Profiles in fear

So, there's a lot going on in the world right now. I'm having a hard time keeping up with all of the disharmony and finger-pointing. But I have to admit there are some disturbing commonalities with some of the things going on in current events. 

Of course, the first, and most significant events of late are the deaths of at least two African American men at the hands of white police officers. One case appears so obviously to be due to excessive force, while another is clouded in uncertainty because witnesses from both viewpoints have muddied the waters so much, and there is no unequivocal piece of evidence like a video. After this week, most of us are unsure that a video would be enough anyway. 

Aside from the issue of excessive, or lethal force, the other prevalent issue is racial profiling. It's a very difficult one to address, because of so many factors.

White America has historically oppressed, abused, stolen the rights of, and discriminated against African Americans. I think on some very naive and passive level, we as a nation believed that ending slavery, Jim Crow laws and segregation should have tidied everything up. 

The problem is that when you only give lip service to ending discriminatory behaviors, nothing really changes. As a liberal Democrat, I believe that African American voters in some places can face more difficulty getting to the polls than whites. And socioeconomics keep segregation in schools alive in many cities. It's difficult to rise above everything when the same behaviors of discrimination, poverty and oppression keep pulling and pushing you down. 

When a person cannot find a way out of the dark, they frequently stop looking for a light. In the shadow of that kind of hopeless pain, they turn into the thing they so loudly used to scream that they are not. 

As a race, white people will never understand that kind of pain, and they will never be able to fully atone for the history of causing or allowing such pain. 

Because of this vicious cycle--the one of pain becoming truth for so many, especially young, African American men--stereotyping and racial profiling are an unfair inevitability. There have been so many reports regarding the percentage of African American men who are incarcerated, that I think everyone knows without sourcing it that the numbers are staggering. The percentage of African Americans who are victims of gun violence also is staggering. There are reasons why the words "black on black crime" exist. It's because all of this pain creates tension and pressure that people living on the outside of it cannot begin to imagine. 

As a white woman who grew up in a smaller city, how could I possibly relate to this kind of pain? 

It's because of other events in the news that I can relate to profiling. 

Profiling happens in multiple spheres, but people don't think about what they're doing as profiling. 

Another situation currently attracting a lot of media attention are the Cosby women. Twenty-one women have come forward accusing comedian Bill Cosby of sexual assault and/or molestation. Some of these women claim to have been drugged. At least one claims to have been in her teens. 

Occasionally, I read some of the comments about this story as articles turn up on my Facebook newsfeed. When I read through them, it feels like the majority of people believe these women are gold diggers and that they were lucky to have spent time with somebody so famous. Many questioned what the teen was doing with Cosby, and/or what she was doing at the Playboy Mansion. Many expressed doubts that any of the allegations could be true because of how long the accusers waited to come forward. 

It seems like the majority of people commenting can't believe that a man like Bill Cosby could have done something so horrible. Most believe in some wrongdoing on the parts of the accusers. It's almost as if an alleged victim of a sex crime is automatically suspect. 

I don't know if Bill Cosby did any of these horrible things or not, but I'm pretty sure that just because he played the wholesome Heathcliff Huxtable on the "Cosby Show," he isn't automatically a saint. He has been profiled: he is a rich, famous, upstanding man. It's these women's words against his.

Earlier in the week, two men were arrested for the alleged rape of a sixteen-year-old at a frat party in Baltimore. These two suspects are not rich, famous or upstanding men.k

What I found interesting when I read comments after the article in my newsfeed about this case is that they were surprisingly similar in nature to some of the ones about the Cosby women: What was a sixteen-year-old doing at a frat party? She should have known better than to be drinking under age. She had no business being there. 

In reading these kinds of comments about women who have potentially reported the most horrific thing that has ever happened to them, it occurred to me that women who come forward are often profiled too. All of these comments infer guilt on their part. All of these comments seem to imply that what might have happened to them is okay because they did something wrong that encouraged the crime. 

When I read comments like these, it is clear that the fight for women's equality is at the same standstill as the fight for racial equality. The undercurrent of societal victim blaming perpetuates the hopelessness so many young African American men feel, and it fosters the hesitation with which women report sex crimes. 

I understand this personally. I waited and suffered four years of abuse before coming forward. I was afraid of many things, but at least one of those things was that I wouldn't be believed, and that nothing would be done.

An aunt actually said she wasn't surprised that my step-father thought I might be "interested" in him, because as a child I had always climbed all over any guy she happened to be dating like they were jungle gyms. My mom expressed jealousy over clothes and jewelry my step-father bought for me--almost making me feel as if they had been some kind of payment to me. As I sat on the witness stand recounting all of the horrible things that had happened to me, my stepfather's attorney tried to cast doubt on my credibility because I couldn't remember a date. If I couldn't remember the year something happened, I was probably making everything up. 

The reason the victimized so often cry foul is because so often there is foul. If it was normal for a suspect--guilty or not--to be shot at more than six times, we wouldn't be talking about it. If we asked the right questions of and about victims of sex crimes, those crimes may not be so under reported and under prosecuted. 

I don't know how we get to a place where we look at each other and just see humans instead of colors and stereotypes. I don't know how we get to a place where justice, fairness and equality are the foregone conclusion instead of the overwhelming cloud of doubt. 

Thinking about it makes it very hard to breathe. 

No more feminism. How about equality of choice?

So, it seems like feminism and the struggle for equality has been a really popular theme in the media again lately. Funny, if you're a woman, the struggle for equality really never goes out of style, it just gets pushed to the back of your mind as you balance the choices that are available to you with the day-to-day mundane things that you have to do to live a life.

As I have been seeing women approach the issue of feminism lately, I feel like many of us are "doing it wrong." In the same breath, I feel like one of the most common mistakes we make as women in general is declaring that our sisters in arms are "doing it wrong" when we disagree with their method. Myself included.

So, I decided to consider the origin and the meaning of the word feminism. The word itself was coined by a French philosopher Charles Fourier. He wasn't really interested in equality for women, but he did want things to be better for us. As I Googled some more, I found that I couldn't really get at the meat of the word the way I wanted to. If you break it down, it essentially is the "state of being feminine." If you look at the modern feminist movement, however, you know that the "state of being feminine" is frequently ridiculed by its proponents.

It took a little digging to find something that resonated with me. I think most women agree that for the same amount of work, a woman should be paid the same amount of money. Most women agree that they are equal to many tasks. Things have changed over decades, and if we look back, even over centuries. The change has been very slow in some areas, and pretty much non-existent in others.

As I consider how I think we as women should define feminism, three words keep coming to mind: equality of choice. It seems like my epiphany is actually about 220 years late. Mary Wollstonecraft beat me to the punch. I admit to not knowing anything about her, or at least not embracing any knowledge about her until today. She was actually Mary Shelley's mother. Yes, that Mary Shelley--author of "Frankenstein." Being the mother of the mother of "Frankenstein" is a pretty important bullet point on your resume, but Wollstonecraft went one better in my opinion, because in her "Vindication of the Rights of Woman" she gets it soooooo right.  

"I do not wish them (women) to have power over men; but over themselves."

I can't deny that as I was looking at the word feminism and where it originates, nothing I found excited me more than this quote. I have frequently written about women's issues, and I have frequently written about the disappointments in a world where women are frequently treated as second class citizens (under the best of circumstances) and even mere property to be controlled and disposed of at will (under the worst). Obviously, the degree to which such treatment is perpetrated often depends on circumstance and location of birth, but every woman knows the pitfalls of being a woman.

And that's where we all diverge into so many different directions in trying to breathe life into the words equality of choice.

The feminists that most women my age "know" about are the "bra burning", hard core "men are pigs" protesters of the 1960's. For these women, it wasn't enough just to ask to be treated as equals with men, it seemed like they wanted to be superior, or apart from them. As a gender, we made some progress from there, but even though there's nothing to say women were required to be nice about being treated as "less than," there's something to be said for catching more flies with honey.

For many women my age, the next divergent direction seemed to present itself in the 1980's when Madonna writhed around on a stage in a wedding dress, singing "Like a Virgin." It may not be obvious her performance was part of the feminist movement, but when you consider the words equality of choice, there can be no question about the significance of performances such as these by women. And they continue to be a direction many women choose.

This is where I make my confession: I am not a fan of these kinds of performances. I don't think they move the efforts of feminism in the direction I would like to see us going.

I know what the theory is behind them. As a gender, women are so frequently exploited, for once, as a woman, it is probably exhilarating to take power over that exploitation. It happens to be my opinion that exploiting yourself is still exploitation and even if it's a statement about women having the right to choose sexual expression, there are so many other issues we can make choices about with as much veracity and with more credibility. I would argue that these sexual declarations are pretty much cliched at this point.

Equality of choice is about so many things beyond the sexual alone.

It wasn't that long ago that even having a career wasn't a choice that women could make. And beyond that, women were pigeonholed into certain career choices for generations. Because career choice was so limited, women's earning potential also was limited. That has certainly changed in recent decades, but women's salaries haven't kept up with the changes in career options.

Up until 1960, whether or not sexual intercourse resulted in pregnancy was largely out of women's control. With the approval of the contraceptive pill, women finally had a choice about when or even if they became mothers. If you ask many single mothers, that's certainly a choice their male counterparts have always had. With recent threats to the equality of reproductive choices women have, this right still seems to be a question on the table.  It would be unthinkable to men that such choices could be made for them.

There are still many things about which women don't have as many choices as they should. And in looking at them, many would argue that such a statement is subjective, but it's not. Women are still faced with situations on a daily basis that force them to make choices men don't have to make. Women have to carefully consider what they wear, with whom they associate, how much they drink, and where they go. One wrong choice may get them labeled as easy at best, or assaulted or killed at worst.

One could argue that some choices can put men in harm's way as well, but most women would argue that whether or not he buttons the top button of his shirt or not is not the equivalent of "yes," when he's said "no."

Equality of choice is not strictly about being paid the same money for the same work. It's not about being eligible for promotions or the upper tiers of management. It's not about being able to serve on the front lines in war. It's not about being able to have sex for pleasure.

Equality of choice is about being able to choose everything about the way we live without fear. In believing that statement wholeheartedly, I feel like everyone who publicly approaches the issue of feminism is only getting it half right. And in getting it half right, we open ourselves up for disrespect at best and lack of credibility at worst. It also means we're getting it half wrong.

Because we can't get together on our message, women like Emma Watson can be threatened and maligned for saying that feminism should be a concern of men as well. Because we can't get together, women like Miley Cyrus will continue to strut around in next-to-nothing in the name of declaring their sexual freedom as women, and they will continue invite the same sneering ridicule as women who have flirted "too freely" at the party.

The problem with "feminism" is that the message should be pretty straight-forward and obvious. The solution is that we shouldn't be "feminists." We should be "humanists" instead. If we could agree as a people that it is right for all of us to be able to choose everything about the way we live without fear, it wouldn't matter if we were men or women.

We are all victims of perception

So, since the recent turmoil in Ferguson, Missouri over a police officer shooting an unarmed 18-year-old black man, I've been pretty torn. So much has happened, and the level of animosity is so high since the incident that I honestly think it will be nearly impossible to learn the truth about the shooting, and even if the truth is unearthed, I doubt either side will accept it.

Since the shooting, there has been a lot of discussion about racial profiling and the inordinate number of young African American males who attract unwanted attention from law enforcement, and in some cases violent altercations. As I have been following the developments around this case, I read an interesting blog written from the perspective of a parent of an African American son. 

The writer discusses having to teach his son how not to draw unwanted attention to himself. It addresses basics like how to dress and how to behave. It actually made me very sad. It reminded me very much of a similar blog I recently read regarding teaching daughters how to stay safe from sexual violence. In both cases, children are being taught that they must make a choice between their freedom and their safety. 

We see all too frequently what happens when they choose "wrong."

I'm going to boldly declare something about myself that is blatantly obvious: I'm white. And when I say I'm white, I mean that I don't like rap music; I can't get into R&B; I don't understand excessively long sculpted nails or wearing pants that are way too big. I don't understand much about urban African American culture at all--or what are clearly common stereotypes.

I grew up in a town with a population of about 100,000 people. One high school was known to have the highest minority (I.e. black) percentage in the city. It wasn't the school I attended. I had one biracial friend, but otherwise only knew a few other African Americans while I was growing up.

When I moved to Kansas City, my exposure to African American culture increased exponentially. We happened to live in a pretty diverse neighborhood. Unfortunately, it was also a neighborhood right on the edge of the "bad part of town." There was a fatal shooting just down the street from our house. Police helicopters frequently flew over, in search of fleeing suspects. When I saw young African American men, they often seemed to be striving to appear intimidating and in command. Right or wrong, this influenced how I reacted to seeing these young men. I wouldn't go as far as to say I was afraid, but I did find myself trying to be more observant of my surroundings and "cautious."

As I write about it, I am aware of how terrible I sound. I had grown up mortified by my grandfather's horrifically racist views, and always considered myself to be someone who would never make snap judgments based on someone's skin color or how closely they might happen to fit certain stereotypes. But here I was--a small town white girl in a sprawling urban metropolis, experiencing things that called into question everything I thought I knew about my feelings regarding race. I had a really hard time reconciling what I had believed, and what was true. I may not be a racist, but I wasn't as colorblind as I had thought.

I explain all of this background about myself, because I want to make sure I call myself out on my own issues with race and stereotypes, and that I not try to paint myself with a brush of superiority. I'm a flawed human--just as we all are.

As the days have passed since the shooting of Michael Brown, social media has been a safe haven for people on both sides of the tragic event to spout any number of horrific things about each other. Whites feel free to label young black men as "thugs." Blacks accuse whites of targeting young black men and perpetuating centuries old inequities and oppression. It's a perpetual hornets' nest of hate and assumptions on both sides.

What I find most striking when I examine my own flawed views and the reality on the ground, again, is the similarity in how parents of young black men and the parents of young women must raise their children, and the consequences those children face when they choose "wrong."

In reading comments on Facebook by bigoted whites, it's clear that skin color is just one of the things that people perceive as "thug." Baggy pants, hoodies and the failure to immediately kowtow in the presence of any white male in authority somehow perpetuates the stereotype that young black men might be dangerous, even if they're not. It invites attention that these young men don't want. They don't want to be treated as criminals because of their skin color and the way they dress. 

Young women are taught not to be too trusting. They're taught to cover themselves up and to avoid drawing attention to their bodies. If a young woman flirts a lot or shows a little cleavage or leg, she's often considered an easy mark, or a tease. It's true that women who "follow the rules" can become victims of sexual violence just as women who don't, but society still judges women by how they dress and how they behave. There's still an underlying current that whispers "she was asking for it."

She was asking for it in the same way that so many young black men are walking around like "thugs" and asking to be profiled by law enforcement.

Much of the time, these young men and women who are "asking for it" have one big thing in common--they are acting in direct defiance of ridiculous norms set and perpetuated by a smugly narrow society that attempts to dictate what is appropriate and what will get you raped or killed. They aren't striving to be "thug" or to be "whores," but their defiance of what they've been taught to do to stay "safe" opens them up for the dangers of being exactly those things they are not.

I don't understand wearing pants that are so baggy you have to hold them up as you walk down the street. I don't understand the art behind music that is frequently degrading to women and glorifies inner city violence. But quite honestly, that's my problem. Young black men shouldn't have to justify how they dress, what music they listen to or the swagger in their step any more than young women should have to worry about how much skin they're showing, or if the guy they just met at a party is going to get the wrong signal because of the way they smiled at him. 

I don't know if Michael Brown went after that officer's gun. I don't know if he committed any crime. I don't know if that white officer grew up in a diverse community, or if he was just as sheltered as I was, and therefore doesn't understand the population he swore to protect and serve. 

I do know that, once again, issues of race, inequality, misunderstanding of each other and the skewed expectation of homogenized appearance and behavior have led to the tragedy of hate, anger and division. For many who are so marked by these feelings and beliefs of division, these feelings and beliefs have led to the closing of the door to each other's hearts and minds once again. 

Nobody asks to be a victim of perception, but when one person is such a victim, we all are. 

America's Illusion of Gender Equality and the Freedom it Costs

So, we're coming to the end of July--the month we Americans celebrate our independence--our freedom. As a mother of a four-month-old, it has taken all month to have a moment free to write and share, but given the many freedoms I am lucky enough to take for granted much of the time, I can live with having to wait until the last minute.

I'm generally not the most nationalistic of people--and yes, I chose the word nationalistic instead of patriotic for a reason. It's because there is a big difference between the two. I would never presume to shout from the hilltops that America is the greatest nation on Earth, not because it isn't, but quite honestly, I have little basis for comparison. I've never lived anywhere else.

I do, however, have a deep appreciation for the modicum of freedom and safety afforded to me, and now my daughter, because we happen to have been born in the United States. But I am not so starry-eyed about America that I think we are either free, or safe enough. In my opinion, safety and freedom go hand in hand.

And freedom is a priceless human commodity that can only be supported in a world where feeling confident about our safety is the norm.

Lately, the world doesn't seem like a very safe place for anyone. You can barely board an airplane without fears that something terrible might happen--more so than the typical amount of fears. There is unrest and strife in so many places. Day after day, we in America are spectators to the tragedies of ongoing wars, militant extremist terror, and kidnapping and violence targeted at women.

With so many frightening things going on all over the world, it hardly seems worth mentioning the "minor" trials and tribulations we as women face when it comes to freedom and safety in America. But then I think of that notion we so often boast about--America is the greatest nation on Earth! Wouldn't you think as the GNOE we would naturally feel obligated to lead by example?

I recently read a blog shared on Facebook by Huffington Post that addressed the point that we must educate women and girls about being safe. It was very well written, and the crux of the piece was that when we educate women and girls that danger is the norm, we give permission for that danger to continue. And that lack of safety for women doesn't stop with women--it carries through to all people against whom violent crimes are frequently perpetrated. Many readers of the post completely missed the point, and continued to reiterate that it's just common sense that you are careful and you are aware of your surroundings so you can be prepared if someone attacks you.

Shouldn't it be common sense that we should strive to make the world a place where women and girls don't have to feel potentially threatened with violence, either when they leave their houses or in their own homes?

Now I know that is an idealistic viewpoint, but it makes me sad that I won't be able to tell my daughter she is free to hop on her bike and ride to her heart's content, because I will have to worry someone might snatch her and do unthinkable harms to her. It's true, boys can be snatched and harmed, but girls and women in general are disproportionately victimized.

Why are women targets? I wish I really knew the answer to that question. Some might refer to our status as "the weaker sex." We are easier targets. After carrying a child for nine months and recovering from a Caesarian-section, I would definitely argue that this perception is total crap. In fact, if anything, I would go out on a crazy limb and say that not only are women the stronger sex, but the reason for our superiority is exactly the reason we are targeted.

I read another blog shared by Huffington Post today from the perspective of a divorced woman who ended up seeking food stamps for herself and her children because she just couldn't make ends meet--even with three part time jobs. A man actually commented that if a man declared to his sexual partner that he had no interest in supporting or participating in the life of a child after the fact that he was free to walk. True, if that's what a man does, then this can potentially leave a woman in a position of weakness. But aside from the fact that this man decidedly showed what an ass he is, it actually supports my point that women are the stronger sex.

Theoretically, after a man has done his part to help us create a child, we women do the rest of the work. As the gender with the power to perpetuate our species, it's no wonder men are so threatened they feel compelled to seek control over us. The violent crimes most frequently perpetrated against women are about power and control--and usually over some aspect of reproduction and self-determination.

Why else would there be any argument about a woman's right to make her own choices about when, how or even if she reproduces? Or if she has sex outside of the traditional confines of marriage? No one seriously challenges the right of men to make choices about when, or if they will be sexually active.

 

And this is why it's worth talking about how America as the GNOE fails women in the rest of the world. Gender equality in America is an illusion. As long as the idea that women shouldn't be trusted to make choices about their reproductive care prevails, we fail women everywhere.

The Hobby Lobby decision handed down by the Supreme Court is disheartening at least, but it should be frightening to us all if we truly are the GNOE. So many argue that the decision only deals with the types of contraceptives that the owners of Hobby Lobby object to based on their religious views. That may be true, for now. But going forward, what is to stop companies owned by people of other faiths to make similar claims about the types of care their workers can choose?

Sadly, women are often the first and foremost victims when it comes to issues of faith. It's one of the reasons I can't bring myself to align with any organized religion. The most prominent religions in our world view women as second class beings. Women are property to be controlled--allegedly for their protection. Does anyone stop to ask who women need protecting from?

It's hard for me to look at organized religion without seeing so much religious zealotry. And most of the major religions people follow have patriarchal hierarchies as the center of their belief system. As Americans, we express outrage when we hear about honor killings in India. We are beside ourselves that girls are so frequently denied the right to be educated in other countries. It is unthinkable that girls and women can be bought and sold like livestock for and at the pleasure of men.

But if these things are so unthinkable, why isn't it equally unthinkable that an employer can decide that if I am a victim of rape, I shouldn't be able to seek a contraceptive that will ensure I do not become pregnant as a result of that violent attack? Why isn't it unthinkable that perpetrators of violent sex crimes so frequently resort to defending their actions by talking about what the woman did that brought the violence against her? If that defense never worked, men wouldn't even try. Why isn't it unthinkable that unlike men, women often must choose between careers they love or raising their children because leaving the workforce often jeopardizes their chances of re-entering the workplace at the level they left it?

Why isn't it unthinkable that my little girl won't be able to freely run and play with the same feeling of freedom as so many little boys do? Why isn't it unthinkable that when she goes to a party in college some man might see her in a short skirt and think she's asking for his advances, even if she says she's not interested?

I am a declared agnostic. That means I'm too wishy-washy to say I am an atheist or that I believe in a god. It means I'm hedging my case on both sides so I'm not wrong. A couple months ago, a friend and I were talking about the miscarriage I had two years ago. I said something to the effect that there must have been a reason I couldn't see at the time. Maybe my husband and I weren't ready to be parents then. My friend looked at me and said it was science. I'm not sure if she was trying to challenge my declared agnosticism or if she was serious. I haven't stopped thinking about that conversation. I think it's because even though I hedge my bets that there is no God, I often find myself praying. Most of the time, I just pray to the sky and ask that "everything be all right," whatever that might mean.

As I look at my daughter playing in her room right now, I would pray to any and every god that she never has to face the threat of gender related violence or inequity. I would pray that as an American girl and woman she have as much freedom as any of her male counterparts to enjoy life and make decisions about her health and well-being. I would pray that as the greatest nation on Earth we lead by example and defer to our forefathers who never declared a national religion, because it is in the absence of such a declaration that women and men have an equal shot. Until we put faith in the strength of women, I cannot declare my faith in any religion created by men, and I cannot declare America the greatest nation on Earth.

I ain't the heavy, I'm your mommy.

 So, I know I've talked about reading blog posts about parenthood and discussions on mommy forums.

There was one a few months ago--before Willow came--that caught my attention. A woman expressed concern that she had feelings of fear that her husband would love their child more than he loved her. She felt terrible about this feeling of fearful envy.

I found that fear interesting, because I actually was more afraid that with the intensity of new motherhood, my husband would feel that I love our daughter more than I love him.

I'm pretty sure that neither fear is truly founded, but I can understand where they come from.

I have the great fortune of staying home with my daughter everyday. I had a vision of what that was going to look like, and parts of that vision were dead on, while others really missed the mark. I assumed that I would be busy each day, but I was very wrong about what I would be busy with.

I pictured myself tending to my daughter's needs of course, but I also envisioned that I would be maintaining our household at some level of cleanliness, and that I would be cooking meals and keeping up with laundry. I thought I might even fit in a little bit of writing here and there.

Tummy time.

It turns out that aside from managing feedings, diaper changes and tummy time, all I manage consistently is keeping my daughter's laundry and the dishes under control. I read a little, here and there, trying to learn what I can about things I can do to improve my daughter's early world, because she is now the center of mine. I both dread--because it feels like I'm rushing it all--and long for the days that she and I can talk to each other and do more things, because I want her to know how much her mommy truly loves her. And I want to know everything I can about her.

The hard part is that the intensity of everything frequently leaves a mommy tired, stressed and feeling like she just isn't doing enough, and the little she is doing, she's not doing well enough. And our children undoubtedly sense that in us.

Throughout the day, we both look forward to six o'clock, because we know that Daddy will be home. He thinks it's because I am waiting for him to rescue me--and sometimes, I am. But also, I get to see my little girl at her happiest time of the day--when she gets to spend time with her daddy.

He's a daddy who enjoys diaper changes, sticking out tongues and managing spit up. She finds him entrancing. I can watch the two of them play forever--but only after I get dinner going and clean up the kitchen.

I know that she doesn't love her daddy more than me, but sometimes, it's hard not to feel like the "heavy."

Willow is going through a phase during which she really doesn't like tummy time, but I know that she really needs it for her strength and development. Before she got here, I had no idea how much mucous a child could produce. I know, gross, right? The thought of it is as gross as using the magical NoseFrida on her, but I do it--and she hates it, especially the saline drops I put in her nose before the suction commences. I know she doesn't like to go to sleep at a reasonable hour. I'm trying to come to grips with the idea that I might have to start trying to get her to bed just when her daddy comes home from work--he misses her all day as it is.

And so, I feel like the heavy. But I guess in parental partnerships, someone has to be.

I was watching a rerun of Oprah's Master Class earlier this week. I actually had to watch it about four times, as I kept having to rewind, stop and restart it--another thing about motherhood I hadn't anticipated--the inability to focus on much of anything, or watch a television show lasting more than a half hour while my daughter is awake. It's impossible. It's probably why I've found myself watching things that don't require a lot of thought.

In this episode, country music star Reba McEntire was sharing her life story and her life lessons. For whatever reason, something she said about her parents really caught me. She described her mother as being very affectionate and fun. She described her father as serious and a hard worker. Her eyes lit up when she talked about both of them, but all I could wonder is what Willow will grow to think about her daddy and me.

Look at him. He's fun. 

Right now, my fear is that she will see me as the "heavy"--the one who tries to follow guideposts to a fault and who never has any fun, so nobody else gets to either. I know it's crazy, but when I'm fighting to get the saline drops in her nose for the NoseFrida and she is crying her eyes out, I don't feel like the fun one. When I am struggling to get her to sleep instead of just letting her kick and play, I don't feel like the one she'll come running to later when she wants to give hugs. When I roll her onto her tummy and try to encourage her to power through, in spite of her bulging and unhappy bottom lip, I don't feel like the one she will miss when she goes off to college.

I would rather learn to roll over than do tummy time.

I know every mom has silly fears. And as sure as these fears are crazy, and as sure as I am right now that Daddy is the fun parent, I know that our roles will likely shift, overlap and be in lock step at different moments. Right now, I'm the one who keeps her alive and growing by feeding her. I'm the one who fought so hard to carry her, because I wanted to put out a piece of the two of us into the world that would be so special and amazing. And the now fiercely maternal side of me wants to give her everything she needs to grow and thrive. My husband frequently said that he suddenly felt like he wanted to fight someone for me during my pregnancy, and he still says that he feels that way from time to time. Now that Willow is here, I just as fiercely feel I want to protect her from even the smallest perceived threat. I feel myself wanting to rip to shreds anyone or anything that might cause her harm.

Here's one of those bites.

Motherhood does some amazing and strange things to your brain. It feels like swallowing the universe whole, because everything about it is so big. And then, she smiles at me, and I realize that she is giving me a moment to "chew." She's giving me a moment to remember that even though many parts of the job are challenging and wearing, every single moment is a bite that I don't want to miss.

So, does it really matter if I am the "heavy" now? Does it really matter if she seems to warm up to her daddy more these days? No, because at the end of the day, I will have my bites to "chew" and he will have his.

Mommies in arms.

So, as I look around me, it is apparent that the baby/toddler department of Target has essentially "vomited" in multiple corners of our house. And as I have mentioned before, it seems as though it figuratively has done the same here. I'm okay with it.

I didn't think I would have any more to say about mothers or Mother's Day this week, but as I am learning quite frequently about mothering, I was wrong.

Last time, I talked about the way in which everyday is Mother's Day. A couple of the gifts I mentioned were being part of the "club," and part of the conversation about mothering that never ends. This week has really driven the idea of those gifts home, and it prompts me to do something I occasionally feel compelled to do--thank those around me who are helpers, and who are always looking out for me. It also prompts me to say that on this day, I hope all moms can remember that the other moms around them are doing their best.

When you're pregnant and/or mothering these days, technology seems to be at least part of the experience. I had multiple apps on my smartphone related to ticking the weeks of my pregnancy down. They all had helpful tips that were e-mailed to me each day, and a couple of them offered the opportunity to discuss and share the experience with others "just like me," via message and discussion boards. It's a little bit like "Cheers" for moms--sometimes you wanna go where everybody feels your pain, and sometimes your joy.

I "joined" a couple of these mommy boards, and it was often a comfort to see that other people were experiencing the same things I was experiencing. I still belong to these boards and each day, I get e-mails with a list of topics for the day. Many of those topics originate from moms who are looking for help with various issues. Others seem kind of arrogant and boastful about perfect babies who sleep 10 hours a night and moonwalk across the kitchen floor at eight weeks of age. I don't contribute to the conversations very often. Most of the time, I just observe and mull over the things that grab my attention.

The topics that appeal to me usually appeal to me for one of two reasons:1) The topic is a problem I am currently dealing with and I want to know how other people are dealing with it. 2) The topic is an opportunity to see if the choices I've made about something are validated by others. There's a mix of maturity and immaturity in the situation.

This week, I happened to click on a topic called "cosleepers."

For those who aren't in the know, a cosleeper is any sort of device that allows your baby to sleep with you or nearly with you in a safe way. The closest comparison might be a bassinet. We have a cosleeper bassinet, but we haven't used it yet. I, like everyone else, planned to have a traditional birth experience, but ended up with a C-section instead. I had a really hard time getting out of our memory foam bed for quite a while afterwards, and having to maneuver around this bassinet--which attaches to the side of our bed--didn't seem like the best plan at the time. One of the contraptions we bought was a rocking napper--a really popular one that just about everyone raves about. And true enough, we came to love ours as well.

At any rate, I clicked on the topic. Multiple moms validated my rocking napper, and I was just about to continue patting myself on the back for the remainder of the day when I ran across one dissenting comment, and it was a doozy. This rocking napper could cause babies to develop flat spots on their heads, and was "known" to do so. I was skeptical and mentally scoffed. Then I Googled it, because that's what I always do when I want to be "right." Sure enough, there were two articles by pediatricians talking about how terrible this sleeping option is for babies because of the potential for flathead (A.K.A. plagiocephaly) and an increased potential risk for SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome).

Clearly, as a mom, I don't want my baby to have a flat head, and SIDS is every mother's worst nightmare.

My heart sank. I started to immediately think about making the transition from the napper to the bassinet. I worried about Willow's head--she does have a flat spot. I sent a text to my mentor mom (i.e. the mom I trust the most, and most want to emulate) regarding the issue. A mommy friend of my husband (who is quickly becoming a mommy friend of mine) sent me a text regarding the issue (at my husband's behest). And out of the blue, another mommy friend Facebook messaged me about another parenting topic I had nearly lost my mind over the week or two before--sleep scheduling. I poured out my flathead mommy soul to her.

She was very comforting. She had battled multiple issues with her second baby--reflux and colic. He slept in a rocking napper for six months, and she had essentially had to wear him around the house in order to comfort him as he would cry for hours at a time. She told me that anyone who judged the way she raised her kids could shove it--well...you know where.

It was nice to feel a little less worried. And I knew that we had an appointment with my daughter's pediatrician the following day.

On the way to his office, we stopped by to see another mommy friend--my OB/GYN, who delivered her daughter just a week before my Willow. I couldn't help but ask her where she had her little girl sleeping. She happens to be using the same rocking napper that we are. I asked her if she had heard anything about them causing flathead. Indeed, she had, and as a matter-of-fact, her daughter has a flat spot on one side of her head. She smiled and reassured me that while she felt bad about it, her baby's doctor had told her it would be fine.

The good news is, our baby's doctor told us that while she does have a flat spot, they actually view this as kind of a good sign. It's a sign that we are placing her on her back to sleep, which is the preferred position for preventing SIDS. He said we would monitor her head shape and intervene if we need to.

I love our pediatrician. He's the best. And in our house, flat is the new round.

Flat is the new round!

I clicked on another message board topic this week. It was a post about a mom's preparations for an unexpected nine-hour drive with her baby. She was trying to figure out the logistics of feeding her baby over the course of the trip and made the mistake of saying she might have to take her baby out of its seat during the trip to nurse. I say she "made the mistake of" saying it because just about every one of us who commented scolded her harshly for the mere mention of taking her child out of the safety seat while the car was moving. She felt attacked by all of us, and rightly so.

Almost every single mom responding to her failed to be understanding and compassionate. The trip she was contemplating was due to a death in the family. She had no time to think about, or prepare for the trip. It wasn't like she was planning a vacation road trip. She was thinking under duress. In mothering, there is a lot of thinking that occurs under duress. Frequently, if we express those thoughts verbally, they come out as stream of conscious. When we have the chance to think things through under normal circumstances, we often realize what we said was almost crazy. This mom was no different. In a follow up comment on the topic, I apologized for the lot of us who failed to consider her circumstances.

I think it's natural for us to be protective of children, especially when we are mothers. But I think we often do it at the expense of our "sister moms." It's a shame, because we all want the same happiness and healthiness for our children, no matter how we go about getting there. I wish we would just be more thoughtful and nice to one another. I spend too much time scanning these mommy boards. I only say that because I am starting to realize that while they are a potential treasure trove of great information and camaraderie, they have also proven to be a place where I feel inadequate and judged for my mistakes--or in some cases, perceived mistakes.

Lots of firsts still to come.

We're all doing the best we know how, and the best we are learning how. As I am spending my first Mother's Day in my pajamas, and I am not feeling my best, all I really want to do is thank all of my mommy mentors and the moms who have helped me in multiple ways so far. Some have been helping me for the last 11 months. Some have come to the table in the last couple of months.

I can't possibly remember everyone who has imparted wisdom to me or just kind words, so listing everyone would be impossible. I won't attempt to do it, for fear that I will leave out someone and hurt feelings. That's not my intent when I single out a handful of very special moms.

Our little family.

There are plenty of highlights. Most certainly there is my mentor mom who helped me determine that I was in labor. She has actually been a huge help all along the way. I try to let her know how important she is every time I get a chance. There's the local mom I have known since first grade who came to see me in the hospital just hours after Willow's arrival. She's the most exuberant and enthusiastic mom supporter in my circle. She makes sure we get out of the house for adventures, and when I recently expressed how much I miss having time to read, because there are a breastfeeding book and a sleep book I need to read, her response was "You already do both of those things. LOL" She constantly gives me "permission" to parent my own way. There are surprise moms--those whom I don't hear from as often, but they seem to pop in when I am having moments of self-doubt. In the early days, they wanted to make sure that "mommy blues" didn't turn into anything more significant--they know me well. One popped in this week and reminded me of what I already knew--the most important success of motherhood isn't how closely we follow the "mom pack, and its fancy rules," it's the time we spend with our kids, and their happiness. There are my new friend moms who helped me through the medical aspects of my pregnancy, and became my good friends along the way. I am so blessed that one of those moms is also a first time mom going through exactly the same things at almost exactly the same time as me. We really are doing it together. There are the new and soon-to-be moms whom I think of everyday. It's a pleasure to welcome them to the "club." There is a long distance mom whose daughter helped name our little girl in the most uncanny of ways. I wish everyday that she lived closer so I could share the experience of being a new mom with her firsthand instead via text and Facebook. I miss her very much. There's my younger sister, who gets to be the wise sage in this arena. She is a great support to me all of the time. And of course, there is my "adoptive" mom, whom I was lucky enough to acquire when I married her son. She has been a giant support and is already a fantastic grandma.

There are at least another dozen or more moms besides. All of you lighten and brighten my heart, and the hearts of others everyday. And there are also many "aunts." Willow and I benefit everyday from so many women who may not be mothers, but who love us and offer support in ways that are just as important.

I couldn't be the mom I am becoming without all of you.

Kind and Generous--Natalie Merchant

Everyday is Mother's Day

So, when we moved down to Bella Vista, Arkansas from Kansas City, we rented a house in the woods. There was a vinyl wall decal in the kitchen declaring that "every day is its own gift." We thought that was one of the goofiest things ever, and we joked about it frequently.

As this week has been approaching, I have been thinking about Mother's Day. It will be my first. As I have been thinking about Mother's Day, I have been thinking about that wall decal.

This time of year, every jewelry store, every flower delivery service and a thousand companies in between and besides are trying to convince gift givers that they have that one special gift that Mom really wants. I know it's going to come across as self-deprecating, but when I look down at the little girl sleeping on the nursing pillow belted around my waist, I know that I already got the gift. It's not always wrapped up with a giant bow, and sometimes the fragrance of fresh flowers might be a plus in this case. But my daughter is what I really wanted for Mother's Day--for the last three years, actually.

The reason saying that you have exactly what you wanted comes across as self-deprecating is because being a real, live mom is actually pretty hard work on a day-to-day basis--especially in the early days.

The early days are like when you decide you're going to get in good shape. You start going to the gym faithfully everyday and eating right. It really kind of sucks at first, because you hurt all the time and you're always hungry. Eventually, you start to adjust and you reach this weird zone where you still kind of hurt and want to eat everything in sight, but it also feels oddly good. I associate it in my own mind with swimming laps. You get done and you're sore and feel water-logged with a faint odor of chlorine you can't wash out of your hair. 

But when you think of how hard it is, you have to remember that "every day is its own gift." 

She loves "Blot, Blot, Blot, Pat, Pat, Pat, Dry, Dry, Dry.

Most days it means I have a funny little baby who thinks every song I make up is awesome--especially "Legs, Knees--Baby Knees." Don't worry. I'm not going to sing it for you. It's really bad, but Willow loves it. We sing it at bath time and at lotion time. There is no one else in the world who appreciates my singing like she does.

Then there are other gifts. I can now eat an entire meal in as little as three minutes if my baby is crying. And I can sometimes convince myself that I don't really need to go to the bathroom, because if I put her down, she might lose her mind. Being so attached does offer some advantages--I can easily justify getting very little done around the house, because she really needs me.

There are also giant surprise gifts, like yesterday when we had our first episode of projectile vomit. I am still finding spots that we missed cleaning yesterday.

I realize that most of these gifts don't sound very glamorous. At least a few probably even sound horribly unpleasant. But there are certainly others.

For example, I now find myself belonging to an enormous club. Other members frequently check in to make sure I am receiving all of the benefits I was promised. The contributions of other mothers to what I hope will be a successful run for me, is truly a gift. I also get to be part of a never ending conversation--the one about how we bring these little ones along the best way possible and give them the best life we can. I'm definitely a new contributor to that conversation, but I look at that as a gift too.

Mostly, the daily gifts are pretty good. I have this little human that I both helped to create, and I now get to shape. It is a giant responsibility, for sure. But it's also a giant opportunity. I now understand why every mom thinks her child is beautiful, because they are. I now understand how it's different when it's your own child. I happily use a NoseFrida, even though I swore I never would, and the only reason I took off almost every stitch of clothes I had on after the vomit episode yesterday was to protect the leather couch. 

There are hard moments. There are the moments I fear I will never know what it feels like not to be tired again. Most days I wonder if I will ever truly eat a full meal and seconds if I want them again. I know there's a fair amount of envy that getting enough to eat continues to be a challenge for me as a mom.  

She is "especially fine."

And then I remember--I have the privilege of seeing almost every single one of her little smiles. I get to be around for every one of her milestones. I get to be the only person who can hold her just that certain way, because she won't stay still like that for anyone else. I almost always get to be the first face she sees when she is ready to get up for the day--and luckily, most days she wakes up happy to start her day. I hope I am one of the reasons for that happiness. And I get to know what it's like to love her like I will never love anyone else, and to understand everything about our existence in a way I never could before.

Everyday is Mother's Day. There may not be a Hallmark card waiting for me, and there may not be a package with a giant bow on it. That's okay. If those are the gifts you sign up for, you're going to be disappointed a lot and you are overlooking the real gifts.

Sweetest Thing--U2 

Early motherhood: I don't know how, but I'm really trying.

So, these days I spend a lot of my extra moments (the few that there are) snapping photos of my little girl with my phone. I received a text from a friend yesterday informing me that every picture of her that I post on Facebook is pushing him toward becoming diabetic. I am okay with that. I waited a long time to decide to have her, and my husband and I worked really hard to have her after we finally decided we were ready. It's hard to apologize for this kind of happy.

One of my responses to my friend rings so true and loudly for me: "I, of course, think every moment of her existence is adorable."

I am pretty sure every parent feels that way about their children, even in the most frustrating and stressful of moments. I also joked yesterday that this feeling is a good one to have during those frustrating moments. If they weren't so cute, how would we make it through?

Early motherhood is a difficult time. I might have made a mistake. I intentionally didn't try to read up on parenting and what's supposed to be the best method for everything. Maybe it's a little arrogant or naive, but I don't believe anyone truly knows the best method for everything. I'm pretty sure that over the thousands upon thousands of years that we as a species have been parenting children, we have been doing a lot of things wrong, and accidentally doing a lot of things right.

The only book I read from start to finish was "Happiest Baby on the Block," because it was recommended by a friend whom I really trust, and whose opinion I really value. There were lots of take-aways from that book, but one that resonates most with me right now is how mothers outside of the Western world parent--they do it together. It's a different kind of "together" than what I think we think of. Women in villages actually take turns caring for children--holding them, feeding them, caring for them. They don't have, or need the benefit of books on the subject or visits from "Parents as Teachers" representatives. I'm sure they get things wrong too, but there's a gentle kindness about the way they do things and support each other that I wish we had more of in our culture.

Who we are now.

It's hard to be a new mom and to know you don't know anything, and to feel like you aren't doing things right. That nagging feeling you get when people ask or comment about your baby's schedule comes mostly from a place of truth within yourself that you wish you did know more and that you think you are doing at least part of it wrong. And then you find yourself in a desperate place of playing catch up on all of the things you feel like you should have known.

I should have known that when she was pulling at her ears and rubbing her face and head that she was tired, but I didn't. She's had a rash. I figured that's what was bothering her--if I even noticed at all.  I should have known that she was having trouble sleeping because she was too tired. These days, I can barely keep my eyes open while I nurse her, so the idea that anyone in my house would fail to sleep when they are tired is a concept I am too tired to comprehend.

The questions aren't meant to be judging or hurtful. I have come to realize, even this early on, that once you start ticking off the days of motherhood, it's like a survivors' club. You feel compelled to share what's working for you, even if nobody asks. You do it because you are so excited that something you did actually did work or was right. You do it because so little of what you are doing, or what you did, felt right at the time, and the only way you survive is by only remembering the things that were good. Otherwise, you would be certain that you had permanently harmed your child every single day. Who could live with that feeling? Only a mom who doesn't actually care.

That second night in the hospital, I had an epiphany. I know that I have already written about it, but it's still at least partly where this blog originates. Willow was crying incessantly, and nothing I did calmed her. As a new, little family, we were beside ourselves. But all I cared about was what she was going through. All I cared about was how much I never wanted her to have a moment of sadness, pain or the frustration I was sure she felt in that moment. There is nothing I wouldn't do for her. It reduced me to tears as well.

In the weeks since we brought her home, that hasn't changed. And in those weeks, I have posted dozens of pictures of her on Facebook, and I have taken countless others. People have tried to decide if she looks more like me, or more like my husband. I look at her and I have no idea. She might have my nose and my ears. She has her daddy's hairline. But ultimately, I keep thinking that she looks like Willow. She looks like no one I have ever known. She is a whole new person.

Willow at 3-weeks. She's resting very comfortably in my belly cast.

On "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb," by U2, there's a track entitled "Original of the Species." The Edge and Bono wrote it about their daughters. I always liked it, but I never really got it until the last seven weeks. It's exactly how I feel about my little girl. The premise is that this person they write about is like no one who has ever existed before. This person is so special that they are apart from everything else that came before.

When I listen to the lyrics now, I think of how I want her to grow up. I want her to know how special and important she is--just as she is. I think it's harder for girls. Everyone wants to fit in and to feel a part of their peer group. In spite of it being called out and spotlighted by up-and-coming celebrities like Jennifer Lawrence, and by companies like Dove, appearance is still such a giant part of whether you are liked as a female. That part of who we are as a culture forces our daughters to choose between being who they truly are and want to be, and trying to fit into a box that everyone else fits into so they can have friends and not feel ostracized. I can't stand the thought that my girl will have to make such choices.

All kids can be be mean, but I think girls can be particularly so. I grew up around several mean girls, and sadly, I think that even as women, we can be unsupportive of each other and mean spirited at times. For the first time in my life, I understand why some parents choose to home school their children. When I think of potentially subjecting my Willow to dealing with the mean girls whom she might encounter, or just as bad that she could become one herself, I already cringe. At the same time, if I didn't send her to school with other children, she'd have a rude awakening as a young woman--not the time to learn that the world is sometimes a hard place in hard ways.

I know at the beginning and end of the day, all any parent can do is their best. All we can do is pick up the knowledge we need as we go along and hope that the mistakes we make aren't the worst kind. All we can do is love our kids more than life itself, and teach them that they are worthy of that love, and anything else in their lives that they seek.

My Willow really is one of a kind. She "feels like no one before," as the Edge and Bono write. Everyday, I will tell her "I want the lot of what you've got, and I want nothing that you're not," because that's how I truly feel. Everything she is, is perfect to me, and anything else she tried to be but herself would never be true.

Everything I try and fail at; everything I don't get right, or get right by accident--these are the things that are going to shape her into who she will be. That's why every mistake you think you're making along the way feels so painful. You don't want your babe to "survive" her childhood--especially if you actually did survive your own. You want everything they experience to be better than what you experienced--even if what you experienced was great.

Nothing can ever be enough for them, because there's no one like them.

Original of the Species--U2

Where's my hairbrush? How we become real moms.

So, for just this moment, I'm still going qualify myself as existing in the group of "wannabe moms" who project into their mom future that they are somehow going to do it differently than everyone else. Those moms are going to wash their faces at least once everyday. They will get a shower everyday. They will rake a comb or brush through their hair everyday. And maybe--just maybe--even brush on a little mascara everyday. The really ambitious "wannabe moms" are going to actually pluck or wax their eyebrows and touch up their blonde roots before going out in public becomes ridiculous--oh yeah, those same moms are actually going to make a habit of going out in public.

The reality of my existence is that I'm so freshly "mom" that I am actually in a weird limbo state where I am aware of the space around me and how it has changed, and I can almost stand outside of that space and watch as the change takes place.

In a very real way, I have been a mom for about 16 years. Jeph and I got our first dog together about16 years ago. From that point on, I have always had at least one little life to care for. And over the last few days, my 13-year-old dachshund has reminded me how deep that love is and how that love is exactly as deep as what I feel for my furless baby. Non-pet people judge all you want--I don't care--the love really is the same depth, even though there are differences.

I think the major difference is the literal, physical connection I have to my daughter that I will never have with any other living thing. As I was working on another writing project this morning, it occurred to me that I understand why all the "wannabes" think they can maintain everything they are used to doing, and why so many of them (us) fail.

While I was pregnant, my sweet, loving husband (no sarcasm--seriously) would occasionally tell me that he didn't want me to lose my "pin-up" style after I became a full-fledged mom. I assured him each time that I would do my level best not to. In the last four weeks, I have occasionally gotten about four or five consecutive hours of sleep--usually due to an intervention by that same husband. Otherwise, I am up about every two to three hours overnight, and because I am a loser at trying to create a "schedule" for my four-week-old, I never follow the rule of sleeping during the day when she sleeps. I always want to fit a load of laundry in or clean the kitchen. Or maybe I want to clear out e-mail. Or as with today, write a little so I don't completely forget myself.

Two nights this week, our daughter chose not to sleep for most of the night. I was rescued both times, and am so grateful and lucky. Over the last three days, our furry daughter has not been feeling well, and I am not ready to accept that she is in her physical 80s or 90s. So, today, I've had a little time to wallow in my worry over her and shed a few tears during the time my furless daughter has been sleeping. I just walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and it occurs to me that I haven't used a hairbrush in days, my lower eyelids have never been darker or puffier, and I have only sneaking suspicions about the various spots of things on the T-shirt I am wearing.

I could really use a little moisturizer and some eye-makeup right about now.

Moms don't make time for things they think are bullshit. And most moms--right or wrong--see taking care of themselves as bullshit. When we get up in the morning, we take care of every other living thing in our proximity before we take care of anything we need. Four weeks in, there are already times I realize that I have just sat down to feed my daughter--which could take anywhere from 10 minutes to half an hour--and I desperately need to go to the bathroom. Somehow, I manage to get her fed before I explode, and that reinforces for me that this is the way things are supposed to be.

Twice this week, I have had "spur of the moment" outings with only about an hour to prepare for leaving the house. Neither time did I manage to eat before leaving the house, or even manage a bottle of water. It's true, both times, I not only got my daughter cleaned up, dressed and fed, but I managed some semblance of putting my hair in order and straightening out my face. I imagine as the months go by, food and water will override vanity--I'm not quite there yet--that's why I am still qualifying myself as one of the "wannabes." I'm still kind of deluding myself into the idea that I can at least maintain myself when I go out into the world. I think there's some crazy place in my brain that believes I "owe it to my public." Let's forget that aside from my husband, there is literally one other living soul where I live who knows me well enough to recognize me, and while visiting me in the hospital after I had my daughter, I'm pretty sure she saw me practically topless--so I really doubt she cares if my hair is in order or not.

I am really fortunate. The last several years, my pregnancy, and the birth of our daughter has brought my husband and I so closely together that not even scruffy hair and dry patches on my face are going to "put us asunder." And he takes as many opportunities as he can to remind me that I am more than just our daughter's mom. One of those moments this week was unexpected, and it occurred to me that while I remember those kinds of moments, it already doesn't occur to me that I should expect those moments on any given day.

My girls.

It already doesn't occur to me that I have a place on my own list--my own list of priorities. I get up. I get meds to our dog and get her outside to do her business. I check and change our daughter's diaper and feed her. I get us dressed for the day and relocate all needed "work supplies" to the living room. I manage a load of laundry or dishes while my daughter sleeps for about an hour and a half, and then I start this list over. I know there's more to the list, but these are the dominating items. By the time I complete the list a couple of times, it's midday and I realize that I have neither eaten nor tried to grab a shower.

In recounting the list, it's not about feeling bad for what I can't manage, or about wanting anyone else to feel bad. It's more about what almost all moms are doing on autopilot every single day. I know there are a few moms out there who have their shit together and manage these things with the same finesse and style with which they have managed careers and lives before motherhood, but since I don't really belong to their club, I don't know any of them.

I am quickly slipping away from the "wannabe" crowd and into the "real mom" crowd. I am one of the moms who will eat cold dinners over the sink as quickly as possible--at least in part so I can complete the load for the dishwasher. I am one of the moms who will leave the house, not realizing that she did mascara and eyeliner on one side, but not the other (no, this hasn't happened yet, but it will). I am one of the moms who will still be wearing that red and white striped shirt I got at K-mart my sophomore year in high school while my daughter wears whatever they will be wearing when she's in sixth grade.

And while these things are playing out, I won't even feel like I'm missing out on anything. I will briefly acknowledge--only to myself--that I really should cover those roots soon. I will be thankful that I had a C-section instead of a traditional birth, because I will still be able to wait to go to the bathroom during feedings and other tasks without the concern that this might be the time I don't make it. 

From time to time, my husband will remind me that the line in front of me has gotten really long, and I will briefly be surprised enough by those reminders to realize that it happened without my paying attention along the way. And I won't remember any of those things I "wanted to be" as a mom. I'll just be a mom.

And when my daughter is old enough not to need me so much, only then will I realize there is no line in front of me anymore, and I will probably feel so lost because I won't know what or who to follow. That will be a sadder day than any of those on which I have nearly forgotten what a hairbrush or mascara can do for me.

Happily ever after and the folly of hopelessness.

So, there's something funny about how life goes. When you think everything is impossible, and nothing will ever be okay again, somehow, everything changes.

This isn't a new topic. I've hashed it and rehashed it a lot lately. I'm okay with beating a dead horse a little just now. The reason? I know that it's hard to be hopeful when you feel like nothing is going right, and everything you want in your life has either slipped through your fingers or could never be anyway. And I know that there are people who might read this who feel that way right now.

I'm not typically the Pollyanna type, but I want to put it out there in the world that when it seems like everything is at its darkest, things can change. I think that's always the hardest thing to believe, but hopefully it's more believable when it comes from the voice of someone who has truly been there. I know I never believe in anything like hope when it comes from someone who appears to always be riding the wave of "okay."

As I sit here watching my two-week-old daughter snoozing away in her swing, listening to some baby-modified Depeche Mode, I believe in hope. And as my husband of 18 years today sits in a room working at a desk where I can see him this Sunday morning, I believe things can be very good. Less than a year ago, I wouldn't have believed it, and there wasn't anyone telling me any different--or at least I didn't hear them if they were.

Every mom believes their kid is an angel, but for me, it's true.

There are days, as a new mom, when I feel like I'm not ever going to get it right. There are moments she cries for seemingly no reason. They're short-lived, and I'm probably too hard on myself about it, but when you've waited so long for her and you didn't believe you would ever have her, I think you go crazier about everything being perfect in her space.

This is the challenge of my day-to-day now. A year ago, it would have been getting out of bed and facing days of work and feelings of failure. A year ago, it would have been a sinking feeling of desperation about what the future might hold, and the only things that kept my head above water were my husband and my dog. Thank the higher power my agnostic brain doesn't quite believe in for those two, or who knows....

So, finding a place where I cry from joy and where I believe that a year from now, things will be even more joyful and fun than they are now is a giant leap, and more than I ever imagined my life could be.

Life isn't always about getting everything we want. Sometimes we can't achieve our goals, no matter how much effort, focus and passion we put into them. It's hard to accept that maybe we have set the wrong goals for ourselves and that we have to change directions to find happiness, or even just quiet contentment. Life isn't always about having our ducks in a row. It's great to think that things are going to go according to plan and follow a certain order that we have detailed in our minds, but a lot of times, it just doesn't happen that way.

By now, I imagined myself in a career where I was respected and "in charge" of something. I believed the work, effort, focus and passion I put into what I was doing "earned" that. But I set the wrong goals for myself. I couldn't have known that until everything changed. I always imagined that if we were going to have a child or children that we would have done it ten years ago. But we just kept doing other things that were easier, and that gave us quick hits of happiness that seemed to keep us going while we failed to achieve all the wrong goals.

The obstacles to achieving the wrong goals and all of the unhappiness we felt from being in places where we couldn't thrive were the smaller bumps in the road, and they just weren't enough to shake us out of our comfort zones so we could find where we needed to be and start setting the right goals. Sometimes, a freight train (or two, or even three) has to come plowing through an already broken existence and fling everything in all directions for change to occur. Sometimes, as hard as it is, you have to wake up at rock bottom and be forced to dig your way back up.

And when you're there at the bottom, in the coldest place you can possibly imagine, sometimes you are surprised by what your life can become. In the scariest moments, we are sometimes given the hope we never believed existed. And everything about that hope feels like it was meant to be, no matter how uncertain the circumstance in which you find yourself.

It's when you believe all is lost, that you stop looking for the things you don't truly want or need. And in that brilliant moment when you accept that you aren't going to find the things you don't truly want or need, you suddenly find everything you were supposed to.

In the last nine and a half months, I found a love that was right there in front of me all the time, and it renewed itself like magic. And we had the little girl I had given up hope of ever having.

Neither one of these things would have been possible living the way I was before. In the depths of despair, you can't believe what is possible. But today, without reservation, I can tell you that no matter how bad your heart feels, things can change. Other people will tell you that it's all up to you, and that you have to make things change. But I know for a fact that sometimes you find yourself in a place where you can barely lift your head, let alone make change. You can spin your wheels in the same direction forever before realizing you're in the wrong gear. Even in that place, everything is possible.

Just after Willow was born, a dear friend posted a quote by Roald Dahl on my Facebook Timeline:

Mr. Wonka: "Don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he wanted."
Charlie Bucket: "What happened?"
Mr. Wonka: "He lived happily ever after."

We don't always expect that we are going to get everything we ever wanted, and sometimes, even a slice of those things seems impossible. But when we hold on--just a little bit longer, and just a little bit tighter--great things can happen. I'm not telling anyone it's easy or that it happens when you want it to. But I want anyone who is out there feeling like it never can to know that it truly can. Believing in hope is hard, so I'm not asking you to. But try not to give up on believing in yourself, even when it gets really hard. If you lose yourself, you could lose everything.


Walk On--U2

It's all true--every single cliche.

So, I got a message from a friend today. She was thanking me (us) for time spent with our little family yesterday. She told me that sometimes dreams come true. My response to that was that sometimes when they do, they are even better than you originally dreamed them.

All the cliches about becoming a parent are true. Over the years, I have rolled my eyes at all of them a million times. The oh so over said "it's different when it's your own child." The completely trite "being a mom is unlike anything else you will ever do." The wistfully declared "being a parent is the greatest love you will ever know." All of them, and so many more--completely true. Amazing how quickly you learn this. It's only been eight days.

I think one of the results of learning that all the cliches are true is finally understanding why everyone has words of wisdom, advice, guidance and a cliche or two to share with you at every step along the way of becoming a parent. One of the other very commonly spoken phrases I heard as I was finding myself in labor at the end of last week was "it's different for everyone." At the time, I was very annoyed with that one. I just wanted to know if what I thought was happening really was. Needless to say, it was.

Our brand new family.

I spent about twenty-four hours in non-progressive labor. I wanted Willow out, but she couldn't make it without help. Ultimately, I landed in an operating room with my husband at by my side. After an impossibly fast minute--maybe two--our Willow made her entrance into the world screaming "la" at the top of her lungs. Her daddy and I were overcome with joy. That sound was like church bells. And even though we aren't subscribers, I think we were both thankful to know so quickly that she was healthy.

It was hard to be separated from the two of them as they whisked me off to recovery for nearly an hour, but Jeph made a point to catch up with the bed on which I was wheeled away to let me know everything was okay with our girl.

I've made it no secret here that it was a long and bumpy road to getting Willow here. We lost a pregnancy almost two years ago. I had approached becoming a mom in a rather nonchalant and only semi-committed mind-set up to that point. It was all the horrible moments associated with that loss that helped me understand that if you wanted to be a mom, you had to really mean it. Maybe that's why some higher power decided we weren't ready. That lesson took me down a path of crazy that most of my friends know all to well and luckily a few have forgiven me for. It was hard to wait for a chance to try again. It was just as hard to go each month trying, wishing, failing and recovering. And of course, as a dear friend of mine who suffers from fertility issues found, when you want most in the world to be pregnant, everyone else around you is. It's not fair to be envious, but when your heart is broken, seemingly beyond repair, it's easy to slip into being human, and at times, even a little sub-human.

As much as I wanted our baby, pregnancy was not any fun for me. I was unable to eat much throughout much of the time. I dropped weight--which is a good thing. I was unhealthily heavy before my pregnancy. But it was still a pretty miserable time. Our lives turned upside down with a massive career change for my husband and a move for our family. All of the downs and the little steps toward righting things brought the two of us much closer together than we ever had been. At times, especially toward the end of my pregnancy, I spent days in sorrowful anticipation that our time as a couple was drawing to a close. What if this massive change took away something from that special relationship we had? What if, deep down, I was still too selfish to understand this massive gift? I was more than a little bit frightened.

Last Sunday night, we found ourselves in a hospital room with a one-day old who was so upset that we were at our wits' end. What if we couldn't get her to calm down? And this was only night two. As I paced with her in my arms like a zombie, I too, started to cry. It's true--I was exhausted. I was in terrible pain and just putting one foot in front of the other was a struggle. I wanted to sleep so badly. But in the midst of this, only one thought popped into my head: I would do anything to be able to give this little girl whatever it was she needed to know that she was safe, loved, and wanted. I would do anything to make whatever was upsetting her so go away. Nothing else mattered at all.

It was almost like the entire universe had doors with giant, heavy locks on them until that moment. Somehow that thought was all it took to open them and I understood everything about everything.

Becoming a parent really is the greatest love that you will ever know, because it erases every pain, every struggle, every selfish thought you've ever had from existence. No path is the same--it really is different for everyone. And as I have found myself already doing things I thought I could never do for her, I understand that it is different when it's your child.

All the cliches are true. Everything that every mom ever says is true--ten times over.

Dreams do come true, and sometimes they really are even better than you ever dreamed they would be. 

Sweetest Thing--U2