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Thursday, August 27, 2015

I'll Have My Time With Her

Good afternoon! Happy Thursday! I was talking with my sister the other day on the phone about the difference between boy and girl babies, personality-wise. (As if either of us would know, because we don't make boys in our family.)

But being somewhat knowledgeable about how my friends kids compare and contrast to my own, I have a general idea of how each gender can sometimes relate differently to each parent. In my case, my daughter is a total daddy's girl. I feel like Julia on that show Parenthood (Side note: Do you watch Parenthood? We just started, and I have to say, I LOVE IT. I'm like, 6 episodes deep and I'm like "RELATE RELATE RELATE!")

Anyway, Julia Braverman is a working mom (semi-like me) who has a five year old daughter who she claims "openly prefers" her husband. Now granted, he's a stay at home dad, but I relate to it in the sense that she is kind of the business end of the parent spectrum, while he is more towards the fun. This is a relationship I am more than familiar with in my house. Since I am what modern folk would call the "primary caregiver" of our daughter and soon to be second daughter, I have to deal with more tantrums, more meals, more messes and more activities in general. Which can lead to more fussing, more whining, more time outs. When we get home and Chris is there, we usually don't have anywhere we have to be for the night, so our schedule is much more relaxed. Dinner to bedtime can range anywhere from 5:30-7 or 6:30 to 8:30, depending on how good of a mood Violet is in and how badly we need her to go to sleep already.

So we walk in the door, and immediately it's like I don't exist. "DADDY!!" She exclaims, and runs into his open arms. "Play with me, daddy! Let's go outside, daddy!" I should really note that this does not bother me. It's wonderful to not only have him there when we get home most days, but to see her so thrilled. The times that tend to hurt my feelings are the quiet ones, where she very verbally expresses her desire that I NOT do something for her if daddy can do it. Like read books or give her a bath. Mommy spends a good chunk of the day caring for her, and fixing her meals, and buying her clothes, pull ups, shoes, toys, whatever she needs at the moment. But Daddy hangs the moon, so if he's there, I'm chopped liver.

This used to really bug me. Almost like I was resentful at how ungrateful my two year old was when I focused so much of my time and thoughts and feelings and fear and worry and energy just. on. her. Which is so silly if you think about it. She has no clue that I'm doing those things, and I shouldn't expect her too, or in any case do them because I expect gratitude.

What's good is that I've really realized something over the past 6 months or so that has helped me get through this incessant "Daddy this, daddy that" phase. I'll have my time with her. I take comfort in thoughts of the future, when she's in college, and home for Christmas, and we pour a glass of wine together and sneak out to the porch to talk about this guy in her English comp class that is really cute. Or on her first day of high school, when she's nervous about what she's wearing or if she'll try out for any sports, or make any new friends. Or even earlier, when she's had her first really meaningful big fight with her sister, and I can tell her what it was like to grow up with three older sisters and how they've shaped me, and it does get better. Those are my times. My moments. Those are the times when a girl might need her mama.

So for now, it's a trade off. Mean mama and fun daddy might be something my husband and I identify with for a while. Especially when I'm not only home with her all day, but having to divide my time between her and her sister. And I have my sweet moments, where she wants to snuggle or lets me be the book reader or bath giver for the night. We'll always have our special relationship, and all I can do is continue on and hope to nurture it, so that she never feels like she can't turn to both of us for help or advice or comfort. And treasure this time when the only man in her life is her daddy, and he's doing a great job.

Have a good one, folks!

Love,
Dominique


Monday, August 17, 2015

I Get Really Overwhelmed with the Concept of Post-Partum Perfection

I took a good, long look at my belly stretch marks this morning. Violet saw them not too long ago, and like all toddlers inevitably do, wanted to touch them and call them something appalling like "mommy's belly wrinkles." I didn't cry (turns out I'm slightly less prone to the waterworks this pregnancy), but I did let out a long sigh, and mentally punch myself in the face for doing absolutely nothing to prevent them the first time I was pregnant. Thus dooming to me a life of one piece swimsuits and belly shame.

And that's not all I didn't do. I didn't bother to get in shape at all. Besides the fact that I hate exercise, it seemed like an almost silly concept to me. I wasn't finished having kids. I wasn't going to kill myself fitting back into my pre-pregnancy jeans for a year and then throw it all away on another 9lb baby. Add to this one of those annoying husbands who tells me I'm beautiful no matter what and makes me believe it, and I was a lost cause.

But now the thought has crept into my head that this very well might be my last baby. I mean, never say never. But I am saying, "at least not any more for a while," if I can help it. Which leaves me with no excuses but to admit that if I don't make the effort this time around, I will have officially "let myself go."

But there's so much pressure, man. Sometimes I feel like today's moms are supposed to fit in a daily trip to the gym on top of breast-feeding, entertaining their multitude of kids (with educational toys and games, and NEVER, EVER TV), do the grocery shopping, the bulk of cleaning (if for no other reason then they can't stand the mess and their husbands are like mine and play "clean the house chicken" until someone folds, i.e. ME) go to church, go to mom groups, go to WORK for goodness sake.

And there's none of this walking on the treadmill anymore business. If you want to be a cool mom, you better be doing zumba, or barre classes, or crossfit. Or in some awesome jogging stroller group that meets at the park on Wednesdays and then takes the kids to chick-fil-a.

I am not a cool mom. I look like every bit the nerdy white girl I've always been doing zumba, and while I like the concept of barre classes, I simply can't afford them AND afford the chick-fil-a. And I don't really like chick-fil-a. Give me a big mac or give me nothing. And I like the treadmill. It's quiet, and solitary, and I can put my headphones in and watch cable for the first time in months when I'm sick of netflix with the fancy new ones with a TV.

Often times I wonder how I'm going to remember to shower and brush my teeth with two kids, much less make time to try and fit old clothes again. Right now I'm just trying to the best that I can with being pregnant. I take my vitamins, and my iron and fiber and thyroid meds every day. I drink as much water as I can stomach, and I sleep in a wretched left side position every night because it's allegedly best for the baby. I do alright. Even if I'm not rubbing coconut oil on my belly every night to prevent further "belly wrinkles" and I don't go swimming or walking every day as they recommend. I will say my toddler alone has made me significantly less sedentary this time around, so I am feeling a bit more energetic and also dead tired at the same time.

But if you see me on the treadmill, doing a "brisk walk," and crying because I'm watching Steel Magnolias on TBS for the 1 millionth time, know that this is actually part of my great effort to go back to somewhat resembling my former self. And if I never do, and chances are I never really will, (it's not a time machine, people), then at least I'll know that my body made two little human girls, and if it doesn't bounce back from that miracle, then so be it.

Plus my husband thinks I'm pretty.

Happy Monday, all!

Love,
Dominique


Me, One hundred months pregnant with Violet