While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Turn down the noise. Parenting is hard enough.

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On drums

A dear friend who doesn’t have children recently asked me a very standard, very benign question:

“How’s motherhood?”

I deliberated for a week. I typed and retyped responses in the dialogue box. I started writing things like, Motherhood is the best. It’s awesome. I’m astonished and humbled every day. I found my purpose, my true calling, the reason why I’m meant to be on earth. 

I erased those sentences and started again.

Motherhood is a mixed bag. Some days I feel like I’m floating down a river, bobbing effortlessly like an otter on its back, my head tilted toward the sun, my body weightless and my mind on nothing more than playing. Next to me is a smaller otter, a tinier version of myself. We’re splashing and slip-sliding and doing whatever it is otters do. The small otter is following my lead. I dip underwater. He dips underwater. I flip onto my back. He flips onto his back. The air is warm and the water is cool. The small otter climbs on top of my chest, burrows under my chin and together we float as one, at peace with each other in our wild, meandering domain. 

Then there are days when I feel like I’m swimming against the current in a heavy Mississippi flood. I can’t touch the bottom. My muscles ache from kicking and paddling. I’m swimming in slow motion past fallen tree limbs and wayward debris. A young boy is clinging to the branch of an old oak, crying like a kitten, desperate to be rescued. “Mama,” he cries  “Save me.” I push my body upstream, past overturned cars and floating piles of untethered junk, the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Beleaguered but not broken, I wade through waist-high weeds. I climb the tree, retrieve the child and clutch him to my chest. I lower us back into the water. I kiss his wet forehead and like Rose in Titanic I vow to never let go. He hugs me, happy to be in my arms. He tells me he loves me. Then he punches me in the face. 

When my childless friends ask me about motherhood I have an urge to respond with these longwinded analogies as if it’s the only way to articulate how terribly difficult it is. GAG.

The truth is nothing is easy. What’s easy is being a kid and even that’s hard.

I willfully signed up to be a mother, ugly bits and all. As much as it may feel like parenting is a herculean feat, it’s not. For better or worse, big people have raised little people for centuries. Same complicated human experience, different generation. Same circle of life, different shit getting our panties in a twist.

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Christmas contest winner :: Ali’s story

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At the beginning of the month I set out to see past the commercialization of Christmas, past the insanity of Christmas shopping, the bombardment of Christmas advertisements, the glut of Duck Dynasty merchandise, the $30 Elf on the somebody else’s shelf and the siege of angry holiday traffic.

I didn’t have to look too far to see beyond the racket. Everything I needed to see was “invisible to the eye,” as my favorite children’s book author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry so eloquently articulated in The Little Prince.

{“Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.” In English this means, “One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”}

At the start of the month when I posted a storytelling contest I had no idea this one would come my way. As the author of this wacky blog, I expected to receive wacky stories ripe with sarcasm. I expected at least one reference to the Griswold family and one reference to the frozen flag pole in A Christmas Story.

Instead I got a story that began with a phone call at the end of November from a young woman in Kentucky named Ali. She wanted to know if I was available the week after Thanksgiving to take photos of she and her 20-month-old son. They would be on vacation for a week on Longboat Key. She wanted beach photos of just the two of them.

“Nothing extravagant,” she said. “Just an hour or so of me and him doing our thing.”

She seemed a little scattered, a little distant. As a journalist, I wanted to know more. As a photographer, it was none of my business. Were these Christmas portraits? Your basic mom/son portraits? She didn’t say.

I penciled her in for a Saturday just before sunset, which was how we got on the subject of lighting sky lanterns.

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Why does everyone seem so perfect on the internet?

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I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Let’s call it the real reason my knees are bruised and torn up in this picture.

It’s something I’ve thought about for years, something I once got so passionate about I pitched it two years ago as a cultural think piece to a magazine that didn’t quite grasp the concept. It’s since been articulated by other writers in important magazines and newspapers all over the globe, which hurts my writer’s ego, but let’s not dwell. (Dear Editors of Publications I Pitch, I have good ideas.)

Here’s what I’ve been thinking: social media has created the maddening illusion that everyone’s lives are perfect.

Facebook is the virtual equivalent of your high school yearbook. Everyone is vying for space on the page and no one wants to look like a loser. So what do we do? We post pictures of our lives at their most exciting. Jet skiing in the Bahamas with my bestie! Front row at Jay-Z! Climbing Kilimanjaro. The view is auh-mazing!

Even the boring stuff seems exciting when photographed from the right angle. Shopping for bananas! The laundry is done! Look it’s my belly button lint!

We upload our best photos. We broadcast our most joyful news. Sometimes, despite our compulsion to put only our best face forward, we share our miseries. Why? Because misery loves company and eventually you need your virtual friends to provide virtual support.

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Smash hit, or how to react when your toddler breaks your guitar

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This happened last week:

Joe walked into our bedroom after taking a shower. Henry, as usual, was waiting (impatiently) for him to exit the bathroom.

“Daddy out shower!” He exclaimed as Joe walked past him in a towel.

“Daddy PWAY Henry!”

Joe stopped to pat Henry on his soft blonde head as he made his way to the closet to get dressed. Henry, feeling slighted, walked over to Joe’s guitar, which was perched, as usual, on its stand, and without so much as a warning, pushed it over in one swift, deliberate move.

CRASH.

I was in the kitchen packing Joe’s lunch. (Editors note: before you assume I’m a domestic goddess who always packs her husband’s lunch, you should know that Joe takes the same two things to work every day: a tuna sandwich and a bag of Doritos. It takes me longer to wash the smell of fish off my hands than it does to prepare the lunch.)

I heard the guitar hit the floor. Like a bone breaking, I heard it shatter. I heard Joe scream and Henry cry.

“Nooooooooo!” Joe said. “Nooooooooo! Nooooooo!”

I’ve seen Joe lose his shit before. I’ve smelled his fear and tasted his dread. I’ve tried, usually with little success, to quell his panic at moments such as this.

Like for example …

Last month, I watched his face turn white when he realized he’d devoted the cover of his newspaper to the promotion of an event that had already happened. A year ago, I watched him projectile vomit out a window on the interstate while driving in rush hour traffic. Three years ago, I watched him weep when his brand new flat screen TV exploded in front of his eyes. (Who can forget that?) And early in our relationship, I watched him pitch his bicycle into a grassy median and demand I pedal home and get the car after I had pushed him too far on a ride.

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Of monsters and boys

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There are three parenting bridges I thought we’d have plenty of time to cross: drugs, dating and bullying.

I suspected bullying would rear its ugly head first, but I figured we’d at least have until kindergarten to give Henry street fighting lessons.

Turns out I was wrong about bullying. Turns out that happens pretty quickly. Like as soon as your kid can walk away from you.

Last week Henry and I crossed paths with three bullies.

The first two looked to be about eight years old. First they taunted my kid for wearing a diaper, then they threw fistfuls of rubber mulch at his head.

“Wah wah,” they snorted. “I’m a BABY. Change my diaper!”

Under their breath they whispered, “I wish he would go away.”

They didn’t know I was watching them, that I had been watching them for 10 minutes before my son even wandered in the direction of their closely-guarded mean boy space.

They radiated piss potted-ness. They scowled at their mothers and hissed at each other.

I’m not the kind of parent who hovers over my child on a playground. Consequently, I let Henry walk into this mean boy space. As usual, he was looking to make “friends,” someone with whom he could briefly dig in the dirt.

My child approached. The boys grew agitated. They cast their eyes at the ground and then at each other. They mumbled something about “dumb babies,” and retreated to a new mean boy space. Henry, however, followed. As did my gaze.

Upon noticing the toddler’s return, the mean boys made a joint decision to pick up mulch and toss it at his head. This act was followed by the aforementioned diaper comments and mock crying, prompting my involvement.

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The view from here

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Two days before it was scheduled to be shut down, I took Henry to the St. Pete Pier so we could bid farewell to our favorite ailing tourist attraction.

Like most Bay area residents, I’ve known for years that this old landmark would soon be demolished. I also knew that once I had my son I would regret having not made memories with him on the old pier before a slick new pier one day opens in its place.

The fate of the Pier has become a hotly contested subject. I refuse to discuss the pros and cons of its replacement design, The Lens, out of sheer exhaustion. I’m tired of hearing about it. When it comes to CHANGE I’m as much a fan of progress as I am a curmudgeon, so I’ll refrain from offering what would likely be an uneducated opinion.

However, this fact remains true: the Pier’s infrastructure is falling apart, its concrete pilings, if left alone, would crumble into the bay. Studies revealed 10 years ago that the aging destination with its smattering of kitschy gift shops and empty restaurants wouldn’t survive another 20 years of saltwater erosion, never mind an impending economic blow.

When this news became public fodder in 2010, I added the Pier to my biking route. When Henry arrived in 2011, I added it to my running route. Knowing it would close before he’d be old enough to remember it, I decided to take him there often – always by foot or by bike.

Save for a handful of brooding old men drinking coffee and reading the paper, the food court inside the Pier’s dated building was usually vacant in the afternoon. Often it looked like Henry and I were the only people to order an ice cream cone for hours. In order to get the attention of the proprietor of the ice cream stand, I’d have to rap on the freezer doors and shout, “Yoo hoo! Anyone here?”

I once caught the guy asleep in a chair.

I wondered which was crumbling faster: the Pier’s infrastructure or its business.

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On 31

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Quick disclaimer: April was a crazy busy month. I had a ton of work to complete, a triathlon, a visiting sister, visiting parents and a brief family vacation on Daytona Beach. I apologize for the two-week hiatus. Here’s what I should have posted on April 24 to commemorate Lance’s FIFTH BIRTHDAY, a milestone I let slip by with little acknowledgment.

Hey! The Lance turned 5! 35 in pug years! That’s like a big accomplishment for an easily distracted, moderately busy mommy blogger. Woop woop.

ANYWAY. I read this piece April 19 before a small crowd at CL Story Time: Birthday Edition in Tampa’s Ybor City. I wrote it nine days after my 31st birthday and 45 minutes before the start of the event. At 31, I’m finally making peace with my procrastination pattern, among other things.

AND in case you missed it, this is how I coped with last year’s 30th birthday woes.

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¶  Last year I spent my birthday curled into a fetal position, sobbing quietly into a pillow. The voices in my head, sounded, on this particular day, a lot like Marge Simpson’s sisters crossed with my husband’s 95-year-old grandfather.

True to form, they were none too pleased with my despondency.

“You’re pathetic,” they rasped. “I’d give my left titty to be 30 again.”

As I sobbed, my infant son napping in the room next door, I glanced down at my left titty. It was visibly TWICE the size of my right titty.

Why? Because my breastfed child preferred the left boob to the right boob and because I subconsciously offered him the left more than the right so my stronger hand would be available for such important tasks as operating a remote control, reading an issue of Vogue, swigging from a bottle of Vodka (just kidding) or in some cases conducting a phone interview for work (not kidding).

After 10 months of exclusive breastfeeding, I was taking back my chest, which among some circles of mothers is considered sacrilegious. The healthiest, smartest, most benevolent children wean themselves. Didn’t I know that? Cutting my kid off early would cause irreversible damage to his psyche. Our bond would suffer and he’d grow distant and resentful. Formula would give him cancer, lead poisoning and cavities.

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To chase a career or a kid?

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Before I had Henry I was impatient with the world, critical of myself and sometimes of others.

I thought stay-at-home moms had it easy. Worse yet, I thought they were devoid of interests beyond the confines of motherhood. I pictured them schlepping kids from Gymboree class to play dates, dressed in yoga pants and a pained smile. I pictured them chained to the kitchen, the SUV, the laundry basket and the obligatory spin class. I pictured them dutifully scheduling time for mommy pep rallies that celebrate the pleasantries of breastfeeding, cloth diapering, baby wearing and holistic nutrition. (Dear Earth Mamas: I see nothing wrong with these things. As topics of discussion, however, I find them boring.)

I thought I’d lose my identity as a stay-at-home-mom. I thought I’d compromise my self-worth and freedom. I thought I’d be resentful of my husband and pissed at myself for having failed at being a working mother: the ultimate wonder woman. I thought I’d be considered a disgrace to the radical feminists who came before me and a quitter to the overachieving, have-it-all multitaskers of my generation.

Leaving my job at the newspaper would mean I’d dropped a significant ball in the heroic juggling act that is regularly executed by the modern working mother. I’d be forced to rethink everything I thought I’d do or wouldn’t do as a parent, as if you really know these things before you bring a tiny, demanding, Bambi-eyed being into this world.

I was wrong about working mothers AND stay-at-home mothers. (As an aside, I was right about yoga pants.)

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The red drug balloon

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It’s the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I’m without Henry. His grandparents have him for the day so I can work on a magazine story. I’m walking Cubbie, enjoying a break from my computer. The sun is in my eyes. The pug is especially pokey, stopping to sniff every tree trunk and urine-drenched blade of grass.

I’m plagued by things related to the magazine story, none of which I have any control over. I spot someone in the distance riding so slowly on a bicycle I wonder if they’re pedaling at all or miraculously stationary. The strangeness doesn’t stop there. The cyclist is holding a red balloon, stranger still.

As we get nearer I notice that the cyclist is young, a teenager. He looks like he’s 16, but then again I’m a terrible judge of age since I still think I’m 22. Despite this denial I’m old enough to make these three calls: he’s a kid, he should be in school and he’s up to no good.

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A thousand of him

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I’m at the grocery store, standing in the produce department. An old Italian woman in a babooshka approaches my cart. She presses her face so close to Henry’s face that for a second his curious mug is eclipsed by her curious mug.

“He is a bootiful,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“His face, it is a bootiful!”

“Thank you,” I say again.

“He is the only one?”

“Yes,” I reply. “He is my only one.”

“He is a so bootiful you could a make a thousand of him.”

I laugh, picturing a thousand Henrys.

“One day,” I say. “I might make another one of him. A thousand seems excessive.”

She kisses him on the top of his head, oblivious to my sarcasm and shuffles away to the cheese section. “Ciao ciao,” she says, her voice carrying over the clang of carts and drone of adult contemporary music.

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