I have a confession to make, and it is not pretty. I am having one of those weeks that defy all of the reasonable assumptions of my life: hands-on spouse is traveling; my normally sane job schedule has morphed into a full-time workload with part-time hours; my moderately well-behaved children are acting instead like possessed cats. I am having one of those weeks where the universe lines up and starts firing off little gems of misery in my direction. Don’t get me started on the little indignity that made me feel even sorrier for my self (two words: bad haircut). I wish I could say that I was one of those amazing women (you know who you are) who use exercise, or meditation to ease their souls when over-burdened. The ugly truth about this mom under stress is that when stressed out, I completely let my freak flag fly and break out those crazy little rituals that get me through the tough times.
This really all began in graduate school when I was suffering from years of infertility, and some minor (read major) graduate school weight gain. On one of my sorrier-than-sorry for me days, I went to pick up a good book and a bag of peanut butter m & m’s from the store. Though my years spent as a high school literature teacher gave me a grand contempt for “bodice rippers”, I found myself intrigued by the cover of a Fabio-less romance novel. In these trashy romance novels, I discovered the ultimate sense of escapism. These books had none of the heartbreak and depth of my usual reads, and to that, I said…thank you! A quiet evening and a trashy romance novel are still my favorite cure for a bad case of the woes.
Of course, I have to make myself a cliché and admit that chocolate used to be my drug of choice. But, in the ultimate act of betrayal, or in a Darwinist push for self-preservation, my body developed an allergy to chocolate. This led to a horrible trial and error period (have you ever tried organic jelly beans…don’t) until I found my new fix…black licorice! I keep an emergency stash on hand for those times when nothing but sugar will do, and I have yet to find a time that doesn’t fall into that category. You can find licorice in my desk, my purse, my computer bag, my pantry, and in my car. Really, a girl can never be too prepared for a stressful day.
This is so Junior High, but when feeling especially low, I usually make a play list of all of my favorite 80’s and early 90’s love songs and hit repeat. I don’t want the songs that remind me about how awesome my husband is and how much I love him. Nope. Uh-Uh. I want the songs that make me relive the heartbreak and drama of my teen years. I like the songs that evoke those feelings of angst. My standard go to songs include: Phil Collins’, “Against all odds”, Mariah Carey’s “I Can’t Live” (if living is without you), and Boys II Men’s “End of the Road”. I listen to this at work, I make my kids listen in the car, I sing the songs in the shower, and I play the most tragic ones for my long-suffering husband. I feel the pain, and it helps.
My confession is that when I am overwhelmed and stressed out, I am not such a patient mom, not such a loving wife, and not much of a nice person. I tend towards bitchiness anyways and stress just puts me over the edge. If, in order to maintain some semblance of sanity, I need to let my inner licorice loving, chocolate missing, trashy romance reading, preteen out of the bag, so be it. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, it is hard to enjoy a well-written love scene while balancing a keyboard and a piece of licorice.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Woman: Define Thyself
When someone innocently asks, “So, what do you do?”, it ignites within me a nervous self-awareness that usually results in some flip response like, “I occasionally drink up the last of my husband’s favorite coffee out of spite”. I know that it is completely irrational to be flustered by a getting-to-know you type of question. The problem is that the question of “What do I do?” represents an ongoing struggle for me to define myself as a woman and mother.
I was a stay-at-home mom for more than three years and I wore my at-home mommy badge with pride. I never struggled with the decision to stay home, and when my first born came along I basked in the routine of motherhood. My husband and I were in grad school and we shared primary parenting duties while we both worked on our dissertations. Really, I was a mom with benefits; a few breaks a week for research and writing, and the rest of the time spent snuggling my chunk-a-chunk of baby love. I was content with myself and my life.
Everything changed when we moved here and the real world intruded. My husband had a real J-O-B that required really long hours. I was no longer a mommy pursuing a doctorate; instead, I was a PhD dropout with a 9 month old baby and another baby on the way. Though I loved all of my time with my little guy, I felt a tiny bit adrift. Then, when my youngest was born, the realities of life with a 16 month old and a new born (coupled with my inability to commit to enough consistent childcare to get the job done) made my dwindling dreams of a doctorate drown in a puddle of spit-up and poop.
All I remember, of the first three months of my littlest man’s life, is that these two little boys were totally mine, and though it was exhausting (hello, two babies 16 months apart), at least big chunks of every day were pretty amazing. However, as time moved on, I kept feeling this nagging need to DO something, anything really, that wasn’t centered on upping my milk supply, changing diapers, and preventing my toddler from injury-laden shenanigans.
I was lucky enough that I had several, similarly struggling mom friends who led me to a women’s volunteer organization. It was through this organization, that the long-silent driven part of me, began to get quite feisty with her claims on my time. I didn’t just join; I jumped right in and looked at every opportunity as an outlet for all that pent-up need to be something more. And there it was, the realization that I needed to be something more. That was the day the guilt train rolled into town.
How could I want something more than being a mom to my boys? The reality was that I loved being home with my boys and I didn’t want to work full-time. Yet, I knew that I needed something else that would make me feel more at-peace with myself. When my neighbor/fairy-godmother offered me a 10 hour a week research job, I nearly wept in gratitude. I dusted off my nerd-cap and dove into quantitative research; it proved to be my salvation. It you ask my husband, he will tell you that my work has changed me for the better, and he is right. I realize that I am at my best when I am fulfilled, and that is better for everyone.
I have come a long way in my attempts to define who I am as a woman and balance my sense of guilt with my sense of need. These days, when someone asks me, “What do you do?” I tell them I am a part-time research goddess, and a full-time wonder mom; yet, I still feel the need to justify my work with the addendum, “but I only work when my kids are in school”. I may still have a ways to go.
I was a stay-at-home mom for more than three years and I wore my at-home mommy badge with pride. I never struggled with the decision to stay home, and when my first born came along I basked in the routine of motherhood. My husband and I were in grad school and we shared primary parenting duties while we both worked on our dissertations. Really, I was a mom with benefits; a few breaks a week for research and writing, and the rest of the time spent snuggling my chunk-a-chunk of baby love. I was content with myself and my life.
Everything changed when we moved here and the real world intruded. My husband had a real J-O-B that required really long hours. I was no longer a mommy pursuing a doctorate; instead, I was a PhD dropout with a 9 month old baby and another baby on the way. Though I loved all of my time with my little guy, I felt a tiny bit adrift. Then, when my youngest was born, the realities of life with a 16 month old and a new born (coupled with my inability to commit to enough consistent childcare to get the job done) made my dwindling dreams of a doctorate drown in a puddle of spit-up and poop.
All I remember, of the first three months of my littlest man’s life, is that these two little boys were totally mine, and though it was exhausting (hello, two babies 16 months apart), at least big chunks of every day were pretty amazing. However, as time moved on, I kept feeling this nagging need to DO something, anything really, that wasn’t centered on upping my milk supply, changing diapers, and preventing my toddler from injury-laden shenanigans.
I was lucky enough that I had several, similarly struggling mom friends who led me to a women’s volunteer organization. It was through this organization, that the long-silent driven part of me, began to get quite feisty with her claims on my time. I didn’t just join; I jumped right in and looked at every opportunity as an outlet for all that pent-up need to be something more. And there it was, the realization that I needed to be something more. That was the day the guilt train rolled into town.
How could I want something more than being a mom to my boys? The reality was that I loved being home with my boys and I didn’t want to work full-time. Yet, I knew that I needed something else that would make me feel more at-peace with myself. When my neighbor/fairy-godmother offered me a 10 hour a week research job, I nearly wept in gratitude. I dusted off my nerd-cap and dove into quantitative research; it proved to be my salvation. It you ask my husband, he will tell you that my work has changed me for the better, and he is right. I realize that I am at my best when I am fulfilled, and that is better for everyone.
I have come a long way in my attempts to define who I am as a woman and balance my sense of guilt with my sense of need. These days, when someone asks me, “What do you do?” I tell them I am a part-time research goddess, and a full-time wonder mom; yet, I still feel the need to justify my work with the addendum, “but I only work when my kids are in school”. I may still have a ways to go.
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