My Baby Is The Best Mommy

I've been meaning to talk about something for awhile and that's what an incredible mother Lily is. It's obvious the boy has two fantastic parents when you meet him and hang out with him. He's so engaged and engaging, he's so confident and affectionate. He's so...perfect.

I'm not supposed to say that, but hell's bells. I will.

And the doctor confirmed that opinion today. I've mentioned before how Owen's pediatrician was the same one his mama had when she was a baby (which was about ten minutes ago) and actually, all of my kids were his patients.
I think all my kids liked him quite a bit but I suspect I'm the one who loves him the most. When we met, I was a young hippie mama and expecting my third baby and was planning on a home birth and he didn't approve of that but he didn't get up on any high horse about it, either. He knew I was a nurse, he respected me and my choice, and when I brought Lily in the day after she was born, he said,"I thought I'd be seeing you today. I heard there was a party at your house yesterday." And then he smiled and examined her and pronounced her to be perfect.

I have a lot of respect for this man and he's always treated me as an equal somehow which, believe me, doctors don't always do and certainly didn't always do (am I telling you something you don't know?) and as every mother knows, you need a pediatrician whom you not only trust as a medical provider for your child, but one who makes you feel comfortable with your mothering style and your choices and perhaps most importantly- makes you feel like your child is really very special.
And this doctor does that and it's such a joy for me to go with Lily to take Owen to his appointments because I think he does that for Lily, too.

He showed us Owen's growth statistics on the computer and he told us how very pleased he was with all of Owen's numbers. He's in the 95th-97th percentile in height, 90th percentile in weight, and 95th in head circumference. "Perfect! the doctor announced.

And then he asked questions about Owen's developmental behavior and his eating habits and drinking habits (only on weekends, we told him!- haha! that's a joke! we didn't say that at all) and he praised Lily for her choices and he kept asking, "Anything else? Anything else?" and we chatted for awhile and it was just lovely except for the part where Owen screamed like a banshee (what IS a banshee?) when the doctor was listening and examining.

Owen did like having his temperature taken in his ear, though. "More," he said, when it was over.

And of course he screamed when he got his shot but he recovered quickly and then we went out to eat and all was well.

When we were in the doctor's office, I told him that Lily is the best mama in the world and he said, "Well, look who HER mother is," which made me feel good, of course, but come on- she just is. I love to watch her and Owen together. He's like her little bear cub and she's infinitely patient with him and feeds him so well and healthfully and she just so plainly adores him.

She brushes his teeth twice a day which is something I didn't do for my toddlers. She reads him books, he's never had a diaper rash, he still gets his nursies, he knows that when she says no, she means it and she just has so much FUN with him.

She's PERFECT!

Okay, of course no mother is perfect, just as no child really is either. Except for Owen.
But I have never honestly seen her do one thing with or for that boy that I didn't approve of. Not one. And she has such confidence in her mothering! Well-founded confidence, I might add.

And I have to tell you something- I am, quite frankly, astounded.

When Lily was growing up, she was stuck in the Terrible Twos from birth to age eighteen when she moved out of the house. I thought she hated me, even though I knew she loved me. She didn't talk to me hardly at all for a full year once and she told me later that it was because she'd had her tongue pierced and didn't want me to know.
Under-aged tongue-piercing was the least of it, too.

I seriously was not sure for eighteen years whether either one of us would make it.

And here she is, twenty-five years old which is really quite young, married to one of the finest, most loving fathers I've ever met, a good, good man and they own a house and they work so hard and I just never saw this coming. Never.

Lily planted a vegetable garden this spring. Do you hear that? Lily was the child I would have been least optimistic about the chances of being a gardener and yet...here she is. It's like...who IS this child?

Oh. She's my daughter. The one that I always said about, "If I can raise her up without killing that spirit of hers, she'll turn out to be anything she wants."

And I was right. But frankly, I think a great deal of that has to do with her daddy who had wonderful parents and a wonderful family and when I'd freak out and hide under the bed or cry about whatever it was that she had taken to doing most recently, whether it was throwing tantrums in the mall and screaming, "Help! Help!" as I carried her out, or threatening to call Child Protective Services on me because I told her she had to stay in her room until dinner time or getting tattooed in someone's kitchen, he'd be the one to step back and tell me not to worry so much, that she was going to be fine, that all would be well.

And I'd look at him like, "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND???!!!"

Turns out he wasn't. Turns out he knew what he was talking about. Turns out she turned out to be the most focused, wonderful, loving, patient woman and mother I've ever met. And for every gray hair she gave me, she has made up for a thousand-fold by being the sort of mother she is to my grandson and for allowing me to be such a part of his life.

Yeah. I know that I am doing a loving mitzvah by taking care of that boy but come on- I'd fight you tooth and nail if you tried to take that away from me. TOOTH AND NAIL! Lily and Jason have given my husband and me the greatest opportunity and the greatest joy of our lives in entrusting us with their son's care so generously. For not freaking out when he comes home covered in Lloyd dirt and maybe a little bit of chicken poop, too. For being completely attentive and yet completely at ease with all things having to do with that boy. For sharing him with us.
For not minding that I taught Owen the word "boobie."
Etc.

So all of you parents who are going through...whatever...with your young kids, don't despair. Just keep on loving them. Keep on knowing that no matter what you think, they are listening, they know you love them, they love you too. That sometimes the younger they are when they get their ya-ya's out, the better. That a child's soul and spirit can be fierce beyond belief and honestly- that's a good thing. This world needs fierce souls and spirits. Desperately.

Hang on. Love them, love them, love them. Try not to let them get away with crap but if they do, know it's not the end of the world. Tongue-piercings can grow back. Tattoos can be redone. Children can grow up and turn into people and parents who are quite honestly, incredibly well-adjusted and amazing people.
And unbelievable parents.
And even- perhaps most unbelievably- wonderful friends whom you respect and adore and just enjoy the hell out of being around.

I'm telling you the truth.

Look at those pictures of my beautiful daughter and her beautiful son. See the joy? See the love?
And she even asked me if I wanted to go to the doctor with her. She asked ME. Her mother.

When I tell Lily and Owen good-bye, I always kiss and hug Lily, of course, and I tell Owen, "Your mommy is MY baby. Did you know that?"

And he gives us that face which seems to say, "No way!" and really, I find it hard to believe myself but she is. His mommy is my baby and my baby is the best mommy. The very best mommy in the whole world that Owen could ever have had. I will always remember how beautifully Lily pushed that boy into the world when every damn doctor said there was no way. And she did it without complaint and with such grace and power that I knew right then that she was going to be an amazing mother.

Which she is.
And I love her so much and I am so proud of her.

And that's what I'm thinking about this afternoon and I wish I'd had a crystal ball back when Lily was young to know even a part of what the future held for that girl. I would have worried a lot less and maybe I'd have less gray hair but what the hell? I like gray hair. Gray hair screams GRANDMOTHER!

So it all works out. Mostly it does.

Another miracle in this miraculous life of mine and an opportunity to say once again- Who knew? Not me.

But I sure do now.

The Picture Is In Our Minds

For some reason, I can't seem to get Angelina Jolie off my mind. Not just Angelina, of course, but also her children, all of them as preternaturally beautiful as she is, as her man is. It's almost as if all six of them were fated to be a family; perhaps they are aliens or other-worldly creatures like nymphs or mermaids, beings that don't really belong on this earth with the rest of us but somehow are.
They have gathered together into a family, pulled together by this woman from all over the world. She went to this country and gathered one baby, then another, found a father for the children, found another baby, made a baby with the man, I can't remember all the details of this myth.
And now she's lying in a hospital in Nice in France, and I keep thinking of her there. I imagine (and this is my story, my imagining) that all of the nurses in that hospital are nuns and that in their secret Christ-loving hearts they feel they were put here on earth to deliver the freshest fruits and warmest breads and sweetest milky drinks to this woman, this goddess, this mythological mother as she grows her babies inside of her. They bring her food and and they take her pulse and they nod happily as her abdomen swells and swells with the life inside of her. They probably all laugh with delight when the babies turn and kick inside, lazy punches that make the skin of the mother dance from the movement within. She is probably the most gracious patient they've ever had, this Angelina woman who is tragically and unbelievably beautiful, even now at this point in pregnancy.
I wonder if these nun nurses surreptitiously finger the silk of the gowns Angelina wears, the flowing soft gowns that barely register on the skin, they are so fine, so light. I wonder if the father flirts with them a little bit, just enough to make them scurry to the chapel to stare at their god on his cross, suffering and dying, to pray and try to remember just why it is they married god and not a man when so obviously, at least one woman was able to do both.
Outside the hospital, the photographers and journalists swarm, probably eating stale bread and drinking cold cups of bitter coffee, always waiting for the father to bring some of the children to see their mother, their cameras at the ready, their bulky equipment, their heavy burdens of the responsibility of delivering the pictures, the news of arrivals of the father, the children, the babies.
And inside, all is peaceful as the mother lies on her bed, those perfect lips, those huge hands and feet, those babies inside her, growing big enough to come out and play with their perfect siblings who have all the colors of all the people on the planet, the most perfect family in the world, perhaps; this or any other.
She is waiting and last year she lost her own mother and I am certain she is thinking of that woman as all women do when they are about to give birth, their mothers, both the real ones they have or have lost and the mothers they wish they had had, a different sort of myth, someone who can take away any pain, who can comfort any fear, who can calm waters and birth pains with one slow caress of the hand, who will touch a daughter's face when her time is at hand who will whisper, "Sssh, sssh, it's fine, be calm, my beautiful girl. It will soon be over, you will have your babies in your arms and you will be so happy."
And I think of those other children, the ones of the already-born part of the family, the black and brown and white ones and I know how much they must miss their mother, that woman who is so strong she can carry two of them at a time on her skinny hips, her thin arms around them like bands of love and protection. I think of the father, how hard he must be working to keep all the children happy, protected from the cameras, the lights, the prying eyes as the mother grows the babies in safety.
I think of the mother, lying in a bed, dreaming of what? Her own mother, all the places she will be taking her family, being patient, being a patient, letting the nun nurses tend to her.
But mostly I think of those babies inside her, this moment of their lives perhaps the most perfect when they do not have to share her with their siblings, their father, or the world who think they own her.
No, for this moment, she is all theirs and why in the world would they want to come out?
And why in the world do I think of them at all?
Because they are myth, they are Father, they are Mother, they are the children of the world, they are beautiful, they are loved, they are not what they are but they are what they are to each of us, that myth that humans need in order to believe that we are speeding towards another existence, one where everyone is safe and held tightly, loved and fed and cherished in the softest light, no matter our color or circumstances of our births.
I can't stop thinking of them, the children, the man, the mother, as I approach another birthday, not knowing where I'm going, unsure of where I've been, growing older and feeling more useless, more anxious with each passing day.
I think back on the days when I was ripe with child, waiting for a new life to begin and although I was no myth, although I was no goddess, I was, somewhere safe in my mind, and it was there I had a mother, that Mother, that myth, who stroked my face, who calmed my fears, who said, "Shhh, shhh, be calm, my beautiful girl, all is well, soon you will be holding your baby in your arms and all will be well," and I clung to that thought until the moment came when I, too, was a mother, the Mother, not a myth, but a real one born of blood and flesh, delivered of perfect babies.
I greeted them with cries of delight, pouring from my mouth, my perfect mother's mouth, and I think of Angelina's lips, how they will move and change when she calls to her new children, when she becomes Mother again, her long arms reaching out to hold them, long arms and strong enough to hold two, and the nun nurses will cross themselves and smile to one another.
The Mother will have been delivered, the babies will have made her myth again.
We need them, the other-worldlies, the unknowable, the unreachable, the perfect, the beautiful.
We have always needed them, the mermaids, the nymphs, the unicorns, the dragons, the father, the son, the holy ghost but mostly the Mother as she cries out, as she strokes the face, as she lies in wait, her body that perfect temple of life.

Because We Love That Monkey On Our Back, Or Sometimes On Our Nose

It's coming up on a year now that I started this blog thing and I have to say that I've taken to it like a baby monkey takes to a human nose, so to speak, and it's become a major part of my life.
Not sure exactly why but I'm sure it has a lot to do with my natural passion for words, my opinionated soul, and the fact that it appears that some people do read my wordy opinions and even take the time to comment on them!
Wowzer!
I feel like I'm late to the party with this blog thing. It's been going on for quite a while (in internet years, anyway, which are like regular years only on meth, cocaine, and espresso all at the same time) but here I am now and here I'll stay unless my magic box (aka The MacBook) dies and my husband refuses to waste any more money buying me a new one. I'm the sort of frustrated writer that would write no matter what- readers, no readers, whatever. I'm like Deacon Fuller, a musician I used to love to go dance to in St. Pete who once ended a show saying, "Thanks for coming out and supporting live music because if you hadn't, we'd all be sitting around our living room, playing for ourselves."
You gotta do what you gotta do.
But I've been trying to analyze what this compulsion to blog means. Not just for me, but for others and there's been a lot of news about it in the media. The mother of all bloggers (in my opinion, anyway), Heather Armstrong, has recently appeared in the Wall Street Journal, on the Today Show, and on Nightline. It would appear that the woman is bringing in ad revenues of up to $40,000 a month which is a lot of jingle in the pocket which has allowed her and her husband (who helps with the technical stuff and has a more visual-content blog himself) to stay at home with their daughter and basically live the American dream which is to figure out a way to make the money to support the family doing something you love.
The media is calling her one of the "mommy-bloggers" and yes, she is, but she writes about a lot more than her child. And she's one of those writers who can write about anything and make it funny or heartrending or poignant and that's all there is to it. She's a talented woman and I am in awe of her.
She gets an awful lot of hate mail and most of it boils down to something in the various categories of, "You don't deserve to make money writing about your stupid kid and your stupid dogs," "You're ugly," and "You're profane."
Well, she's not ugly and she is profane and anyone who gets four million hits a month on their blog obviously does deserve to make money with it.
And dammit! I wish that when I'd been a young mama I'd had the blogging outlet. Being a mother is a hard, hard job and anyone who doesn't admit that has either
(A) Never had a kid, or
(B) Is a big fat liar.
And Heather's blog covers the mothering-ground from the moments of such pure-white-blissed-out-wonder at the way she loves her child to the moments of wanting to grab the car keys and hit the nearest interstate and not stop driving until the pavement runs out.
She's honest. And people can't stand that for some reason. Especially if that honesty combined with a terrific talent for writing combines to bring in a healthy income.
Mothering is a strange thing. We talk a big talk about what a hard job it is, how important a job it is, and even how sacred a job it is, but we offer the women who do it absolutely no money, no social status and no health insurance, which makes it mighty difficult for anyone to actually DO it.
It's isolating, it's frustrating, it's constant and it never ends from the moment of conception. Not when the children go to school, not when they leave home for college, not when they get married and not until we die, at which time we can almost positively say we're going to get a good rest.
Until then- don't count on it.
So anyone who's really out there doing it, whether it's the lady who lives in a single-wide on an acre of land in the middle of nowhere, to Angelina Jolie, is doing the hard work. Even women who are doing it who have a lot of money and get to be in movies or on television are still having to get up in the middle of the night and deal with sudden high fevers and vomited-on sheets and the constant worrying that accompanies motherhood. Sure, it has its moments of transcendental joy but there's a lot more poop involved than there is glory, no matter how much money you have.
If you're really doing it right, anyway.
And I admire these mommy-bloggers who have discovered and created their own little world in the blogosphere. They've created a community, a way to be creative, and in some cases, a decent living. And I don't think they're necessarily "using" their kids, either. You get any two mothers together and they're going to start a discussion about their families and their lives and they may end up crying and they probably will end up laughing, but either way, they will go away feeling better because they know they're not alone in how they feel about this monumental task they're doing.
And blogging seems to me to just be a natural extension of that.
So here's what I say to all the people bitching and moaning about Ms. Armstrong and her blog- first off, don't read it. Secondly, admit it- you're fucking jealous.
Start your own blog. If you can figure out how to comment on someone else's, you can certainly figure out how to create one of your own. And if you're a fantastic writer and you have something to say that people want to hear, you might even make some money at it.
Or, like me, you might just find that you love the entire process of it so much that you can't remember what life was like before you started.
Sort of like having children. Without the poop. And very little glory.
But the sort of reward you just can't really explain.
Blog on.