Sunday, November 28, 2010

Hello world

In the days BE (before Ezra), I naively imagined that this little person was going to slot right into my existing life. That I would make no changes barring adding a bit of pint-sized furniture, that he would come with me wherever I roamed, that I would feed him in restaurants and change him in public bathrooms, that people would look at me with amazement, wondering how I did it, as I continued to work full-time, study part-time, do my own housework and keep up socially with all and sundry whilst balancing a baby on one hip and a bowl of homemade, homegrown-veggie soup on the other. Stupid, stupid little twit. 

I didn't go back to work. I packed up my studies. I got a maid. And honestly, I had no idea that there were miners trapped in Chile until three days after they were freed even though it was apparently splashed all over the global news. No surprise to hear that I haven't a clue what is going on in the lives of my friends either.

When I thought about being a stay-at-home-mom, I really didn't think that I would racking up endless days of almost zero productivity. I didn't think that I would have to wait for my son to nap before I could have a shower or hang up the washing or vacuum the lounge. Or that I would have choose between those chores some days. I didn't think that my weekends would never really feel like time out, that I would be desperate for someone to babysit for a day, an hour, even just five minutes while I go to the loo!

I thought I would resent my son for any pieces of my life that were stolen from me, but I was wrong. Instead, I resent my husband for going out to work and leaving me here alone. I resent him and his parents for saying that this would be best for us all. I resent my mother for promising to spend weeks with me so I can get on top of things and then never arriving. I resent my maid for not coming to work regularly. I resent the dogs for barking, the birds for singing, the grass for growing too fast. I resent my couches for not matching, my car for not staying clean, I resent Facebook for its 'Lose your belly fat' adverts even though my baby weight is long gone.

And then I realise that being happy means there is no place for resentment. That I'm not the only mom that has ever felt this way. That I wanted this baby and this life.

Two very important things happened this week. The first was an ass-kicking and a vote of confidence from an unexpected quarter (thank you Sheldene). The second was that I gave myself a break from analysing my life and just lived it. And it was wonderful.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

For the women I adore

My darling friends - B, C, D, F & K

When I started this blog, I had in mind the group emails that have gone between us. I had in mind the laughs, the truth, the ridiculousness. As is my tendancy (and well you know it) - I have gone and got myself all bloody confused. Instead of just putting out what I have, I've gone and looked at everyone else's blogs and got myself an alarming case of penis envy mixed with stage fright. Fuck.

I miss you guys. There are oceans between most of us, and highways between the rest of us. Sure, there are phonelines too, but it's just not the same. I've had to make new, everyday-type friends. Ones that have children the same age as my boy, ones that don't live faraway, ones that are kind of ticking along at the same pace of life that I am. It's fine. It's nice. But it's not any of you.

My mom has landed herself in a hideous mess. The stupid fuckwit moron she works (worked) for has declared himself bankrupt -ish. I say 'ish' because he's not. He's hiding money all over the show. Away from creditors and the taxman, that sort of thing. I believe the word for it is fraud, yes? My mom does his books, you'll recall, and has recently become aware of much dodgy dealings. Anyhoo, I don't remember what the last straw was for her, but she resigned, she was sort of forced into resigning. She saw a lawyer, and is owed compensation in the amount of some lovely six digit number. Ex-boss denies ability to pay, mom offers to show account balances to the contrary, ex-boss throws tantrum and tries to sue her for holding his personal info, she goes to creditors and offers them info in exchange for payment of amount due to her. Ex-boss starts all sorts of stupid intimidation-type crap including regular drive-bys of her home, appearances at 'private' court hearings, intimating phone calls are being monitored. I'm finding all of this pretty hard to take and not just for the obvious reasons. I half expect a bloody horse head to be thrown into the mix next.

Shane is my most favourite guy in the world ever. I think I might have told you that before, and I still mean it. He's great. He has his quirks, of course, which keep things interesting. Last week I found him wearing socks and slops, and swiftly walloped him across the ear for it. He went on to explain something about slippers being too hot and slops being too cool and this being the perfect solution. I scoffed and threatened everlasting chastity if he didn't sort it out pronto. He ignored me entirely and continues to dress like a chop. I suspect these quirks will only intensify with time, I was looking forward to it, but socks and slops are just too far. Too far. (Shane, I know you read this blog, and now everyone else does too. Sort it out. Seriously. And please bring home takeaways on Friday nights. You will score brownie points and I might even show you a little leg for your troubles. Thanks love x)

Ezra is my most favourite little boy in the world ever. He's getting his two front teeth right now, yip, Christmas came early for him. He's smart, ladies, he is so smart. He has started mimicking our actions, waves goodbye, shakes his head, sings along when I do. He tries to feed himself, he's desperately pretending he knows how to crawl, and his newest trick is pulling himself up to a standing position on our couches. I wish he wouldn't do that, because he hasn't yet learned to put his hands out in front of him when he falls so seems to be continuously face-planting into the floor. His sense of humour is developing rapidly - sneezing, bouncing a ball or twiddling my toes can all send him off into fits of giggles. If I ever figure out how to use youtube I'll send you a link. Too flipping cute.

I am, well, a little bit icky actually. Better than I have been, but still not okay. I thought maybe I was dealing with depression, but honestly, I think there's just a hell of a lot going on and it's all just a bit too close for me to be rational or practical about it. Well, that and the fact that I just really don't have the time to sit down and process the things that are going on. You all know I need a fair amount of me-time. My total time without Ezra since he was born is hovering around 10 hours at the moment, and most of that was spent flying around grocery stores with a trolley, flinging things in at random and hoping I would be home in time for his next feed. I have just stopped breastfeeding (like, three days ago) completely and am finding it quite a relief. Not that I ever minded breastfeeding, I quite enjoyed it actually. But Oh!, to be able to put my boy down on the floor and give him his bottle and to sit back and enjoy a cup of (still hot) coffee without him grabbing for my mug or pulling my hair or yanking on my nipple... Well, let's just say that my pleasures are very simple these days.

I have so much to say ladies, so much that I want to tell you. You are the ones I write to when I open the page that says 'New Post' - but it's hard when I don't get feedback. I'm not complaining or trying to guilt you into anything, it's just really not all that easy to carry on a one-sided conversation. Know what I'm saying?
I hope you don't mind that I've played catch up with you on such a public forum, but if I reverted to email this blog would fizzle and die. And I don't want that.

I have great intentions of making this a weekly event. Kick my ass if I don't, will you?

BEEG love to you all,


Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Hero worship (or, 'The case of the adult child')

I've been reading The Reluctant Mom's Blog a lot. If you haven't been, you should pop on over and have a squizz, she's fab. And ever-so-charmingly unhinged. I'm starting to feel quite groupie-ish towards her.

I do actually try not to blog about things that other people are blogging about at the same time as they're, erm, blogging about them. But, as you can tell by my recent (lack of) posts, that's not really working out for me. As it turns out, there's really not that much in the way of unique experiences to be had (unless you count my recent run-in with a real-life crab in the middle of my lounge in the middle of the night), so all I can offer is a unique point of view. And hell, it might not even be that unique, but it's mine nonetheless.

So, over at The Reluctant Mom's Blog today, she was talking about being an adult child. I don't know exactly what that references in psychologist speak, and to be honest, I don't care to look into it. I gather, from the context, that admitting to being 9 out of 10 things on the list means I should probably be aiming at a spot of therapy sometime real soon... so I'm not going to admit anything. But it makes me feel a whole lot better to know that other people do the things I do. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

If I were admitting anything, I would probably start by saying that I live an extremely self-conscious existence. The degree of self-consciousness and the underestimation of self-worth might even be called socially crippling. I have actually driven into the parking lot at my local grocery store, parked my car and then driven back out and gone home empty-handed because I wasn't quite sure that I could cope with bumping into an acquaintance wearing whatever particular shade of cowardice I had dug out of my wardrobe that morning.

And if you think that's lame, you're just never going to understand that I have bunked work because I couldn't match my shoes to my top or how, on more than one occasion, I bunked school because I was having a bad hair day. These things sound stupid to most people, maybe bordering on vanity, that I could avoid normal situations for such abnormally trivial reasons. It's not vanity. I don't care about clothes. I just don't want to stand out in any way, I don't want to be noticed, and I particularly don't want to be noticed or remembered for making any sort of faux pas.

And that's why I turn down my car radio at red lights (no 3 on the list of things I am not, really), why I (almost) never allow myself to get drunk, why I will generally quit everything before I'm recognised as being more than adequate at anything. Because what if I'm almost good at something, and people start watching my next move, and they don't like what I do? What if I become famous and some stupid one night stand from a hundred years ago pops up and tells the world that I'm a fake or a car guard I forgot to tip tells how cheap I am? How will I cope with the embarrassment of it all? This sounds so very teenage and dumb, but it honestly is the mental leap that I need to take everytime someone asks me to get involved with something new, to present a little bit of myself, to get dressed and go out in public.

I can fake it some of the time, I can psyche myself up for things I know are coming, I can almost cope if I can laugh. But when I am a little blue, like I am right now, I'd really rather just keep my curtains closed and my feet in my slippers. I've been trying to blog more for months and I keep stumbling at the point where I need to be honest. The trouble with that, is that honesty, in this case, means admitting that I'm not entirely alright. And I don't want to do that, because I don't want you to always have the notion of disquiet hiding behind my poor attempts at humour.