I want to have children. I see myself having three or four, but I will be happy with whatever God chooses to bless us with. I guess I want to have kids because I was raised to be super family-oriented, I was constantly told family was the most important thing, and my mom lived for us kids. She gave up her career to have us, and spent all of her time doting on us. She cooked every meal, practically ran a taxi service driving me and my friends around, and like GirlWednesday's mom and I'm sure many other moms out there, worried relentlessly. I saw her a super mom, and that is always what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I also love children in general, and spending a lot of time with children is something I think will be highly enjoyable. I know it's really hard work. I'm usually not a fan of hard work, because I rarely think it's satisfying or that everyone gets the credit they deserve. But I think when you take care of a child, you see your efforts pay off as the child becomes a more happy, healthy and well-adjusted individual. So bring on the diapers, the strollers, the Sesame Street, the meltdowns, the PTA meetings, the bake sales, the soccer games, the insolence, the piano recitales, the science fairs. . . I'm all about it.
On the other hand, I can see the so-called "argument" against children. They are really, really expensive. You spend the first quarter of your life getting things set up for yourself only to sacrifice many things you worked hard for. Importantly, you may feel pressured to have them because that's "what you do" at a certain point-- not a good reason.
I think my reasons for having children make sense. But they raise some crucial opposing points. Do I want to have children to entertain myself? To have something to do? To show them off to other people? Because that's what yuppies do? Because I want someone to take care of me when I'm older? Because I want to have someone around who has to love me in case my husband is gone?
Well, no. Of course not! I want to make the world a better place, and I think bringing more people in the world who are good and ethical and productive is the best way to achieve that. It's that simple. But I think a lot of people are not sufficiently thoughtful about why they are making such a remarkable decision. We are talking about bringing a new person into the world here. This is serious stuff. I wonder if many couples decide to get pregnant because it seems like the next logical step. On the other hand, when women say they feel ready to have a baby, that they really want to get pregnant, maybe it is a maternal calling, not just a societal influence. The biological clock might be this great thing that calls attention to our primitive desires in an otherwise noisy world. So who's to say that instinct isn't good enough evidence that procreating is the right thing to do?
Now I want to move onto something much more controversial. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry for what I'm about to say-- but I just don't get mothers who choose to work. To be clear, I am NOT talking about women who need to work to contribute to the family (and of course, this does not just mean the truly poor-- almost every family seems to need two incomes to survive- especially these days). My mother worked at times during my childhood and she made it all work and I completely respect that. What I don't get is women who have children, take the few months maternity leave following the birth, and then put their children in daycare and work full-time, when working is comparable to the cost of daycare. If you do not want to spend a lot of time with your children, especially when they are very young and I think, need you, then why have them? Why have them and then miss their first words and first steps? It seems a little delusional to believe that those milestones only happen after 6 PM or on weekends. I know I sound really judgmental, but I would love for someone to be able to explain this to me. Because caring for your baby seems like something that would be so fulfilling, and to miss it just seems sad. And if you would rather be at work, maybe motherhood is not for you?
Then again, I'm not a mom. I don't know what it's like firsthand. Maybe baby daycare works for some families, and those kids turn out wonderfully happy and confident and feel loved by and close to their parents. I hope they do. And I know that all moms, working or not, love their kids. And isn't that really all that matters.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Future Family...
My future family. I have always wondered what that would look like. Growing up in a big family the first question you always get asked is, “Do you want to have a big family yourself?” I usually responded by saying, “Good question – it’s too hard to tell right now but probably not.”
Similar to GWednesday, I was basically a second mom to most of my siblings growing up. There are ten of us and there is no way that my mom could have been at all of their events, driven them to all of their extra curriculars and helped all of them with their homework. That is where I stepped in. In fact, my sister gave a speech at my wedding and even made the comment in her speech that I have always been a motherly role to all of the other kids. And I love this. Of course as a teenager there were the times I complained when I had to babysit instead of hang out with my friends. I occasionally got annoyed when I had to fix my sisters’ hair. But in hindsight (at risk of sounding cheesy) I wouldn’t trade the memories and bonds that were created all those years for anything.
Because of these past experiences I have always wondered what it would be like for me when I actually had my own family. Would the love I had for my own children feel the same as the love for my brothers and sisters? I am sure it will be stronger but that is the closest feeling I know to compare to.
And then the question of when? Did I want to spend a long time with my husband before we had kids? Did I want to travel and settle down before I start a family? Did I want to be one of the old moms or the young moms in Kindergarten? If I did start young, was it going to be hard for me to balance a career and children? Would I be able to commit to both 100%? If not, and I chose being a mom full-time would I feel satisfied? Would it jeopardize my chances of being able to enter the workforce later on? These are all questions I am sure most people ponder at some point and I am sure most people, as I have, form varied opinions on a lot of the questions. However, with these questions/fears/concerns I never doubted that I would be a good mother. And, once I met my husband I always knew he would be a wonderful father as well.
So, the time comes to break the news….we will be having a third addition to our family in September! The last few months have been a varied rollercoaster of emotions: from excitement to fear to nervousness to doubt and back to pure joy. Things will definitely be changing over the next few months: new job, new house, new city to live in, new baby…but we are excited for the adventure and change to come! I’m sure I will have future blogs to write about this so I will leave this blog at this point. We are excited for all the changes that are going to happen. With the changing atmosphere comes growth, mistakes, adventure, and trials. I can’t wait for this journey that we are embarking upon…
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Brother with Two Mothers
When I was 11 years old something happened that, to say it "changed my life" is too broad for me to expect you to believe. So I will try to say it more specifically: what happened when I was 11 changed every morning, afternoon, evening, every breakfast and late-night snack; what happened gave me pause when I filled out a college application, and when I had to make a decision at the McDonald's drive-thru window; what happened changed the way I watched the news, the way I regarded people on the street, the way I considered- for the first time- what I would be willing to do for someone else's well being, it changed my understanding of trust and innocence; it changed the way I would see every man for the rest of my life-- it changed every second of every day of the rest of my life. When I was 11 years old my brother was born.
When I was two years old, my sister was born. The time leading up to that event, I wanted a little sister the way- just a few short years later- I wanted a puppy. And I really wanted a puppy. But I had begged my parents for a little sister. I wanted a little sister, a partner in crime, someone to really eat the fake meals I whipped up, with the rubber food in my play kitchen; someone to hide in the coat closet with me and jump out and try to startle my mother.
But when my sister was born, I was too young to be conscious of all the glaring, profound subtleties of having a brand new human being enter the world so close to me. I wasn't capable of taking note of milestones, or if I had- remembering them. Plus, we were peers. But at 11, I could feel the palpable difference between child and newborn, and what it means to be responsible for someone else who can't be responsible for himself.
With the scary way our "health" teachers talked about pregnancy, I always assumed that raising a kid was akin to some form of modern slavery, set in a poorly-lit apartment in a bad part of town. I also assumed it meant never having even an hour a month with which to get one's roots dyed. Always having to wear long jeans that buttoned a comfortable 8 inches above the bellybutton, and always needing a giant stroller that never folds up in a useful way. Not to mention, everyone knows diapers are so expensive, you'll be using food stamps to buy them in no time. (All based on what I heard in class, saw at the mall, Monday night made-for-TV movies, and my vivid 6th grade imagination).
And the new responsibility had broader effects.
Watching the news. Susan Smith. I was 15 when that story broke and I cried for 2 weeks straight.
Nothing seemed quite the same after I became a quasi-mother. Especially since we found out my brother was going to pre-school and telling everyone that I was his "real" mother, and he knew this because he "remembered being in my belly." That launched all kinds of loaded stares from teachers and parents. But I assure you, he was mistaken. He also thought "moms pooped babies out of their butts," so how credible was he, really?
And so, 17 years later, I'm thinking that raising a kid gets much more difficult as he gets older-- it would seem the opposite, since when they're younger they need extra care-- but I think it's for that very reason that it gets more heart-breaking, and therefore arduous. He now needs less care. We know we're supposed to let him go, be on his own, and yet even more is expected of him from the world- won't he need us?
I know, I know, that's how life works.
Anyway, I tell you all of this to say, I am physically exhausted from 17 years of worry-- about whether or not my baby brother will fall down the basement stairs (again), whether he'll get kidnapped by a pedophile, whether or not he's still disappointed he didn't make Little League MVP when he was 8, whether he swallowed his pet worm (named, "Mildew") when he swallowed that handful of dirt, whether he'll choke on a chicken McNugget, whether he'll make Principal's Honor Roll- not just plain ole' Honor Roll, whether he'll get in the "right" school, or meet the "right" girl, whether he'll be a healthy man, and is successful at what he sets out to do, and that he's happy, ultimately, I hope that he is happy...
actually
ate
a mud pie.
When I was two years old, my sister was born. The time leading up to that event, I wanted a little sister the way- just a few short years later- I wanted a puppy. And I really wanted a puppy. But I had begged my parents for a little sister. I wanted a little sister, a partner in crime, someone to really eat the fake meals I whipped up, with the rubber food in my play kitchen; someone to hide in the coat closet with me and jump out and try to startle my mother.
I wanted to have an actual, living breathing person at the tea parties- not just my 8,000 dolls who sat stiffly in their chairs. And I got one. I got a lifetime pal.
But when my sister was born, I was too young to be conscious of all the glaring, profound subtleties of having a brand new human being enter the world so close to me. I wasn't capable of taking note of milestones, or if I had- remembering them. Plus, we were peers. But at 11, I could feel the palpable difference between child and newborn, and what it means to be responsible for someone else who can't be responsible for himself.
With the scary way our "health" teachers talked about pregnancy, I always assumed that raising a kid was akin to some form of modern slavery, set in a poorly-lit apartment in a bad part of town. I also assumed it meant never having even an hour a month with which to get one's roots dyed. Always having to wear long jeans that buttoned a comfortable 8 inches above the bellybutton, and always needing a giant stroller that never folds up in a useful way. Not to mention, everyone knows diapers are so expensive, you'll be using food stamps to buy them in no time. (All based on what I heard in class, saw at the mall, Monday night made-for-TV movies, and my vivid 6th grade imagination).
Being a parent is so hard. It is. Like it was for my own mother, who made motherhood seem... frantic, by her constant state of worry... Worry, and the byproduct of it: exhaustion.
But as an attentive and sensitive tween, the rhythm I developed for caring for this new sibling seemed to erase my scary notions and I slipped into the role of protector. I learned to anticipate when my baby brother was going to spontaneously nose dive from the couch for a toy on the floor, I learned to catch him with one arm. I could anticipate when he was about to reach between the bars at the zoo; when he was contemplating a grab for the vase, high up on the table. I saw when he oh-so-quickly snuck between everyone's legs, into the open refrigerator, and took a swig of rubbing alcohol- and leapt for him before he could drink more. I could almost smell when he was about to throw a tantrum, straighten his legs and arms and lock his joints so no one could move him away from the playground. And when he sliced his foot on the old chair's exposed upholstery staple, while playing a game of hide and seek-- and he let out one of those silent but piercing, tearful, incredulous, pained wails-- I grabbed him, wrapped his foot and carried him to the car in a matter of seconds.
I was also there for every Christmas pageant, show-and-tell, science fair, art fair, jazz band concert, field trip, and yes, even parent-teacher meetings.
And the new responsibility had broader effects.
Having a little brother with an 11-year age gap, has given me certain perspective on men. I can't help it. I see them, when I peer at most any of them, as a smaller, younger version of themselves. Sometimes the image hits me within minutes: little league, video games, doting mother, quiet father, missing front tooth, bowl haircut. Or sometimes it's more subtle and takes time-- but the little boy almost always shows himself- even if for just a moment.
And I cannot walk down the street like a normal person (first of all, dogs. Must pull over and scratch belly)- because of children. Endearing children with mismatched socks or riding with training wheels or talking to oneself cause me to stop whatever I'm doing to strike up nonsensical conversation. Sometimes the child is intolerable and I dole out my death stare and the child pipes down. All children are inherently good, and even though death stare mostly works, I have been yelled at by a mother for it. But I digress...
Watching the news. Susan Smith. I was 15 when that story broke and I cried for 2 weeks straight.
Nothing seemed quite the same after I became a quasi-mother. Especially since we found out my brother was going to pre-school and telling everyone that I was his "real" mother, and he knew this because he "remembered being in my belly." That launched all kinds of loaded stares from teachers and parents. But I assure you, he was mistaken. He also thought "moms pooped babies out of their butts," so how credible was he, really?
And so, 17 years later, I'm thinking that raising a kid gets much more difficult as he gets older-- it would seem the opposite, since when they're younger they need extra care-- but I think it's for that very reason that it gets more heart-breaking, and therefore arduous. He now needs less care. We know we're supposed to let him go, be on his own, and yet even more is expected of him from the world- won't he need us?
And the problem is, I still see the little boy in my now 17-year-old brother and I see him getting ready to go off on his own. I see him eager to explore the world outside our small town, but also apprehensive about it. He'd have to leave the place where someone (almost) always caught him when he fell...
I know, I know, that's how life works.
Anyway, I tell you all of this to say, I am physically exhausted from 17 years of worry-- about whether or not my baby brother will fall down the basement stairs (again), whether he'll get kidnapped by a pedophile, whether or not he's still disappointed he didn't make Little League MVP when he was 8, whether he swallowed his pet worm (named, "Mildew") when he swallowed that handful of dirt, whether he'll choke on a chicken McNugget, whether he'll make Principal's Honor Roll- not just plain ole' Honor Roll, whether he'll get in the "right" school, or meet the "right" girl, whether he'll be a healthy man, and is successful at what he sets out to do, and that he's happy, ultimately, I hope that he is happy...
And so I'm not sure I could willingly sign up for this again. If I have kids, I'll be starting over and frankly, that thought just makes me sleepy.
But maybe I could raise a family that way... tired? Maybe, with my own children, with my future family, I'll be like "yeah sure go ahead, eat some dirt." Maybe that's why some moms are like that- their Worry Jar is tapped out- so worn it's got holes- no way to retain the new worries. She knows everything is going to be fine, whether or not the kid
actually
ate
a mud pie.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
T-minus 11. . .
This week’s topic is particularly fitting. The soon-to-be-Husband-Tuesday will become the actual HusbandTuesday in less than two weeks. For the past eleven months, our lives have been driven by the countless details that go in to planning a wedding. I have a spreadsheet with flower details, ceremony timelines, photography timelines, reception timelines, menu choices, rehearsal dinner guest lists, wedding guest lists, vendor information, registry checklists, thank you note records. The number of tabs on that sheet is inversely proportional to the actual usefulness of the document. But it’s the one thing that I have clung to in planning for the day (and was a strong recommendation by GirlFriday).
We spent the weekend finalizing all the last-minute details. MomTuesday, DaddyTuesday and I picked up my wedding dress on Saturday morning, soon-to-be-Husband-Tuesday and I had a last minute meeting with a videographer who we hired in the final days because his Grandmother can no longer make the journey to middle-America for our wedding; we wrapped wedding party gifts; we alphabetized placecards; We applied for our marriage license yesterday morning bright and early; MomTuesday is finalizing details with the remaining vendors this week; we’re basically ready.
While there are still details to attend to (like remembering to pick up the actual marriage license. . . ) these next two weeks are a welcomed relief—because as the planning comes to an end, we can finally look forward to the important part of marriage—becoming our own family.
I’m not talking about popping out children right away. Heaven knows that’s not in the cards for either of us right now. It’s so far off our radar at the moment, it’s actually kinda funny. We’re looking forward to the phase of life my parents fondly refer to as “B.C.”—before children. We’re hoping to travel, buy a home, allow us both to find more direction in our careers, and settle in to our adult lives together a bit more before taking any serious step towards making this a family of three. But it’s something we’ve started chatting about in the last few years, and it’s something we know we will talk about more as the years as Mr.andMrs.Tuesday slip swiftly by.
Planning a wedding with your parents teaches you a lot about family. For example, no matter how hard you try to plan, or how many lists you make, one of you will inevitably think of something you’d forgotten right around the time you thought you’d crossed everything off the list. Expect this. Breathe deeply. Remember why you love them, try not to yell, and apologize if and when you do. Further, planning a wedding makes you realize that children don’t always understand the crazy, unconditional way in which parents love them. They may act like their folks are hyper-emotional or even dorky; but if they shy away or treat you like you’re stupid, it may just be that parent and child deal with the same emotion in very different ways.
Finally, planning a wedding makes you realize just how deep and loyal the bonds of family run. Whether it be an uncle from across the country, a sibling attempting a trip from the pacific coast, or a cousin playing chauffer to your mutual grandparent, the sacrifices that I have watched our families make over the past eleven months remind me of how fortunate we both are to be surrounded by such love. And it makes me hopeful of what our life can become following in that example.
We spent the weekend finalizing all the last-minute details. MomTuesday, DaddyTuesday and I picked up my wedding dress on Saturday morning, soon-to-be-Husband-Tuesday and I had a last minute meeting with a videographer who we hired in the final days because his Grandmother can no longer make the journey to middle-America for our wedding; we wrapped wedding party gifts; we alphabetized placecards; We applied for our marriage license yesterday morning bright and early; MomTuesday is finalizing details with the remaining vendors this week; we’re basically ready.
While there are still details to attend to (like remembering to pick up the actual marriage license. . . ) these next two weeks are a welcomed relief—because as the planning comes to an end, we can finally look forward to the important part of marriage—becoming our own family.
I’m not talking about popping out children right away. Heaven knows that’s not in the cards for either of us right now. It’s so far off our radar at the moment, it’s actually kinda funny. We’re looking forward to the phase of life my parents fondly refer to as “B.C.”—before children. We’re hoping to travel, buy a home, allow us both to find more direction in our careers, and settle in to our adult lives together a bit more before taking any serious step towards making this a family of three. But it’s something we’ve started chatting about in the last few years, and it’s something we know we will talk about more as the years as Mr.andMrs.Tuesday slip swiftly by.
Planning a wedding with your parents teaches you a lot about family. For example, no matter how hard you try to plan, or how many lists you make, one of you will inevitably think of something you’d forgotten right around the time you thought you’d crossed everything off the list. Expect this. Breathe deeply. Remember why you love them, try not to yell, and apologize if and when you do. Further, planning a wedding makes you realize that children don’t always understand the crazy, unconditional way in which parents love them. They may act like their folks are hyper-emotional or even dorky; but if they shy away or treat you like you’re stupid, it may just be that parent and child deal with the same emotion in very different ways.
Finally, planning a wedding makes you realize just how deep and loyal the bonds of family run. Whether it be an uncle from across the country, a sibling attempting a trip from the pacific coast, or a cousin playing chauffer to your mutual grandparent, the sacrifices that I have watched our families make over the past eleven months remind me of how fortunate we both are to be surrounded by such love. And it makes me hopeful of what our life can become following in that example.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Magic 8-Ball Says: Outlook Good
I really have absolutely no idea what to say this week on the topic of my future family. I have no idea where they are, what they will look like, and who they will consist of. I don’t even like to guess because then it just presupposes that I know what I want. Which I don’t. I’m not sold on kids, hell, I’m not even completely sold on a husband. I’m also not going to marry someone just so I can have kids. If I never find the right person (doubtful!) then I’ll make the decision on kids later. Alone. And if I have a husband who has an ex-wife and kids and we all live together, that might just be okay too. And it’s even better if I can get DaddyMonday to move in. The more the merrier.
It’s all hard to know when you’re, ahem, 27, and unmarried. I really don’t know what life has to throw at me, but I do know that it will be a houseful of ice cream and movies and doggies and sugary cereal. And also a house where everyone does their chores before any of the aforementioned rewards (unless doggies are chores and rewards, which they *totally* are) and where everyone looks out for those who are less fortunate (4 legs and 2) and where weekends are for getting outside or getting out of town! Other than that, it’s all a crapshoot, and that’s what makes life so exciting!
It’s all hard to know when you’re, ahem, 27, and unmarried. I really don’t know what life has to throw at me, but I do know that it will be a houseful of ice cream and movies and doggies and sugary cereal. And also a house where everyone does their chores before any of the aforementioned rewards (unless doggies are chores and rewards, which they *totally* are) and where everyone looks out for those who are less fortunate (4 legs and 2) and where weekends are for getting outside or getting out of town! Other than that, it’s all a crapshoot, and that’s what makes life so exciting!
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