The Economics of Milk

Milk is like currency in our house, and I spend it liberally.

It buys me extra time in bed on weekend mornings, like this morning when C woke up at 6 a.m. Does he not know it’s the weekend? And I’m on vacation this week? 6 a.m. is not acceptable. So I bartered – a bottle of milk for quiet time in bed.

It buys a nap – usually – which is something that’s very, very valuable. We’ve been known to offer a free refill if it’s required to finalize the transaction, too.

For a long time, milk was the ticket to a little bit of peace at the 4 pm witching hour. We’ve decided to save our dairy dollars, though, in an effort to get him to actually eat something at dinner. Hey, you’ve got to be fiscally prudent sometimes.

Milk at bedtime has become a habit – something that was always part of the parent-infant deal making. It’s now a stable part of our Gross National Sanity, but I think the exchange rate must have gone up significantly because we don’t get nearly as much for it as we used to. One bottle used to be worth a relatively quiet bedtime, but no more. Maybe we need to renegotiate with our banker.

Yes, that banker happens to be almost 3. And yes, he still gets milk in a bottle sometimes. The sanity of the kingdom’s rulers depends on it.

I Suck at Saturdays

Here we are again, Saturday stretching in front of us. Husband is working, I’m sick, kid is…bouncy. I know I need to be better about Saturdays – make plans so we have something to do. But again I haven’t done that and again I’m not motivated to try. I’m tired, it’s raining and the last thing I feel like doing is going out in public. Especially with a two-year-old.

He decides he doesn’t want to nap. I try for an hour, maybe longer, to no avail. He’s gone from asking to go to bed to flipping around, falling off the bed, hiding under the covers. This is not a good sign.

Eventually he says, “I’m done.” So am I. I give up.

Downstairs again, we eat lunch. Or at least I eat lunch. He has two bites of soup and decides he’s had enough. I can’t muster the energy to care.

We try the nap again. No go.

The good news is I haven’t lost my patience with all of this, as has happened on so many weekends before. The bad news is I have someone breathing down my neck about it.

He’s obviously tired and now he’s going to be hungry. Why don’t you try harder?

“Because I’ve already tried – twice now – to get him to nap. He’s not going to. And if he’s not going to eat now he’ll eat later.”

He’s going to get bored, though. Why don’t you go out?

“Where would we go? It’s raining, and I don’t feel like it. I’m dying for some time to myself.”

You had that on Thursday, remember? You took the day off and sat on the couch in your pajamas all day.

“It wasn’t enough.”

You have a two-year-old. This is how it is now. Everyone else can do it. Why can’t you?

“I don’t know. But it’s been over two years of this same shit every weekend. Why can’t I do this? I’m sick of this. So sick of not being able to be a mom like everyone else.”

The phone rings.

It’s your mom.

I’m tempted to not answer it. I suspect she’s seen my tweet and is calling to see if I need backup. I don’t need it the way I’ve needed it on other days, though I’d happily have someone else come and distract him for a bit. But if I answer the phone and say yes it’s an admission that I can’t do this.

Screw it. I answer the phone.

She comes over. My dad, on his way home from downtown, comes over. While they play I do laundry and tidy up a bit. The productivity helps my mental state.

After a while, they bundle the kid up and take him and the dog to the park. Alone in the house, the dialogue starts up again.

Your mom did this with four kids, you know.”

“Believe me, I know. I’m sure she wonders what the hell is wrong with me. It’s not like it was before – where they have to come so I don’t throw him out the window – but I’m still not where I want to be. I just don’t know how to make other people understand it. I don’t understand it.”

“So just suck it up. He’s your kid, you’re his mom, and it’s your job to take care of him. Entertain him, stimulate him, play with him.”

“Sometimes I don’t want to.”

“Oh for God’s sake. Your husband does this every day! He manages to find things to do so they have fun. He doesn’t just sit there and wish he had the house to himself. What’s wrong with you?!”

I’ve had enough. I call a halt to the stream of self-criticism.

“Hey! Think back to what weekends used to be like! I’m doing better than I used to. I didn’t have any ‘I can’t do this!’ moments today. Yeah, sure, ‘I don’t want to’ isn’t a whole lot better but at least I’m not having a meltdown. And besides, I’m sick. And I’m tired. I’ve got a really wiggly kid sleeping on me every other night and work has been busy and we’re waiting for God-knows-what to happen on Monday AND I’ve got stupid family stress. So just give me a break!”

For once, the other voice is silent. Thinking. Reflecting.

I still suck at Saturdays, but I suck less than I used to.

The Mom Pledge Matters

In 1999, I joined an online community. I was 24 then, and my (now) husband and I had been together for a year. Like so many who are young and in love we had started talking about getting married so I was looking for information. It was a relatively short-lived fantasy and our for-real wedding planning didn’t happen for another few years, but I got hooked on this online community and hung around.

It was my first foray into an online social environment. The community was large and all the things that are true to online communities to this day were present there: sharing of stories, tips and frustrations. Joy expressed at good news and good deals, sympathy for monster mothers-in-law and relationship roadblocks.

Oh, and ruthless backstabbing.

What is it about sitting behind a computer screen that makes it okay to take other people down?

In this particular case, there were the usual cliques, including the cool kids and the tacky girls. The tacky girls posted about cash bars, cheap alcohol offerings and money dances – all the things that are totally de rigeur in some regions but unabashedly tacky in others – and the cool girls mocked them for it. Relentlessly.

One brash bride would share her disdain, and others would chime in. A few brave souls would stand up for the original poster who, in posting about white Zinfandel, was only exploring her options.

You know how it goes. We’ve all been there. But if you think brides are bad, mothers are worse.

A wedding is a one-time event. When it’s over, it’s over, and others’ opinions cease to matter. Parenting practices are, apparently, everyone’s business. Especially when you blog about it.

My blog is a mere two months old. I’m barely past being a newborn as a blogger, but I’ve been a reader for many years. I’ve seen moms express moments of joy only to be shot down by the insignificance of their children’s so-called accomplishments. I’ve seen moms – sleep-deprived, scared new moms – reveal their struggles and ask for help only to be told they’re ruining their child’s life through crying it out/nursing to sleep/sending to daycare/whatever.

It’s all crap. And I don’t play that game.

I’ve had my own troubles and lord knows I’ve made some wrong choices in my 2 1/2 years as a mom. Some of those things I did because I was at my wit’s end and just needed to survive another hour. Some because I didn’t know any better.

The thing is, as much as I like to think I’ve got it figured out and the next time will be better and easier, I don’t. And it probably won’t. Not entirely anyway. Being a mom is hard and every kid is different. We’re all figuring it out as we go along and doing the best we can.

What I have figured out is that community matters. The bullying on that original wedding planning board eventually broke it. The creator, who was just trying to run a business helping brides-to-be, gave up. She re-launched later, in a different format, but in the interim the two communities split up.

Those of us who had had enough of the bullying let the cool kids leave to play in their own playground and we created a community of our own. 12 years later, we’re still there. I’ve met only two of these women in person, and only briefly, and yet I consider them fast friends. I have called on them when I need help and they’ve been there. When someone else was calling out, I’ve sent love and hugs and gifts and money. We came together because we shared values – a desire for healthy dialogue, respect and the acknowledgment that each of us is finding her own way through the world and gets by with a little help from her friends.

That’s why I’ve taken The Mom Pledge. We call out for an end to bullying in our children’s school, sports fields and online spaces, but bullying each other isn’t okay either, and it needs to stop.

Because it matters.
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Wordless Wednesday: Peace and Quiet

I’m travelling for work again today, the second time in two weeks. I used to relish these trips, even if they were short, even if the travel was long, because it gave me some time to myself. A little bit of peace and quiet.

I still cherish this time and try to make the most of it, but I look forward to it a little less, dread it a little more. Because sometimes what I’m leaving behind is peace and quiet* and I appreciate it more now.

*Yes, I realize he’s not always quite this quiet. But he’s still my little boy.

Airplanes

I’ve only been away for two days but when I look through the 2nd-floor window and see him waiting downstairs in the arrivals area I wave furiously. He waves back, smiling big.

As I come through the sliding doors, he runs towards me. It’s the classic airport scene – mom coming home, her little boy running to greet her, big smiles all around.

He jumps at me and I scoop him up, aware of the others still waiting for their loved ones who are smiling as they watch us. The big reunion.

“Mama!” he says excitedly.

“Hi, buddy!” I answer, thinking about how lucky I am to have a little man who’s so happy to see me come home.

“Come and get me a new airplane!”

Little bugger. It’s less that he’s happy to see me, though I know he is, and more that he found a toy airplane when we were here to drop me off and he hasn’t forgotten. Figures mom coming home is a good opportunity to bargain for it again.

I laugh and agree to go with him so he can show me.

“I want a kiss first, though,” I say.

I get one.