I can’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image. It’s far too un-hip of a thing to think, much less say out loud. I’d sound like one of those Moms, you know the kind who ceases to have a personality, much less an interest of her own the minute the kid comes out. I’m not like those Moms; I’m hip and groovy. Those Moms spend their days scrap-booking…
That reminds me, I’ve got to get my kid’s scrapbook together, he’s almost a year and if I don’t do it now, then I’ll never…
Well anyway, I’m not like them. Those are the kind of Moms who cut their hair short the second the kid is born…
That’s what I forgot to do, make a haircut appointment. If this kid pulls out anymore, I’ll be bald. Now, I just look like I’ve got payus…
Well anyway, I’m not like that. I have a life of my own. I’m not just someone’s Mom; I’m my own person. For the record, I’m never ever going to be referred to as “Mommy”, that’s so…
The sweetest thing happened, my kid is trying to talk. He almost said my name. I can’t wait until I hear his voice when he says Mo…
You’re right. I’m just like them. We may look different and live in different places, but all Moms have one thing in common: we don’t want to say goodbye. There, I said it.
I’ve been missing my kid lately. He’s not even gone and I miss him. I’m starting to wean and quite frankly, he may be ready, but I’m not. I thought I’d hate it, me being the food source for a human being. “Gross,” I’d think to myself. Especially after I saw that lady walking through Target nursing what looked like a tall 2 year-old or a small 37 year-old, I vowed never to be one of those freaky, crunchy, Moms who can’t let her kids go. But now that I have to start letting him go, I’m overcome with sadness and despair and the overwhelming notion that I don’t want to say…well I’m not ready yet.
It’s not about the weaning. He’ll be fine; so will I. I’ll have more freedom and anyway, the timing is right. My kid doesn’t know the difference; he won’t miss it. Nothing worse than a baby whose got to wean its Mom. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but some Moms get too close. They need to be needed. But I fear becoming interchangeable, just another on the long list of people who adore him. I never thought I’d get so attached, but since we were attached, it makes sense.
Modern Moms aren’t supposed to miss their kids. We’re not even supposed to like being around them. We’re supposed to hate breastfeeding, worship our nannies before God, and describe our parenting strategy as “Here ya go!” As we long to pass off our child to anybody with a pair of open arms.
But that’s not how it happened for me. Don’t get me wrong. I do actually worship my nanny, but she’s not a replacement for me, she’s an addition. Another set of arms so I’m not “on” all the time and so that I can continue to work. But I find myself feeling a lot more 1950’s than I could have expected. Sure, I’m not wearing pearls while cooking and cleaning…
I’m obsessed with my Swiffer. Swivels and cleans, genius…
Anyway I’m not like that. But I do enjoy my time with my kid, my husband, and I don’t get bored of either. And while I like my time at work or going out with friends, I find a disproportionate amount of that time is spent missing my kid. Then, suddenly I feel like I’m back in 1950, the little Missus, referring to herself as a “we” when talking about her child.
Motherhood is as lifetime of goodbyes. From the moment your child is born, it’s no longer just the two of you. And for every milestone your child crosses, he or she becomes less and less a child, more and more his or her own person. The weaning lasts a lifetime. The goodbyes are endless and there’s a loss every time. And while Motherhood forces you to say goodbye to your freedom, your sleep, sometimes even your waistline, you can live with those losses. But from the second you have your child; you feel like you’re already saying goodbye. A child is just passing through, yours only to nurture, not to hang on to without letting go.
I swear my Mom cries every time she sees me. We don’t live close so we’re always saying goodbye, me always laughing as she wells up, mascara cascading down her cheeks. “Moooooom,” I say as I roll my eyes while mock singing “Sunrise/Sunset.” But now that I have a kid, I can see that my Mom cries when she sees me because she knows that she’s also going to have to say goodbye. She had a career, an active social life, a long marriage, and still, she dreads saying goodbye to her kids.
It may not be politically correct, it may make me less edgy and hip, but I’ll miss my kid every day of my life. My success as a parent will be marked by his ability to say goodbye to me and by my lack of desire to say goodbye to him. I’ll do it when I have to. I’ll say it. I just won’t be happy about it.
Motherhood is a raw deal, the short end of the stick. It’s a lifetime of goodbyes, thousands to be precise. I’ll dread each and every one. I’ll long to have him back, but will begrudgingly let him go. He’ll laugh and roll his eyes, but at least I’ll have said it.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
MY NEW BRA
It’s late, time for guilty pleasure TV viewing. Since “Bret Michels Rock of Love” is on hiatus, I’m mainlining Pirate’s Booty and am instead watching Kathy Griffin’s show on Bravo. Kathy’s Mom is getting a new bra, her first in 17 years. Mom wants to tell everyone about it. She’ll even show you if you ask. She didn’t know she needed one, but once she got her new bra, she realized how long it had been, how long she’d needed to make the change. 17 years is a long time.
I’m about to go onstage. It’s the first time I’ll have “performed” in front of an audience since I quit being a failed actor. I’m about to read an essay I had published earlier this year on the stage of a theatre I had performed on so many times before, performing someone else’s lines. Now, it’s just me and a music stand, an audience, and my own words. I started acting 17 years ago. 17 years is a long time.
I didn’t so much as quit; I just stopped trying. I could deal with the poverty; I just couldn’t deal with dreading any annual event where someone I’d known since I was 6 might politely ask, “What’s new?” To which I could only respond, “Nothing.” The universal remote control of my life was on “Pause” and I wanted to be on “Play.” Then I got to an age where standing still, without any progress, just stuck in effort, was no longer cute. And so I just sort of stopped.
“I’m listening to the world,” I’d tell my actor friends who’d look at me like I was mainlining more than snacks. “Sometimes you’ve got to listen to the world. Chances are it’s telling you something.” Once I listened, I heard the world say, “It’s not happening.” And so, like that, I was no longer an actor, and became a failed actor, not on strike, but quit for good.
I come from a long line of non-quitters, live in a city full of dreamers who don’t quit things unless they’re married to them, living in a country, which promises rewards to anyone who works hard. But the truth is, you can work as hard as you want, and if you’re working at the wrong thing, you might as well have never tried. It’s hard work to admit your failings and listen long enough to know when it’s not happening and never will. Whether it be a job, a friendship, or a romance, sometimes it’s just not gonna happen no matter what you do. The biggest effort is being willing to close doors, say no to a dream, and no longer have the option of coming back. It’s an effort to change.
I don’t mind admitting that I failed. I don’t mind because I worked hard and then, maybe a little too late, realized it wasn’t happening. My life will be as much marked by the doors I’ve closed, the people I’ve said goodbye to, the dreams I’ve traded in for new ones as it will be marked by the things I accomplish. If there’s anything I’m proud of, it’s knowing when to quit and being willing to make a change. It’s hard to admit we’re not who we were, not good at what we wanted to be good at, or haven’t achieved what we think we should. It’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself an honest glance and admit that your life is as ill a fit as that 17 year-old bra.
I’ve just gotten offstage. I’ve performed here a million times, but tonight I’m a writer reading my own stuff. My husband and a buddy are waiting for me in the lobby. There’s the inevitable high fives and “good jobs”. I look back at the theatre where I’d performed so many times. It’s nice to revisit my old life and even nicer to leave. My husband pulls the car around. I hop in, turn back to my old stomping grounds and can’t help but think, “I’m so glad I’m not an actor.” 17 years is a long time.
I’m about to go onstage. It’s the first time I’ll have “performed” in front of an audience since I quit being a failed actor. I’m about to read an essay I had published earlier this year on the stage of a theatre I had performed on so many times before, performing someone else’s lines. Now, it’s just me and a music stand, an audience, and my own words. I started acting 17 years ago. 17 years is a long time.
I didn’t so much as quit; I just stopped trying. I could deal with the poverty; I just couldn’t deal with dreading any annual event where someone I’d known since I was 6 might politely ask, “What’s new?” To which I could only respond, “Nothing.” The universal remote control of my life was on “Pause” and I wanted to be on “Play.” Then I got to an age where standing still, without any progress, just stuck in effort, was no longer cute. And so I just sort of stopped.
“I’m listening to the world,” I’d tell my actor friends who’d look at me like I was mainlining more than snacks. “Sometimes you’ve got to listen to the world. Chances are it’s telling you something.” Once I listened, I heard the world say, “It’s not happening.” And so, like that, I was no longer an actor, and became a failed actor, not on strike, but quit for good.
I come from a long line of non-quitters, live in a city full of dreamers who don’t quit things unless they’re married to them, living in a country, which promises rewards to anyone who works hard. But the truth is, you can work as hard as you want, and if you’re working at the wrong thing, you might as well have never tried. It’s hard work to admit your failings and listen long enough to know when it’s not happening and never will. Whether it be a job, a friendship, or a romance, sometimes it’s just not gonna happen no matter what you do. The biggest effort is being willing to close doors, say no to a dream, and no longer have the option of coming back. It’s an effort to change.
I don’t mind admitting that I failed. I don’t mind because I worked hard and then, maybe a little too late, realized it wasn’t happening. My life will be as much marked by the doors I’ve closed, the people I’ve said goodbye to, the dreams I’ve traded in for new ones as it will be marked by the things I accomplish. If there’s anything I’m proud of, it’s knowing when to quit and being willing to make a change. It’s hard to admit we’re not who we were, not good at what we wanted to be good at, or haven’t achieved what we think we should. It’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself an honest glance and admit that your life is as ill a fit as that 17 year-old bra.
I’ve just gotten offstage. I’ve performed here a million times, but tonight I’m a writer reading my own stuff. My husband and a buddy are waiting for me in the lobby. There’s the inevitable high fives and “good jobs”. I look back at the theatre where I’d performed so many times. It’s nice to revisit my old life and even nicer to leave. My husband pulls the car around. I hop in, turn back to my old stomping grounds and can’t help but think, “I’m so glad I’m not an actor.” 17 years is a long time.
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