Why I am a Petty and Impatient Woman

A couple of our friends are getting married in a few months. Great friends. The type of friends who help you move, or help your family put the dock in the lake summer after summer. The type of friends who come to your house with dinner and a movie to keep your mind off of terrible things, like loss.

My husband and I are in the wedding party, happy to be so. As I've said, these are great friends. So why is it that I'm so petty as to whine about needing to dye shoes or alter a dress? Certainly, I never heard a squawk out of my eight bridesmaids when they had to squirm around in their strapless little numbers.

Maybe it's the hormones - ugly, make-you-cranky, hormones - but earlier today, I was directed to their wedding site, where they have a listing of their wedding party. A who's who, so to speak, listing how we know the couple and interesting information about each person. For most of the people - it lists school's graduated from, degree's in process, goals attained - for me? "We all met in college. Mel married Vin. She lives with him and her two kids."

Huh?

I know I shouldn't be petty, and as far as the site is concerned, it's hardly important. It's just the idea that this is how a very good friend of ours knows me. I'm a wife and I'm a mom. Forget that I'm weeks away from finishing my MFA, that I work 20+ hours a week outside the home, and am finally having some success as an emerging writer.

Nope, I just live with my husband and change diapers.

Like I said, it's probably just that time of the month (I wish I wasn't a walking cliche in that regard, but it's true) - and it's not important how a bridal registry website has portrayed me. It's just me - being petty.

Now, onto the impatient part of this post.

I am not cut out for a writing career. It requires a well of patience that I simply do not have. Knowing this when I first decided to submit, I specifically chose magazines with records of expedience. Now, nearly 70 days later - I'm still checking my inbox and mailbox daily with anticipation.

At this point, I'd just like verification that they even got my submission in the first place - forget acceptance. I just want to be free from this burden of waiting.

Adding to the list of things I'm impatient for, my thesis reader (an author that I greatly respect) is due to have my thesis returned to me with her notes and comments any day now (but not today - I already checked.)

I feel like I'm standing in line at the DMV - the sort of raw, irritable impatience that comes from florescent lights and people sneezing in your bubble of personal space.

And on that note, Ms. Petty McCranky-Pants who lives with her husband and changes diapers, needs to go...well... change a diaper.

Mommy-Guilt

Life as a parent is filled with questioning our choices. It's night's spent laying awake wondering "Did I double, no, triple check the label on that oatmeal bar I gave him...did it have nuts in it? We're not doing nuts yet. Oh no, I'm pretty sure there must've been nuts...why am I such a slacker? Why can't I even survive lunchtime without potentially killing my child?"

I live in a constant battle to keep Mommy-guilt in check. Constant. I need to breathe, in and out, to regain a sense of reality, the sense that not everything that I do to or with my child is going to impact him or her forever. Sometimes, an oatmeal bar is just an oatmeal bar.

And sometimes, watching an educational DVD, is just watching an educational DVD.

Yes. I let my son watch television. Shocking, I know. Give me a moment to breathe in and out, let my Mommy-guilt subside.

Ok.

The trouble is, in the modern world there seems to be no moderation, no middle ground - there is nothing but the "Don't ever!" and the "Sure, I plop my kid in front of that thing seven, eight hours a day - cheapest babysitter around!"

And so, I'm here, often feeling alone, or as though the "Don't Ever" camp shrugs me off as a lazy parent (or one who is either uneducated about the 'risks' of television, or simply dismissive of them), while the "TV=Babysitter" camp can't understand why I don't let my son watch anything other than specific programs at specific times, with a specific purpose.

The truth is, I choose to believe that the way that my husband and I have integrated television into our child's routine is not going to harm his development - and that the benefits of it (his vocabulary has sky rocketed since introducing him to a DVD created by speech pathologists for children his age) will outway the potential risks. (Much like how I choose to have my children vaccinated, falling again into a debate. As a person who hates to debate, I'm fairly sure that if I'd known how many heated debates that there are always raging in the realm of parenthood, I might never have come.)

What it all boils down to is this: Mommy-guilt exists because parenting is complex and difficult and filled with decisions such as how much (if any) television should you let your child watch, how and when to potty-train, what type of shoes should you buy - the good one's perfectly fitted to his wide feet, or just a pair from Walmart because he'll out grow them soon anyway. Each of these seemingly small decisions will weigh on me, and find me as I'm tossing and turning and trying to sleep.

If my son doesn't love books, I'll blame myself for letting him watch Blues Clues. If he doesn't excel in sports, I'll blame myself for stunting his feet somehow with those darned cheap shoes. When really, the fact is, sometimes, some kids just don't like books when they grow up - television or not. Long before the idiot box was invented, there were kids trying to get out of doing their reading to go outside and play. And as for my son's athletic prowess? Maybe he'll prefer to be in the band.

Parenting is difficult because no matter the choices that we make, the outcomes may not be that which we have intended or hoped for.

Parenting is difficult because we can not protect our children from everything that can harm them - and trying to shield them from everything may wind up doing more harm than good.

Parenting is difficult because other parents, teachers, grandparents, cousins, your neighbors, the lady behind you in the grocery store - everyone - has an opinion that they feel is worth sharing, under the assumption that it is the key - the golden answer to unlock all the mysteries of what-if's - the way to avoid ever needing to feel Mommy-Guilt again.

The way to raise the best child possible.

But the fact is, I don't want to raise anyone else's best child possible. I want to raise my own.

And no matter how The Boss or Lila turn out, they're the best that I'll ever have. The best that God has given me, and I'll know that I've done my best with them out of service to Him.

And I'm ok with that. Because when it comes right down to it, to the two-in-the-morning moment of the soul when I'm laying awake replaying each of the choices I've made that day for my child, this is what I know beyond doubt:

I want my kids.

Kids with messy faces and who hide behind the couch when it's time to put their bibs on for lunch. Kids who pull off their diapers and bring them to me, proudly declaring Poop!

I want kids who toss play food behind the toy chest, then walk around the house asking where it went. Kids who pull down book after book after book and imitate cow sounds, duck sounds, bird sounds, clock sounds, then point to roofs and chimneys and trees and rivers and kids who know them all by name, even though their tongue's can't yet speak them clearly.

I want kids who ask for Blues Clues, but still play nicely when it's not turned on. Kids who dance around to The Laurie Berkner Band with their arms moving in perfect motion, mimicking the people on the TV. Kids who reach for the guitar and try to play along. Kids who pull out notebooks and hunt around the house on a scavenger hunt, in search of Blues Clues, but finding their own imagination leads them different places.

These are my kids. And I won't let Mommy-guilt take away the joy that they bring me - or take away the pride that I have in knowing that though I'm not perfect, by the grace of God, I'm doing OK.

Shape of Things: Thursday

Day started off easily enough. The Boss stayed sleeping as my husband left for work, Lila woke to eat but quickly fell back asleep, allowing me to visit dreamland again as well.

Wonderful.

At 10:30, I finally hear Boss-man, whining in his room. This usually happens a bit earlier, and normally, I'm greeted by a big 'ol smile and a "Hi!" when I open his door.

Not the case this morning.

No, this morning, he was on his bed - with a shoe on (good for him!) and a diaper of poop...beside him on his blankets.

Have I mentioned that there's nothing I love me than cleaning poop from carpets, blankets, dolls, various toys, and, of course, my wriggling toddler, all before I've had my first cup of coffee?

I haven't?

Oh, right, that's because it's not my favorite way to start the day.

It's my own fault though, I should've suspected something was awry when he didn't even fuss until 10:30.

So began my day.

Now, it's naptime and while checking my email, Yahoo is kind enough to update me on 'top stories' And what's this? Tyra Banks has gained weight? People are concerned?

Huh?

First off - why is this news? Why is a 161 pound 5 foot 10 inch woman a headline? Of course, I realize that there's an entire network devoted to tracking the lives of celebrities, and I'm not blind to the photoshopped tabloids filled with the 'latest celebrity scandels!' (Oh my!) - I guess I just didn't even realize that Tyra Banks rated at that status.

Or, maybe she doesn't. Maybe her biggest career move, aside from the Emmy-worthy America's Next Top Model and her talk show (that tackles the tough issues - such as, "How to apply make-up like a supermodel"), was to pick up a fork and put it in her mouth...with food on it!

Really, shouldn't there be some party or something somewhere that a (former) supermodel actually managed to eat a sammich or two?

Instead, there's this whole controversy (apparently, from what I've skimmed in the yahoo-news story) involving her recent weight gain. She has even been referred to as "plus-sized" by morning talk show anchors on major networks.

You know what? If she is plus-sized, sign me up. I'd gain 30 or 40 pounds if I could look that good carrying it.

Pause...

Wow, apparently I'm having a sarcastic, moody sort of day.

You see what happens when you start your day with poop instead of coffee?

Mini-Rant

Yes, they're big.

So big in fact, that I'm attracting extra attention by wearing an outfit designed for pregnant women, (though apparently designed without taking pregnant women's breasts into consideration.) So, yes. They're big and they're out there. What do you want from me? You're lucky I'm wearing a bra, let alone a shirt (neither of which actually fit the massive things anymore), so quit your staring.

You'd think that since I work in a woman-only environment (on my one day a week spent as office slave) I wouldn't have to deal with my cleavage getting leered at. You'd be wrong. And, you may think that since I work in a mammography center, a pair of normal, healthy breasts would be oh-so passe. Sadly, it's not the case. Apparently, my bosom is fascinating to both genders.

I'm considering quoting Seinfeld on my way out the door today, "Oh, and by the way, they're real and they're spectacular."

An Open Letter to the People at My Gym

To the two girls lounging on the hip abductor machines: While I'm sure your weekends were exciting and that your boyfriend did get the craziest tattoo on his forearm - I do not pay a monthly fee to listen to you chatter to each other, while lounging motionless on a machine I'd like to be using to abduct my hips (or whatever it does.)

To the woman walking on the treadmill beside mine: I see you when you oh-so-nonchalantly glance over to read how fast I'm going or how many calories I've burned.

To the random lady in the locker room: You seem nice enough, but please, stop talking to me about how you just survived not one, but two classes and how your back is itching (Does sweat make your back itchy?) once I've closed the door to the bathroom stall. Conversations with strangers should cease when the stall door is closed.

To the man oogling my chest while I was doing the Pectoral Fly: Please. Stop.

To the members at large: While I do admire your confidence in wardrobe choices, you might enjoy learning that squeezing yourself into lycra or spandex is not actually a requirement of membership.


Signed,
Mella
Who-just-spent-an-hour-trying-to-do-a-gym-routine-that-normally-takes-thirty-minutes-and-is-now-a-tad-cranky.

A Rant on Recent Reading...

I feel a little like a snob. A book snob, I suppose. Much in the same way that studying film and theater in college made it impossible for me to sit through a production without noticing each flaw, no matter how small - books are ruined for me now too, thanks to this MFA program.

What began as an interesting idea, written in an interesting way (Piccoult's My Sister's Keeper) became predictable and annoying, for me, as I kept turning the pages. Sure, every so often, she'd romance me back with a beautiful turn of phrase - the world between dream and wake being described as clouds caught in the hem's of nightgowns, for example. Every few pages there was another stunning and eloquent twist of words that kept me hooked, leaving me hopeful that things weren't as predictable as I'd thought. Perhaps this will be worth my squandering away naptime's to read.

No such luck. The entire book is about a thirteen-year-old girl's lawsuit to achieve medical emancipation from her parents - so that she won't be required to donate anything more to her sister who is dying of both cancer and kidney failure. (This girl was created, in a petri dish, so to speak, to be a perfect match for her sister.)

So, it raises interesting questions, how far should parents go to save a child? Was it really ok for them to harvest lymphocytes from their five-year-old in order to save their eight-year-old? Should the girl be required to give up a kidney because her parents want her to?

All interesting, thought provoking questions. (Spoiler warning, if you ever plan to read this book, stop reading) She wins the trial. Yay? I guess that's supposed to be the reaction. But for me, this was really where the book started - I felt like great, now we get to see the complicated emotional decision that she'll be forced to make. Save her sister or not? This is vastly more interesting to me than courtrooms and lawyers falling (both in love, and in epileptic fits...but that's a whole other predictable side story I'm not going to talk about.)

Unfortunately, we go directly from the courtroom verdict - to a devastating car accident, that surprise-surprise - leaves the freshly-medically-emancipated thirteen-year-old brain dead! Oh My! What a remarkable twist!

Pshaw.

I felt so incredibly cheated. I read this entire book, waiting for someone to make a gut wrenching, life altering decision - only to have a BMW arrive at an intersection at just the right moment to splatter the protagonist's brains against a window (thus making the decision of organ donation FOR her.)

Come on!

I'm not saying that this book is poorly written - just that the ending wasn't written at all. Not a real ending, anyway. Not the ending that I needed to feel some sort of closure with the experience. Go ahead and kill the girl after she makes the decision, if you really want to have someone die - that would've been fine with me. Or maybe have her donate a kidney, and both sisters survive - only to have the girl who fought with cancer her whole life step out in front of a bus. I wouldn't have cared. I just wanted to see the decision made...and not by a speeding car at an intersection, but by one of the character's I'd been reading about for the first two hundred pages.

Of course, this isn't the first time I've come to the end of a book and felt cheated - as though the author has copped out of actually finishing their book. Writing the conclusion to the story without taking a sucker punch and going down to appease an editor or to meet a deadline - or simply for fear of writing the wrong ending. See, no one's guilty of making a bad decision - she was killed, her organ harvested to save her sister, all neat and tidy! Ta-Dah!

Ok. If that's the way you want to end it. Fine.

The unpublished grad student will now step down from her soapbox and admit that this is only her opinion. And that perhaps the person who is actually making a living from their writing might know better how to write a novel.

I just know what I like to read. Book snob or not.

Don't say anything at all...

The internet makes people brave - a world of people sitting in their pajamas, hair disheveled, contacts out/glasses on, typing furiously to a screen, the drama of their lives. It's a world of business men and women, sneaking to skim blogs while their fingers itch over the button to fill their screen to with spreadsheets or presentations or company email. It's all about hiding behind the screen, behind your desk, behind your glasses and pint of Ben & Jerry's.

It makes me brave enough, sitting here in my gym clothes, with my hair still tied back in a sloppy ponytail - the same one that swished over my shoulder blades while I pounded away on the elliptical machine - I'm dirty and lazy, but hiding behind this computer screen, I'm brave enough to be vulnerable. It's a freeing experience - to post bits and pieces of your life, and to smile as others post little hello's or encouragements. And it's a mental adventure to click the next button up top and find yourself in new worlds, page after page of people - all sharing fragments of themselves from their safe little homes, across the country, across the ocean, behind the screen.

Unfortunately, tucked beneath the cloak of this online world, there are also people who are also brave enough to be mean. This is all spurred by a comment I received on one of my stories. It was a flippant little comment from a cyberspace stranger, suggesting that I might as well hang myself. The comment itself made no sense in regards to the writing, and I take no offense to it, as it seemed nonsensical to me. But it does remind me of thin the line is between fascinating and frightening in this online world. I imagine my son one day being online – and how virtually defenseless I am to protect him from the slings and arrows, so to speak.

It makes me wish that everyone could adhere to the simple childhood mantra that our mothers and grandmothers and teachers all recited: If you can't say anything nice...