I'm not very far into this voyage of being a parent, and I find myself constantly trying to figure out who I am in the ebb and flow of motherhood. I look around and see other moms, the ones who have it all together just a little more than I do, or maybe a little less . . . am I like them?
There's the mom sitting just down the row at church - you know the one I'm talking about. Somehow she manages to be picture perfect, with the hair flowing over her shoulders, the expensive clothing, yada yada yada. How, I wonder, does she manage to wear her hair down like that and not have it pulled and yanked by grubby little hands? I think of my own hair, pulled back as always to try and escape the inevitable weaving in and tangling of little fingers. My hair that, as a matter of fact, did not even get blow dried before church today. At least people know I shower, right? And the clothes? How can a mother of a baby less than six months old be so, so skinny? Because the clothes that this mom wears fit her so nicely, and are a far cry from my brown cotton maternity pants I'm wearing. I hate to spend money on clothes that aren't (hopefully!) going to fit me in another six months to a year, but the inevitable downside to this is that I'll be wearing maternity clothes long past the point that seems socially acceptable, to me anyway. And look at that little baby girl sleeping so soundly in the seat next to this mom. With her rosy cheeks and perfect little nose, how is she sleeping without being held? Oh how I love my fat baby Jonah, but we just can't seem to keep it together for public appearances. Somehow we're suave and debonair when we're at home, but once in the outside world we become a little bumbling and awkward. Jonah cries, so I comfort and console him only to have him emit an earth shattering belch, while the spit up cascades down my arm and back, making icky splattering noises as it hits the ground. Are people looking yet? Because then he decides it's time to poop, which is another loud event in itself. As this other little baby sleeps in her doll-like state, mine has overflowed his diaper, causing a giant stain of yellow to spread across his back - don't worry, we carry 6 to 8 extra changes of clothing with us everywhere we go. This isn't an uncommon event. I forrest-gump my way out of the pew with my backpack, bible, carseat, diaper bag and baby, and hope to make it to the nursing/changing room before anything else catastrophic can take place. The worst that will happen in the nursing room is that the other mom will come in and quietly nurse her little doll-baby, designer blanket draped easily over one shoulder, while Jonah loudly smacks, sucks, gulps and burps our way into total embarassment.
But this is our life and we do the best we can. There's the other mom, the one at the La Leche League meeting. You know that one, too. She is the one that already has four other kids, and they all wear organic clothes and eat hummus and celery for snacks. McDonald's? Perish the thought! She manages to walk around and corral her other children, all while nursing her baby in the tye-dye sling she wears. I venture into a conversation about extended breastfeeding, and though I'll never be as earthy and granola as this mom is, at least I did manage to nurse Joshua until he was a little over two years. There is a sparkle of approval in her eyes, and then the conversation goes awry. We're talking about nursing pads - my preference, Lansinoh. Her preference? Wool. Yes, you heard right, she owns a very expensive pair of wool nursing pads. It gets better, though. It turns out that it's okay that they are expensive, since you only need one pair that actually never needs washing. At this point I turn my head and vomit a little in my mouth . . . well, not quite, but I think that my eyes do glaze over as she extols the wonders of self cleaning wool, and how she only has to scrunch her nursing pads around a little and viola, they're as good as new.
So I'm not the clean and pressed sophisticate mom, and I'm also not the all natural tree hugger mom. Which leaves what? I guess it just leaves me - the jeans and t-shirt mom with spit-up all over one shoulder, failing to nurse discreetly but giving my baby what he needs nonetheless, showing up at church with damp hair and flip-flops, and fumbling my way through these awkward times. What happens next? Only time will tell. And I'll just keep trying to be me.
There's the mom sitting just down the row at church - you know the one I'm talking about. Somehow she manages to be picture perfect, with the hair flowing over her shoulders, the expensive clothing, yada yada yada. How, I wonder, does she manage to wear her hair down like that and not have it pulled and yanked by grubby little hands? I think of my own hair, pulled back as always to try and escape the inevitable weaving in and tangling of little fingers. My hair that, as a matter of fact, did not even get blow dried before church today. At least people know I shower, right? And the clothes? How can a mother of a baby less than six months old be so, so skinny? Because the clothes that this mom wears fit her so nicely, and are a far cry from my brown cotton maternity pants I'm wearing. I hate to spend money on clothes that aren't (hopefully!) going to fit me in another six months to a year, but the inevitable downside to this is that I'll be wearing maternity clothes long past the point that seems socially acceptable, to me anyway. And look at that little baby girl sleeping so soundly in the seat next to this mom. With her rosy cheeks and perfect little nose, how is she sleeping without being held? Oh how I love my fat baby Jonah, but we just can't seem to keep it together for public appearances. Somehow we're suave and debonair when we're at home, but once in the outside world we become a little bumbling and awkward. Jonah cries, so I comfort and console him only to have him emit an earth shattering belch, while the spit up cascades down my arm and back, making icky splattering noises as it hits the ground. Are people looking yet? Because then he decides it's time to poop, which is another loud event in itself. As this other little baby sleeps in her doll-like state, mine has overflowed his diaper, causing a giant stain of yellow to spread across his back - don't worry, we carry 6 to 8 extra changes of clothing with us everywhere we go. This isn't an uncommon event. I forrest-gump my way out of the pew with my backpack, bible, carseat, diaper bag and baby, and hope to make it to the nursing/changing room before anything else catastrophic can take place. The worst that will happen in the nursing room is that the other mom will come in and quietly nurse her little doll-baby, designer blanket draped easily over one shoulder, while Jonah loudly smacks, sucks, gulps and burps our way into total embarassment.
But this is our life and we do the best we can. There's the other mom, the one at the La Leche League meeting. You know that one, too. She is the one that already has four other kids, and they all wear organic clothes and eat hummus and celery for snacks. McDonald's? Perish the thought! She manages to walk around and corral her other children, all while nursing her baby in the tye-dye sling she wears. I venture into a conversation about extended breastfeeding, and though I'll never be as earthy and granola as this mom is, at least I did manage to nurse Joshua until he was a little over two years. There is a sparkle of approval in her eyes, and then the conversation goes awry. We're talking about nursing pads - my preference, Lansinoh. Her preference? Wool. Yes, you heard right, she owns a very expensive pair of wool nursing pads. It gets better, though. It turns out that it's okay that they are expensive, since you only need one pair that actually never needs washing. At this point I turn my head and vomit a little in my mouth . . . well, not quite, but I think that my eyes do glaze over as she extols the wonders of self cleaning wool, and how she only has to scrunch her nursing pads around a little and viola, they're as good as new.
So I'm not the clean and pressed sophisticate mom, and I'm also not the all natural tree hugger mom. Which leaves what? I guess it just leaves me - the jeans and t-shirt mom with spit-up all over one shoulder, failing to nurse discreetly but giving my baby what he needs nonetheless, showing up at church with damp hair and flip-flops, and fumbling my way through these awkward times. What happens next? Only time will tell. And I'll just keep trying to be me.
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