Straight from the Bottle : fear

A Whole New World

GirlsGoneChild — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 05:57:00 GMT

Pardon the Little Mermaid reference but the life of a preschool parent is going to take some getting used to. Everything is so serious, now. So many new rules. Is it wrong that I just want to sneak out the back door and not buy into any of it?

...Outrunning everyone but his shadow...

Apparently there was some drama at the end of the year when a teacher left Archer's school without notice. Parents were livid and still are it seems, deciding to create a sort of "parent's union" and hosting underground meetings about their children's well being, voicing their concerns, etc. I RSVP'd for the meeting because I didn't know how to say no, and then I felt bad that I even wanted to (say no) because I really should be concerned with my child's well-being, too. And I am, but not in a "parent's conference" kind of way. It gives me a poopy stomach just thinking about it, getting together for lemon squares and chitchat about playground etiquette or whatever. It's times like these when I wonder if I'm even cut out for this parent-stuff. I think I'm a good mom and I love my son more than anything, obviously, but the bureaucracy of parenting is intimidating as hell, not to mention something I'm very uncomfortable with. I want Archer to make friends and learn stuff. I want his preschool experience to be as amazing as it possibly can be... but. Butbutbutbuuuuut... All the drama. Drama! Why!? WHY!?

Which kind of in a way brings me to my next point of weirdness: birthday parties. I almost forgot the whole "when it's your birthday you have to invite the whole class" thing... I hated it when I was a kid because for one, I didn't want everyone at my birthday party and two, I didn't want to be invited to some kid's party if he/she didn't want me there. Of course I understand that this "invite the whole class" thing is standard procedure for parents these days. No one wants to exclude anyone or hurt any child's feelings, which I realize is a kind gesture of loveliness. But it feels so... phony? Then I take a step back and think, "What the hell is wrong with you, Rebecca?" Seriously. What is wrong with me? Why am I so wigged out by this stuff?

Maybe I'm just reeling from the shock of sending Archer to school. Dropping my baby off in tears every morning is no picnic, and although he's wonderfully happy every afternoon when I come to pick him up, I'm starting to think my previous apprehension sending him to preschool early had less to do with whether or not he was ready and more to do with whether or not I was. The truth is... I'm not ready. Everything feels like it's moving way too fast, all of these milestones like butterflies I can't catch and I'm sort of standing here, dumbstruck, watching them flutter away...

...Why do you have to grow up so fast? Huh?...

I'm not ready for secret parent meetings and RSVPing for 4th birthday parties and trying to make small-talk with real adults in their adult houses with three (plus) bedrooms and backyards. I'm intimidated by the Angeleno elite who send their children to Archer's school and their fancy cars-- parents who have the space and monetary means to invite a whole school to their children's parties without flinching.

I feel like a child in her mother's high-heels trying to act way more grown-up than I am. It's one thing parenting a child in a world I'm familiar with. Quite another dropping Archer off in a new place where things just seem so, I dunno, different.

And a little sad, too.

***

Last Night I Dreamt Nicole Richie Named Her Child Archer

GirlsGoneChild — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 00:30:00 GMT

In last night's dream, Nicole Richie had just given birth to a baby boy and in typical celebrity fashion was introducing the world to her new son by way of US Weekly. On the cover, Nicole beamed, staring into the eyes of her son. The tagline said: Nicole Richie welcomes baby Archer.

I remember being pissed in the dream. Opening up the magazine and shaking my head.

"This is bullshit," I said.

Upon waking this morning, I couldn't remember what it really was that pissed me off. Choosing a child's name is a big deal, of course. One that for us required much time and back and forthage. We decided on "Archer" because, for one, it was the only name we both agreed on. (I wanted to name him, "Miller", after Henry Miller and Hal was more interested in naming our son something weird like "Awesome" or "Cartridge") To be fair, one of my front-runner girl's names was "Paper" because I thought it sounded pretty and it reminded me of Jackie Paper from Puff the Magic Dragon, and, well, I dig books.

Are you laughing at me yet? It's okay. Because this post is about to get serious...

Honestly, I don't know that I would even mind if some faux-celebrity named their child Archer. Names are not patented. Archer may have been an original name when we chose it, but Jessica was probably an "original name" at some point as well. So what was the problem, then? Why was I so worked up in my dream and why have I been so worked up, since?

A great many bloggers create pseudonyms for their children or nicknames, masking their identities and with good reason. I have not done that and although I've never used Archer's last name (his differs from mine) I still feel like maybe I've divulged too much. I realize I'm flying under the radar, still, and so far no harm done. But there's a possibility that Archer will be dissapointed in my publishing a book involving him. It is possible his friends could google him and find out about how he pooped in the shower once and then handed it to me. Will they be able to check out the book I wrote in the library? Read about his mother's episiotomy? Will Archer die of embarassment that I wrote about his circumcision on the Huffington Post?

Oh, dear God. What have I done...

I have been thinking a lot about blogging, wondering when the time will come that I will have to stop blogging about Archer. Because it will come. Not tomorrow but soon enough. I have decided that come kindergarten, I will close my computer. I will retire my mommy-blogging, at least where Archer is concerned. I will let him live his life in private. Remove the camera. Turn off my computer. There will be no sequel to Rockabye. Because it's one thing blogging about life with a new baby, but exposing my son through his childhood is not right. I don't think so, anyway.

There have been critics in the past. Those who have expressed to me and other bloggers that we are in fact, "exploiting" our children. I disagree, as I have said before. A writer writes about what she knows and loves. What moves her. And makes her laugh. And that for me is my child. Archer has been a great catalyst for change in my life. And yet-- on the other hand, he is his own person. And therefor should be known not for books and blogs his mother writes about him, but by his own means and definitions.

I know what last night's dream meant: In the dream I was Nicole Richie, exposing my son to the world without knowing any better.

And a part of me was angry, that I chose to put my child in front of the camera, when he didn't know any better than to smile.

***

Good Parent

GirlsGoneChild — Wed, 02 May 2007 05:39:00 GMT

I can unflinchingly write about my deepest secrets. I can be self-deprecating, write about turmoil and pain and the raw truth, no problem. I can easily write about feeling like a bad person and a crappy mother, and I admit, at times I do feel that way.

It is clear that people want what is raw and honest and the truth. People want to read about people who struggle and are in pain. The idiosyncratic parent. The fucked-up hero. The unlikely star.

Parents want to read about one another’s failures. They want to say “me too” to the secrets and lies of strangers because misery loves company and people who feel alone want to know that there is no such thing.

Because there is no such thing…

As being alone.

But just as there is no such thing as being alone, there is such thing as being a confident parent. Unfortunately, and for whatever reason, no one feels comfortable saying so.

Including me.

And that’s crazy. And insane. And sad.

So here is the truth. Here is what I have hidden away for the past two years:

I’m a good mother. I trust my instincts and I am proud of who I am as a parent. I do not regret a single decision I have made thus far. I love that I’m not afraid to get dirty in the mud and dance around the house like a fool and I love that I can make Archer laugh with a single face. I love that I am unafraid and optimistic and patient. I love that I take Archer gallivanting around town to explore unlikely playgrounds. I think I'm positive and real and a good role model for my son and I think I'm doing a damn good job with this parenting thing.

There.

I said it.

Isn’t that great?

Now why the hell were those words so hard for me to type? How come it was hard for me to admit that?

Is being happy unforgivable?

Must we hide the fact that we love being mothers or fathers, women and men? That we love being with our children? That we think we are doing a damn good job?

I have to believe that many of you are like me—that you are afraid to admit to the world that you are amazing. That no matter how hard it gets, you are proud of who you are as people and parents.

Because I’m so tired of all of us thinking it’s necessary to wax poetic every week about how much we suck at being mothers and how hard it is and how afraid we are that we are fucking up our young. Day after day. Blog post after blog post. Memoir after memoir.

I am so frustrated by the fact that I cannot be a confident parent. That by saying I love myself and my abilities as a mother, I am somehow being arrogant, cocky. Vain? That we so easily say kind and loving things about our children and are unable to say anything kind and loving about ourselves. Don't we deserve that? Haven't we earned that right?

Please, say yes.

We are parenting during the age of self-help and books dictating what we are supposed to do in every situation. We have been manipulated into thinking we’re bad parents, ditching our instincts and googling even the simplest questions instead of listening to our hearts.

Admitting we are shitty parents isn’t progressive. Cynicism is one thing but hopelessness is a bummer.

Claiming to be bad parents is the new “I’m fat” for even the thinnest of women.

I’m bored with the cynicism and the sarcasm and I’m tired of feeling bad about feeling good about myself and my ability as a mother.

Fulfillment and confidence and joy should not be stifled or hidden or kept secret. No one should feel embarrassed to admit they think they’re awesome: a good parent. Because for all of the folks who think it’s cool to be “bad” it’s so much cooler to be “good.” And even cooler? Is admitting it.

Being ashamed to write about how kick-ass you are is the reason for the mommy wars. We are weak in each other’s eyes and therefore prey to criticism and judgment.

We talk all the time about the importance in empowering each other, but in order to do so, we must first empower ourselves.

....

The Bittersweet Taste of Freedom

GirlsGoneChild — Fri, 16 Mar 2007 03:28:00 GMT

Before this week, the longest I had ever been away from Archer was two days. So I had no idea what to expect when I went away for five full days. I knew I would miss him but had no idea how much and in what way. Would I have fun? Would I be sad? Would our separation be too much to bear? Was five days too long?

I was shocked at how easy it was to say goodbye. To walk away from my son who smiled at me from the backseat of my mom's car. To wave from the curb and get on an airplane and fly away. It wasn't sad. Or hard. Not even a little bit.

I love my son with all of my heart. It's just that up until now I thought he was my world.

"Archer is my life," I so commonly hear myself say, but it isn't true. He isn't my "life". He is my son and there's a difference. I guess I didn't realize what it was until I went away for long enough to feel my wings like feathered stubs behind my shoulder blades. To clear my mind and live completely in the moment. Which is okay. It is. It has to be.

I guess I didn't realize how much I love to be alone, almost as much as I love to be with my son. Except for the past week I have been ashamed to admit this to myself... Or to any of my friends or some of the parents I met on the trip who were pining to be with their children.

"Do you miss Archer?"

"Yeah. but..."

But. But I'm having fun. But I want to be alone right now. And go out. And do crazy things. And be selfish and separate from everyone else. But. But. But.

I always thought a mother was supposed to make her child her life. Her whole world. Drop anything and everything to make her kids happy. But I don't know if I think so now. I don't know if I can live without weekend escapes. Without alone time. Without being on my own now and then. Because I think I would go insane otherwise. I think I would go stark raving mad without weeks like this.

Of course it helps that I left Archer with the two people I trust most of all, my parents. So not even for a second did I worry about his well-being... In fact, the opposite. When I came home from my trip Archer was beyond angelic. Well-behaved. Able to hold a spoon. An older, wiser boy.

So I felt guilty again... Because maybe he was better off without me...

I wouldn't trade parenthood in for anything. I will never love anyone the way I love my son. And I loved the way he smiled at me when he came with my mom to pick me up from the airport.

I love being a mother. But I also love being on my own. I love that I can be independent. That I can pull away and live in the moment. Nothing to feel ashamed of. No reason to be guilty.

And yet... I do. I am. Guilty. Because it is frowned upon for a mother to enjoy her time out on the town. Because motherhood manufactures ideals and lines we aren't supposed to cross. Because our children are our everythings... Our lives.

Except the thing about it is, sometimes it feels good to be free.

***