Friday, May 16, 2008

CARATS FOR PATIENCE

Some women say, “For Mother’s Day, just get me a card.” I’m not one of them. I’m a materialistic feminist. That is to say, I believe in equal rights for everyone, I just want to look good marching for them. Last week was my first Mother’s Day. Ever since I delivered an 8 lb human through my privates, I’ve anticipated this day knowing now it’s my husband’s turn to deliver. In my mind Mother’s Day is like Christmas for breeders.

So when I see a beautifully wrapped box in the living room, my heart skips a beat. Sure my kid is supposedly my gift but he poops and spits up far more often than say… a pair of earrings or a tennis bracelet. But when my husband proudly tells me that gift is for our nanny, “It’s a gorgeous photo of her and the kid. I thought you’d really like that I did that for her” and then goes back to his morning mission of watching TBS’ James Bond marathon, I get a sense of how my day will go.

Wait. There’s another wrapped box, but this one is for my Mom who’s visiting. My husband made her a delicious photo book of our son and me. He says he thought I’d really appreciate that. I do, but not like I’d appreciate something say…for ME!

The rest of the day passes in one depressing blur. Having made no Brunch reservations, we end up eating at a Deli that has been there since 1920; so have the patrons. It looks like the casting call for “Cocoon.” I’m spending Mother’s Day Brunch at Death’s Door Deli where the daily special is a pastrami sandwich and an oxygen tank.

Noticing my silence, my husband asks repeatedly what’s wrong. I try to hold it, but I can only endure so much torture that doesn’t involve wax. So like a tidal wave of Tourettes, I tell him how disappointed I am. “It’s my first Mother’s Day and you didn’t do shit”, I say. I recap the day and how he didn’t deliver. After listening, he’s quiet, then finally says, “Hey, it’s my first Mother’s Day, too. I’m not a mind reader you know. I asked you 5 times where you wanted to go on Mother’s Day, you said you didn’t care.” You should know that my husband did not grow up Mennonite nor on a cave tour of Afghanistan. At some point, he must have learned to speak Girl. “I don’t care” unequivocally means “I really care.” We spend the rest of the day in silence because I don’t speak Asshole.

I had never really understood Mother’s Day until the day applied to me. It always seemed to me a silly holiday where families parade Mom and Grandma to a mediocre brunch, giving them gifts like stick-pins and teal blue silk scarves. But now that I’m a Mom, I get it. When you’re a Mom, you need your day and not just one day, Mom should get more. If Father’s Day is a whole day, Mother’s Day should be a season, maybe even a decade. Yet with my husband at the helm, I don’t even get my day.

Being a Mom, while rewarding, can be tough on your psyche. There’s nothing like stitches in your vagenius, a breast pump, and nipple shields to make you feel anything but special. Sure you can get back into your pre-baby jeans, but you can’t get back to your pre-baby life. And while the joys of having a kid outweigh it all, there’s nothing wrong with a little effort to remind a Mom that she’s not just the salad bar for the baby, she’s her own person too. But the truth is, while Mom’s need the occasional celebration to remind us we’re not just wombs with legs, Dads need us to point them in the right direction. They need us to teach them how to speak Girl.

After putting one baby to bed, making 3 grown ups dinner, and puréeing the whole of Whole Foods for one hungry baby’s week, I crawl into bed where I find a gift. It’s a delicious photo of my son and I and a well crafted photo book of he and I. Sure, I got the same Mother’s Day gift as my Mom and my nanny, but at least I got something all my own.

When my husband and I were dating, we didn’t get engaged for 4 ½ years. But when we did, he gave me an amazing engagement ring. We joked that I’d earned it by hanging in there so long with him. “Carats for patience” we’d say. My second Mother’s Day is only 360 days away. Now that I speak Husband, I know that I’ll be rewarded as long as I’m patient.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

GENTLE WITH YOUR PENIS.

It’s scary, the first time you hold it in your hands. It’s so fragile. It’s so breakable. Sure I’ve been around one or two before, but I’ve never been responsible for one. I don’t even have a pet and now, now I have to take care of this thing.

When the doctor said, “It’s a boy!” all I heard was, “It’s a penis.” I’ve just given birth to a penis and now I have to take care of it.

Growing up, the joke was always that I lived in a house full of girls but we lived on Boies Court. Even our cat was a girl. And so, when my son was born and out came this BOY, I felt at a loss to say the least. With the actual baby in hand came the realization that this baby won’t be a baby forever, he’s going to grow up someday. I have to take good care of his parts.

Not one to scare away from a challenge, I approach the penis with confidence. I’ve seen these before, I think. Sure I’ve never actually cared for one, but it can’t be that difficult, right?

Our first pediatrician visit goes off without a hitch until the doctor examines the baby. “You have to clean under the top,” he says while pushing back the part that looks like the rings on Saturn. He looks at me with one eyebrow raised as if he’s telling me something everybody knows but me. Suddenly I feel like the bad Mom on an episode of “Dateline.” I’ve been Penis Shamed.

My son will have the cleanest wiener in town, I think as I dab and scrub him during bath time. My husband walks by and informs me that I’m scrubbing so hard, even his penis hurts. “Well the doctor said I had to clean it better, “ I tell him to which he responds, “He said clean it, he didn’t say kill it.”

I take the Zen approach. I’m no longer scared of the penis. In fact, I feel like we’re old friends. So when my son starts to bond with his penis, I take it personally. “I’ve been taking good care of this for you and now you’re going to ruin it by grabbing and pulling,” I tell him while trying to divert his attention from the vice-grip hold he’s got on his new favorite toy. Uninterested in my suggestion, he moves his hand back to his friend and giggles as he pees on himself while grabbing with both hands. At this point, I have nothing to offer except the words that every new parent practices saying to their kid thousands of times while trying to teach them boundaries, ‘Gentle” I tell him. “Gentle with your penis.” I move his hand away and offer him a rubber ducky instead. He seems content. And for the first time, I feel like I’m in charge of the penis, its not in charge of me.

Deep down inside I know it’s not the penis I’m scared of, it’s the kid attached. I can’t escape the thought that this baby is actually a future man, future husband, and father who will someday raise his own penis…I mean child. He’ll be a good or bad person based on the job I do now. And as much as every new parent jokes about which of their parenting choices will send their kid to therapy, deep down inside it’s no joke. There’s no do-overs in parenting and I just hope I’m up to the challenge.

But since I can’t raise the man all in one day, I can only help this sweet faced boy through this day’s challenge. And since he’s long since dropped his duck and grabbed his dick, I repeat those words over and over again. “Gentle, gentle with your penis” I say knowing I need the lesson far more than he.





`