigslist ad....tick tick tick...write cov-

"MOMMY"

...write cover-

"MOMMY, I'm Tinkerbell and you're Queen Clarion. You have to give me the moonstone and then you can be Terrence and follow me to the island with the treasure."

-cover let-

"Mommy get up now. Follow me to the treasure. FOLLOW ME TO THE TREASURE RIGHT NOW. OR MAYBE YOU CAN BE THE OLD HAG AND I CAN BE SNOW WHITE. MOMMY MOMMY I want juice. No, warm hot chocolate milk. Lets go to the kitchen so I can pick my choice."

What was I doing? Facebook? Email? OH. Cover letter. Note to self: tomorrow, lead with cover letter.

I am glad that there are things to do like Saturday morning yoga with Steph, followed by self-satisfied post-yoga muffins and croissants. Getting away for a few hours a week to tutor has so far been great for feeling like a smart person with something to offer humanity again (and not much else), but it is good to do yoga-type things too. Things just for me.

Blogging is also one of these things...but do you see the clock? It has giant red numbers, and it's ticking loudly. It will probably take me three different runs at my laptop before I actually finish this entry.

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I am spending a lot of time oscillating between two states of being. Some days are spent slack-jawed on the couch staring at the TV and hanging with Wendy, my mind as blank as the view from my back window.

Other days involve working diligently, doing laundry and cleaning and cutting fabric and sewing and sketching and knitting....

On Saturday, as I blasted music from my sewing room and danced around with Wendy, brandishing pieces of my latest creative endeavor, Carl paused, looked up from his endless poking of the coal stove, and asked, "Is it possible that you are bipolar?"

"Anything is possible." (hop, shuffle, skip)

"Not that I mind. I mean, I'm along for the ride. It might be nice to know, that's all."

*******************************************************************

We are currently juggling the uphill battle to find someone who will give us a home loan with the prospect of finding somewhere else to rent or buy by May, should we not be able to secure said loan for the house we are currently living in. This is a very schizophrenic set of exercises. Requires yoga-master flexibility in the emotional department. And a good working relationship with Google.

The words here are falling a little flat, but I'm sure you can imagine our situation. Four years of building a place into a home for our family (six years, for Carl), and we might have to walk away from it because no one will give us a loan. Because the housing market is in crisis. Because no one will give me a job. Because it's just not in the cards. I don't know.

No, I do not think I am mentally ill. Just facing down one of those crossroads in life, with what feels like my hands tied behind my back.

On the up side, I have a daughter who puts together outfits like this:

You can't really tell by the picture, but there are sparkly shoes involved. That's good for some daily levity, even if she swings from my legs when I try to strike a warrior one, or drapes herself over my back when I attempt a nice relaxing pigeon pose.

Actually, sometimes, she does it with me. She can pull off a nice tree pose.

OK, I think I've rambled enough. Also, the big red timer has been going off for at least seven minutes. Wendy Her Highness Princess Cinderella requires a slice of cheese (NOT SWISS).