I Am All Of It

Before the baby was born, one of my most panicked thoughts revolved around how would this change ME? Where will ME begin and MOM end? How will I still be a ‘real’ person and not just some kind of mom-shaped robot woman?

The more I thought about this ‘conundrum’ the more I got pissed off at myself and the world for the thought even being in my head. Do we get so self-reflective about most of life’s other large events? Not really. I didn’t worry so much about the ‘me’ who was also a college graduate, or a Master’s student, or wife. I didn’t worry about where ‘me’ meets ‘vegetarian’ or any of my other self-ascribed labels. And, perhaps most significantly, how many of my male friends (Dave included) gave this ANY thought when becoming a father, let alone dedicated blog posts and endless hours of conversation and sleepless nights to fear of losing themselves when becoming a parent? Tears even people, I’ve CRIED over this!

Then I got even more angry because I realized HELLO WORLD it’s not all about me. Frankly, it never was (shocking) but once I had a baby it really wasn’t. And part of me felt afraid to admit that because saying ‘it’s not all about me, it’s about the baby’ sounded like some kind of defeat in the face of those of my friends who always said ‘I hate my friends who have kids and then aren’t themselves anymore.’ But honestly, isn’t that part of ‘themselves’ and can’t you just accept that and why am I bothering with the thoughts of others so much!?

THEN I got even more mad because this line of reasoning led to an Oprah-esque aha moment, that I was never really worried about myself in all this, but rather the way other people view me. Would my friends who weren’t parents be thinking ‘wow she sure talks about her kid too much and she used to be way more fun and is she still talking about her kid and did she even brush her teeth today!?’ Would my friends with kids be thinking ‘why doesn’t she talk about her baby more and doesn’t she love it to the proper degree and why is she making me discuss the election/global hunger/Pinterest and what is up with this child-neglecter’s priorities?’ So after a year of motherhood which was preceded by 40 weeks and 1 day of pregnancy I finally realized I am pretty much at peace with this situation but for the worry I have about what other people think. What am I, 12? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuudge this.

The conclusion I’ve come to is simple, perhaps simpler for me than for some people. But if I’ve learned anything about life this past year, it’s that saving time by cutting out the excess bullshit of life is invaluable. Sifting through life’s quandries and figuring out which bits are bullshit is not always easy, but once you spot those little bastards CHOP CHOP them from your life.

I am a mother. It’s another part of my identity, more consuming at this point in my life than most other parts. The question isn’t how can I be a mother AND myself, because I am those things simultaneously all the time. Just like I am a wife and a friend. I’m a vegetarian and an atheist. I’m not me plus all the other things. I’m all the things at once. All these things are me. End of story.

The reason the title of ‘mother’ gave me more mental anguish than the other labels is probably because I live in a society where motherhood ascribes some kind of sainthood to anyone bearing the title, while simultaneously condemning any mom who takes the wrong turn or makes the incorrect choice. Who wouldn’t be confused? Am I amazing, or am I just a breeder? Is this the most meaningful thing I’ll ever do, or am I simply doing it all wrong? Answer: Yes or No or Maybe or WHO GIVES A SHIT. All of the above? I need a nap.

It is definitely important to critically analyze the way mothers, parents, families and children are treated and viewed in our society. It is also important to scrutinize our own reactions to different life choices of others. Because within our reactions we will find the beliefs engrained in us systematically, not necessarily those we could come to by means of logic and compassion.

I do those things, I exercise my mind on the matters of motherhood, parenthood, fatherhood, childhood, societal norms and so on. I question my own reactions to the way others live. But on a day-to-day basis, when moving through the miasma of my identity, I have to find a simpler way to address the issue. So I just accept the ‘mom’ label, let myself be what I am. And what is so novel about that?

It does seem novel though, to just be what you are (which is many things). When I read blogs or Facebook statuses and the like I find the issue of being a mother is as often as polarized as everything else in our sensationalist culture. It’s either you LOVE IT AND IT’S YOUR LIFE AND IT ALL COMES SO NATURALLY AND I REFER TO MYSELF AS MOMMY IN THE THIRD PERSON or else IT’S DISMAL AND I MISS SLEEPING IN AND WHAT HAPPENED TO MY ASS AND MY FREE TIME AND MY LOVE LIFE. I don’t feel like any of that. Or maybe I feel all of it.

In 2008, I wrote this post about how I feel a passion for life, but not a drive for a powerful career or an overwhemling urge to be a mommy-wommy. And now that I’m a mother and still don’t have a career in the traditional sense (nor an ambition to dive into one), I feel more proud than ever of the insight I had back then.

In 2012 I feel like this: I like my life right now. And much of my life is currently wrapped up in being the mother to this baby. AND I LIKE IT. And it’s also very hard. I love my daughter more than any other person on this planet, and sometimes I miss the life that existed before she was born. There, I said it. Is that so bad? Is it so awful? To not be on the bandwagon on this side or the other and just say how things are? To just be what I am, which is who I am, which is always changing. Nothing could compare to the love I have for my daughter, and nothing will come from me sugar-coating all the complex feelings I have about parenting.

The bottom line is that my life is different. My priorities have changed. My philosophy has evolved. And on a very practical level, my daily activities are altered undeniably. For example, this morning I spent 45 minutes watching the baby eat oatmeal and put banana in her hair. Seven minutes were spent with her showing me her belly button, then my belly button, then her belly button, searching for belly buttons on all stuffed animals in the house. The next 22 minutes found me walking with her from room to room in our (very small) apartment while she pointed at every single thing we own asking ‘This? This? This?’. Then I had 3 minutes respite while she banged on the sliding glass door yelling ‘dogdogdogdogdog’, perhaps hoping a dog would come by and I fantasized about taking a nap.

If you’re not a parent, like I wasn’t for 29 years, that probably sounds mind-numbing. But I had a really, really good time. After all that she fell asleep and I read a few articles about the abuses of dairy cows, tried to figure out what the frig is happening in Syria, wrote an e-mail to my insurance agent, chatted to a friend about how far holistic eating should go, and watched an episode of New Girl. This is me, I am she. And it’s good.

When We Grow Up

I want us to be like this.

Candid shot taken by my sister while my parents were visiting her in Lillehammar, Norway earlier this month…and I hope she and Ryan are like this when they grow up too…

Two Bottles Of Boone’s Farm

In 1997 I met my best friend, I just didn’t know it yet. We had both enrolled in a confirmation class at the Presbyterian church in my hometown. Neither of us were particularly religious even at the time but I think some combination of social pressure and general curiosity led us both to that same place. And thank goodness it did.

We skipped close to 50% of the classes, which I’m sure was a bad sign even to our very understanding pastor. We’d find ourselves on our way to the church but then…there was fresh snow and the sun was out and shouldn’t we really be snowshoeing instead? Yes. We should. I’m almost certain that at some point we used the phrase ‘What would Jesus do? Probably go snowshoeing.’ or maybe ‘God wouldn’t have made snowshoes if he didn’t want us to skip church school and use them.’

It probably goes without saying that neither of us were confirmed into that church and that class actually gave birth to my now rampant skepticism, but it also led me to the most important relationships in my life (because Jess later introduced me to Dave as well). I put my faith in that friendship over anything I can’t see any day.

Two years later on a hot August night my bags were packed and I was leaving, LEAVING THIS ONE HORSE TOWN (says 18-year-old me…30 year old me really really wants to move back to that one horse town) on to greener pastures. But moving on meant saying goodbye to my bestie, a year younger than me, and leaving her to fend for herself in the torturous hell that high school can be.

The night before I was leaving she said she had a surprise. We met at the park and walked to the breakwall where we walked stealthily out as far as we dared in the dark and sat down together under the stars with the lake washing up below us. And from her bag she produced a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Perhaps the most delicious juice-with-some-alcohol that has ever dared to call itself wine. And we passed it back and forth and promised to write (actual letters people, and we did) and vowed to stay friends forever. And we did.

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In 2001 I met Dave. And a few weeks later I met his older sister Lesya. Our first conversation happened after they picked us up at Dave’s dorm and we had breakfast at Big Boy’s…not the most ideal first maybe-could be-future-sister-in-law encounter. We remedied that by getting out of our minds drunk later that night. Step one: each of us chugged a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Step two: I’m foggy on the details but I know we had a good time.

Since then our relationship has gone through ups and downs, as most relationships do. No one understands the importance of a sisterly bond more than I do, so when we hit the ‘downs’ I always felt really sad and confused. In retrospect I think maybe there were bound to be some rocky times when two first-born daughters with some control issues love the same man so much.

Luckily we’re also both intelligent, logical, and share a belief in family as a flawed, wonderful reason for living. Either way, I appreciate the way the trials we’ve had add to the strength of what we share now as sisters, mothers, friends and lovers of Dave.

Also, I firmly believe a shared love of wine that  brought us together will get us through what is to come. And I assure you I am using that term so loosely in relation to the Boone’s and I vow that we shall never stoop that low again, right Les?

***BREAKING NEWS ABOUT THE INTERNET***

Lately I’ve seen a lot comments on blogs, Twitter and Facebook that say something like:

If I have to read ONE more article/blog/tweet/status about babies/Rick Santorum/fantasy football/losing weight , I swear to gawd my head will explode/I’ll close my account/I’ll leave the internet forever!

Amazing news for those of you are sick of mommy blogs or celebrity tweeters or annoying updates from your d-bag highschool classmates! The internet is NOT mandatory! In fact, you can simply NEVER use it at all! Or or or! Or you can simply NOT read the things that annoy you! Freedom from persecution is simply a click away! Admittedly, you may have to get 3 or 4 words into something annoying before realizing its offensive nature, but at that point you are in no way compelled to go on reading! Isn’t this wonderful news?

You are welcome.

Admitting Loneliness

After 8 years, 5 countries and 3 continents I’ve become pretty accustomed to the ebbs and flows of living far from home (the holidays are always tough). Wherever home actually is. You can tell I don’t have one of my own  because when I say the word I still picture the house where my parents live, where I always lived before I turned 18, where every note I ever wrote to my friends in high school still sits in a cedar chest in my old room (note to self: burn contents of cedar chest before the baby can read).

It’s true that home is where the heart is, and Dave and the baby are always with me. But my dogs are my heart. My parents. My sister. My closest friends. My heart is in pieces all over the world, and sometimes that takes a toll.

When I meet new people and explain our life or when I discuss our travels with my friends back home, a lot of people comment on how awesome this path must be and how lucky we are. And it is awesome. And we are lucky. When I was a teenager, I dreamed of traveling to this many places but probably never believed it would happen. And here we are passports all stamped up, keepsakes coming out our ears, minds blown by all the experiences.

The catch is that living abroad, even when you do it one hockey season at a time, isn’t like taking a vacation as some people seem to believe. You aren’t a tourist. It can be amazing and fun and enlightening, but it can also be frustrating and soul-crushing and confusing. I want to feel lucky every single day. But I also want to feel like I can read a cereal box or ask a question to my child’s pediatrician in my native tongue. I want to feel like I’m part of the conversation people are having around me, instead of a mute sidekick who just smiles and gives a thumbs up sometimes. I want to eat things familiar and know where I’m going and understand what is being said to me at the grocery store checkout line. These things sound small one by one, but together they add up to a world where every day is a little bit of a struggle. And some days are a big struggle. And all that struggling can make you tired.

Being in Japan is without question the most humbling of my experiences abroad. The Netherlands, Germany, and Norway (heck, even Canada!) can make you feel misplaced. But in Japan all my previous expat experiences are amplified by a power of ten. I’m more confused, more isolated, most definitely identifiable as a foreigner just by sight and completely and utterly illiterate.

Normally, I have no problem admitting that things can be frustrating at times, copping to a bad day here and there. I’m not prone to sugar coating. I don’t hesitate to tell anyone that I don’t regret any of this hockey, gypsy life. I just tell the truth, but I don’t complain for the sake of it and I don’t embellish to cover up the marks.

But in Japan, despite incredible hospitality and my best efforts to get ‘out there’, I’ve been lonely. Not all the time. Not even every day. But more than normal. More than when I had a newborn and was too exhausted to socialize. More than our time in European countries. And this is hard for me to admit.

It’s hard to admit because I want to be a brave, bold, traveler of the world who can take on any challenge and embrace new experiences. I want to be open here the way I was each and every other season which allowed me to more than one amazing, lasting connection each time. I want to be the person who turns lemons into lemonade and is happy to greet each day and blah blah something positive thinking etcetera. Admitting I’m lonely, that it’s hard here, that I don’t really love it, sort of feels like a failure. Feels like I’m saying I don’t like it here (which is not true) or that I’m not enjoying this experience (I am) or that I haven’t met some really lovely people (I really, really have).

Between our hockey life and my online networks, a lot of my friends have lived or are currently living abroad. They move for jobs or love or hockey and some stay forever and some are just temps. And those people tend to understand that I can be both extremely excited by my life in Japan while also missing home fiercely. They get it. They’ve been there. It’s normal, they’ll tell me. It’s ok. Drink some wine, they advise. Enjoy the ramen while you can, they wisely suggest.

But I’m more afraid of the reaction of the others. Of the people who think we’re so lucky to have this life but who haven’t ever had to be in this kind of situation. Or the haters who think we should quit this nomadic, dream-chasing lifestyle for ‘real life.’ I fear those people will see my admission as a conclusion. Will see the struggle as a sign. That their glib advice will be to trade the hardships of this way of life for the hardships that will come when we switch over to another way.

If only it were that simple.

Parenting Strategies Of The Month

I could tell you that the mess on this child’s face isn’t crystalized sugar and donut cream…but why lie? I do remember a certain version of myself when I was like ‘my child won’t eat refined sugar blah blah something something.’ I had a point, there is a childhood obesity epidemic after all. But also…I have to let her LIVE life. And also, a donut keeps her in a seat at Mr. Donut for like 23 minutes.

Just ignore the devil/Satan television machine, and realize that my child is totally fixated by a hockey game. She claps when someone, anyone at all really, scores. She yells out when the crowd screams. And her dad beams. And I sit in the corner and read in peace and pretend I can’t hear hockey noises. It’s working for everyone.

I bought this garland in a classic, bad parenting moment at the 100yen shop after the baby had discovered it in the aisle we were browsing and started going absolutely bat shit crazy every time I tried to take it away from her so I simply bought it instead. That bat shit craziness continued when I tried to prevent her from destroying it at home. So she destroyed it. In the spirit of Christmas. I used a broom on it later.

Our child may have a slight dog obsession. I have no idea where it came from. And since our dear beloved dog babies are too many miles away to think about, I take her to the dog store so she can get her fix. A store clerk holding a puppy is like a hypnotist as far as this child is concerned, she can’t tear her eyes of them.

Last year the baby was a little blob in the arms of a very, VERY authentic Santa.  This year she is a skeptic on the knee of not-so-convincing Santa-san. And instead of instantly rescuing her I left her in pure terror silent-scream-cry long enough for me to get a picture for her future wedding slide show. Poor traumatized thing.

The Difference A Year Makes

What a difference a year makes. From a lump of cooing, crying, nursing baby to a cheering, happy, walking girl. And yet still in a rink, watching hockey, happy as a clam despite the smell of her father’s jersey.

We Do This Thing

We do this thing.

I clean like a maniac the day Dave is coming home from a road trip. And when he tells me how great it is to come home to such a clean house (and he does say it every time he comes home where did I find this man?!) and I pretend like I didn’t just do it in a frenzied hour and ohbytheway please don’t open that closet thanks. He pretends to believe that and never opens the closet.

Dave takes the baby and tells me to rest and says he’s not tired no not one bit. I mean yes, he says, I played 3 games in 4 days and traveled for 12 hours to get here…but you need a rest, mama! And I pretend to believe him and say let’s just all rest together.

Nothing Quite Like

Watching your sister and your daughter read together, falling more in love all the time.

Seeing them ‘play’ together while my sister sleeps through my baby’s finger up her nose. Let’s blame the jet-lag combined with her inheritance of my dad’s ability to sleep deeply under any circumstance.

And realizing their shared affection for (faux)fur stoles.

Watching your sister’s adventurous spirit at the sushi restaurant turn into a battle against vomiting at the table.

Having to cut your sister off at karaoke because she has a little too much enthusiasm for screaming ballads at the top of her voice.

We had an amazing time together this week. Just me, my sister, and my daughter, a really rare chance to be just the three of us. Thanks, Al, for traveling all the way from Norway to Japan and back. We love you.

I Felt the Earth Quake

Earthquakes are a normal part of life in Japan. Actually, it’s one of the most seismically active places in the world. The devastating tsunami caused by a large earthquake last March, causing the subsequent nuclear disaster, is out of the news in North America but it is still a part of daily life in Japan. Here newspaper headlines talk about food safety, reconstruction, and the general struggle of those coastal communities decimated by that event.

When we signed the contract for our year in Japan back in June, it was after extensive and exhausting research about whether or not we’d be safe and healthy in this environment. I was afraid because a) I consider my primary duty in life for the next several decades to be keeping my baby safe from reasonable risks and b) I have a crippling fear of certain natural disasters, namely earthquakes and tsunamis. Japan is a perfect fit right?! But reason and logic (the only things keeping me from going over the edge most days of my life) won out and we made the choice to come.

It wasn’t long after arriving that I felt the first earthquake. Just a rumbling, things shaking slightly, the sound of a large truck passing nearby.

While it was happening, I stared Dave straight in the face giving a look which I like to think he interpreted as ‘You did this to us. YOU DID THIS TO US.’ Then it ended. Wasn’t that big of a deal. We survived and none of our Japanese neighbors even blinked. So then I gave a look that I hope said ‘Sorry! Whatever I just said through that evil glare was not what I really meant! LOVE YOU!’

Then it happened again. And again. And every couple of days, mostly at night. And I’d reach over and touch Dave’s arm and then it would be over and I’d go back to sleep. In the morning I always check the USGS website and see what that one registered on the Richter scale. Anything is the 4 or 5 range seemed normal, always off the coast of Honshu, the island we live on. More like the volcano we live on, but whatever.

Last night, however, we were woken around 10:30pm (yes, we were fast asleep…we consider 9pm a nice late night, don’t judge) by A LOT of shaking. Or at least what I personally consider a lot of shaking, not having lived with earthquakes as a part of my life before this. Within 3 seconds were both staggering down the hall to the baby’s room, standing over her just in time for the quaking to halt.

We tiptoed back to our bed, because if an earthquake didn’t wake the baby I’ll be DAMNED if I’m going to do it. I sat on the edge of the bed, a little rattled.

me: That was scary.

Dave: Yea, that was the biggest yet.

me: I didn’t like it.

Dave: Sometimes there are aftershocks, but try to sleep.

me: Ok, but what should we do if…Dave?

Dave: *****snoring*****

FOR REAL!? I’m just sitting on the end of the bed, contemplating how to best rescue my baby if another earthquake comes along after being vibrated down the hall not 2 minutes earlier, and Dave is DEAD ASLEEP. After feeling annoyed, I felt tired, so I tried to follow his lead and rested my head on the pillow.

Today, when I checked the USGS site I expected to see HUGE numbers about this HUGE earthquake. And it wasn’t that huge. Just a 5.2, but not off-shore, on land, maybe 20 miles from our house.

And today things are normal as they ever were.