Friday, April 19, 2013
Getting out of the . . .
Facebook game. I'm seriously thinking of shutting down my account. I can't take it anymore. I realize I post a lot of things that are political in content and that I occasionally engage in debates. I do, however, try really, really hard to be respectful of others and their opinions. I never take something someone else has posted and re-post it out of context; I feel that's disrespectful and obnoxious. I wish I could say that others are extending the same level of respect to me. I also really, really tired of having people who claim to know and love me label me as a "progressive" or a "liberal." Yes, I proudly use both of those labels to describe myself, but I don't like having them used as pejoratives. Really, I'm just tired. If we can't even communicate with friends and family members in respectful ways on social media platforms, how can we expect our leaders to do so?
Monday, April 15, 2013
From 1998-2000,* I lived an hour's drive from Newtown, CT. In fact, I drove by the town's exit more times that I can remember. I think that is one reason, among many, many others, I was particularly affected by the events there on December 14, 2012. I knew that town. I had been there. I had stopped for coffee and wandered down the idyllic main street with friends one lovely spring day. Because of this connection (which is tenuous at best, I know), I have followed the story fairly closely. I've been struck by the families willingness to discuss the events of that day and to share details about their children's lives. Archer and I have talked about it a lot, and we even discussed it with Wild Man, as he heard about the shootings on the radio. I've wept repeatedly for these children and their families, which may seem odd given that I don't know any of the families and that I was, arguably, not touched personally by this tragedy.
Now I'm immersed in the debate for gun control, a debate that I hope will also spawn a debate on mental health care, our culture of violence, and empathy. As I've read the news stories surrounding the upcoming Senate vote, I am unconvinced that anything will happen. But I'm also confused. If the gun lobbyists and those opposed to gun control believe so strongly that no legislation will be passed, why threaten to fillibuster? Why shut down the dialogue altogether? Perhaps gun control isn't the way to prevent similar things from occurring. Perhaps their are better ways. I am willing to listen, as I imagine are the millions of others who are in favor of stronger gun control. But I do not, cannot understand the unwillingness to have a dialogue. If we're going to make things better for our children, don't we have to talk to one another?
*I'm not titling the post, nor am I tagging it. I'm not interested in using my blog to generate a lot of debate on gun control, even though I'd be happy to have some new readers. I'm using my blog as a space to process my thoughts and feelings about this particular event and issue.
Now I'm immersed in the debate for gun control, a debate that I hope will also spawn a debate on mental health care, our culture of violence, and empathy. As I've read the news stories surrounding the upcoming Senate vote, I am unconvinced that anything will happen. But I'm also confused. If the gun lobbyists and those opposed to gun control believe so strongly that no legislation will be passed, why threaten to fillibuster? Why shut down the dialogue altogether? Perhaps gun control isn't the way to prevent similar things from occurring. Perhaps their are better ways. I am willing to listen, as I imagine are the millions of others who are in favor of stronger gun control. But I do not, cannot understand the unwillingness to have a dialogue. If we're going to make things better for our children, don't we have to talk to one another?
*I'm not titling the post, nor am I tagging it. I'm not interested in using my blog to generate a lot of debate on gun control, even though I'd be happy to have some new readers. I'm using my blog as a space to process my thoughts and feelings about this particular event and issue.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Academic Mothering
I consider myself an academic mother; for me, the name, such as it is, merges my professional and personal life. I am an academic, and I am a mother. It is impossible to every stop being one or the other. I am both simultaneously. I am always thinking about my children and the things I need to do for them, and I'm always thinking about my research and writing. There is no separation.
Many of my friends, especially my close friends, are also academic mothers, although I don't know how many of them would self-identify in that way. Among these friends, I've observed something that I find disconcerting. A few of these friends, two in particular, speak about mothering and their children with something close to disdain. Now, these two women love their children; I don't mean to suggest otherwise. They light up when their children walk into the room, and they tell delightful stories about their children. But when in certain groups, primarily groups in which other academics are present, they act as though they hate parenting, as though their children keep them from their "real" work, and as though their "careers" are more fulfilling than parenting. This makes me really uncomfortable for several reasons.
First, as I've blogged before (a long, long time ago), CU is fairly friendly to faculty members with families. In fact, CU has an astounding number of faculty members with young children. Part of this, I think, is due to Canadian culture, which allows for year-long parental leaves, and part of this is due to the unionized environment of CU (for example, despite being the equivalent of an American R1, the tenure requirements are fairly manageable and clearly spelled out; also taking parental leave of a certain length delays tenure by a full-year). People here have kids. People with kids bring their kids to class on occasion and many bring their kids to events and meetings. Archer and I often have the boys on campus, especially now as we're in the odd time when my leave has ended but we don't have full time child care for Bear and we don't have any child care for George. To return to my original point, no one here has ever made me feel less than anyone else because I have children. Sure, I have colleagues who never ask about my children, but that's okay because I never ask about their dogs, for example. I don't feel as though people question my abilities as an academic because I'm a mother, or at least I don't feel as though most of my colleagues do.
My friends' tendency to disparage parenting and their own children makes me uncomfortable because it's a performance, a carefully constructed one at that. It is as though these two women, both of whom have tenure and have proven themselves as teachers and researchers, as it were, believe they have to project a certain image of themselves in order to maintain their academic credibility. I think this just perpetuates the unequal way many academic parents are treated. Everyone knows I have children, and everyone knows I'm happy to talk about my children. But everyone also knows I am a successful teacher and a good researcher. I am able to be both without disparaging one or the other.
This is not to say that I'm always secure in my role, and I do think my friends' tendency to speak badly of parenting is due to their own insecurities. But I am secure in my role as a mom. I know I'm a good mom. I have three happy, healthy, confident children to support that belief. I'm less secure in my role as an academic, although I am becoming more confident. But I also believe that the two roles, the two halves of myself, as it were, can't be separated, and I don't want them to be. I think my friends are more insecure about their ability to mother effectively while maintaining the active research and service loads that they do. I know things are going to fall through the cracks, and mostly I'm okay with that. I don't have to be a perfect mother, and I certainly don't have to be a perfect academic. I'd rather be happy, get some work done, and hang out with my kids.
Many of my friends, especially my close friends, are also academic mothers, although I don't know how many of them would self-identify in that way. Among these friends, I've observed something that I find disconcerting. A few of these friends, two in particular, speak about mothering and their children with something close to disdain. Now, these two women love their children; I don't mean to suggest otherwise. They light up when their children walk into the room, and they tell delightful stories about their children. But when in certain groups, primarily groups in which other academics are present, they act as though they hate parenting, as though their children keep them from their "real" work, and as though their "careers" are more fulfilling than parenting. This makes me really uncomfortable for several reasons.
First, as I've blogged before (a long, long time ago), CU is fairly friendly to faculty members with families. In fact, CU has an astounding number of faculty members with young children. Part of this, I think, is due to Canadian culture, which allows for year-long parental leaves, and part of this is due to the unionized environment of CU (for example, despite being the equivalent of an American R1, the tenure requirements are fairly manageable and clearly spelled out; also taking parental leave of a certain length delays tenure by a full-year). People here have kids. People with kids bring their kids to class on occasion and many bring their kids to events and meetings. Archer and I often have the boys on campus, especially now as we're in the odd time when my leave has ended but we don't have full time child care for Bear and we don't have any child care for George. To return to my original point, no one here has ever made me feel less than anyone else because I have children. Sure, I have colleagues who never ask about my children, but that's okay because I never ask about their dogs, for example. I don't feel as though people question my abilities as an academic because I'm a mother, or at least I don't feel as though most of my colleagues do.
My friends' tendency to disparage parenting and their own children makes me uncomfortable because it's a performance, a carefully constructed one at that. It is as though these two women, both of whom have tenure and have proven themselves as teachers and researchers, as it were, believe they have to project a certain image of themselves in order to maintain their academic credibility. I think this just perpetuates the unequal way many academic parents are treated. Everyone knows I have children, and everyone knows I'm happy to talk about my children. But everyone also knows I am a successful teacher and a good researcher. I am able to be both without disparaging one or the other.
This is not to say that I'm always secure in my role, and I do think my friends' tendency to speak badly of parenting is due to their own insecurities. But I am secure in my role as a mom. I know I'm a good mom. I have three happy, healthy, confident children to support that belief. I'm less secure in my role as an academic, although I am becoming more confident. But I also believe that the two roles, the two halves of myself, as it were, can't be separated, and I don't want them to be. I think my friends are more insecure about their ability to mother effectively while maintaining the active research and service loads that they do. I know things are going to fall through the cracks, and mostly I'm okay with that. I don't have to be a perfect mother, and I certainly don't have to be a perfect academic. I'd rather be happy, get some work done, and hang out with my kids.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Letting Go
In January, I declared this the year of "Letting Go." And then I promptly stopped writing about that. I've done some work on letting go of some things, both emotional and material. This theme is hard, though, as it requires I try to communicate with people that I've been less than successful communicating with in the past. It seems, however, that I need to apply my theme to my professional life as well.
I met with Dr. Feminist Philosopher (the new chair of my home department) today to ask some questions about a grant she wants me to apply for. She said, "M, we need to get your a mentor who can shepherd you through the tenure process. We did this for Dr. X and Dr. Y, and it worked really well for them. Who do you think it should be? I think it needs to be someone from Underwater Basketweaving Department." Now, Dr. Feminist Philosopher was on leave last spring when all the heinous things occurred with Underwater Basketweaving Department, so she isn't fully aware of why I'd be hesitant to work with someone from said department. I said, "Well, yes, I see how that makes sense, but honestly, it's still a bit awkward for me given everything that happened last year." She replied, "I don't know the whole story, and I don't need to know the whole story. I know enough to know that they were unkind to you, both professionally and personally. But you now have a tenure track appointment in our department, and I want you to succeed. No one here does quite what you do. Dr. X could help, but she's only just going up for tenure herself. I think you need someone in your historical period." I said, "Yes, and Dr. Americanist seems like a good fit as a mentor. In fact, before all of this happened, we were building toward that sort of relationship. But I honestly have not spoken to him in more than passing since last spring." She looked at me for a moment, almost as if she were assessing me, and then said, "I will speak to him for you. I will also speak with Dr. Modernist. I know she isn't directly in your field, but she is kind. She's a great editor, and I think you would like her."
I got the implicit message. Yes, you were screwed over a bit, but you need to do well here. Doing well here clearly means getting past all that. You need to do that if you're going to succeed. I appreciate that she is giving me the space to do this, and that she's the one trying to repair these relationships for me. But honestly, letting go of this is hard. I'm still trying to understand what happened. It's hard not to feel as though I did something wrong, even though I know I didn't--other than trust these people. It seems I have more work to do on this.
I met with Dr. Feminist Philosopher (the new chair of my home department) today to ask some questions about a grant she wants me to apply for. She said, "M, we need to get your a mentor who can shepherd you through the tenure process. We did this for Dr. X and Dr. Y, and it worked really well for them. Who do you think it should be? I think it needs to be someone from Underwater Basketweaving Department." Now, Dr. Feminist Philosopher was on leave last spring when all the heinous things occurred with Underwater Basketweaving Department, so she isn't fully aware of why I'd be hesitant to work with someone from said department. I said, "Well, yes, I see how that makes sense, but honestly, it's still a bit awkward for me given everything that happened last year." She replied, "I don't know the whole story, and I don't need to know the whole story. I know enough to know that they were unkind to you, both professionally and personally. But you now have a tenure track appointment in our department, and I want you to succeed. No one here does quite what you do. Dr. X could help, but she's only just going up for tenure herself. I think you need someone in your historical period." I said, "Yes, and Dr. Americanist seems like a good fit as a mentor. In fact, before all of this happened, we were building toward that sort of relationship. But I honestly have not spoken to him in more than passing since last spring." She looked at me for a moment, almost as if she were assessing me, and then said, "I will speak to him for you. I will also speak with Dr. Modernist. I know she isn't directly in your field, but she is kind. She's a great editor, and I think you would like her."
I got the implicit message. Yes, you were screwed over a bit, but you need to do well here. Doing well here clearly means getting past all that. You need to do that if you're going to succeed. I appreciate that she is giving me the space to do this, and that she's the one trying to repair these relationships for me. But honestly, letting go of this is hard. I'm still trying to understand what happened. It's hard not to feel as though I did something wrong, even though I know I didn't--other than trust these people. It seems I have more work to do on this.
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
Is this enough?
It is exhausting to constantly ask "Is this enough?" Whether I'm thinking about work or home, I'm asking myself that question a lot lately.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Mothers and Daughters
I am regularly asked if I'm going to "try for a girl." I hate this question. I really do. First, it assumes that I'm unhappy mothering three sons. Second, it privileges the relationship between a mother and a daughter as somehow more meaningful, more important than the one between a mother and a son. I typically just laugh and say, "No, three boys is just right for us." I realize the individuals asking the question don't mean any harm, but really, it isn't so bad being the only woman in a house of four men.
In fact, I'm often glad I don't have a daughter. I'm often uncertain a mother and a daughter relationship can be healthy. I mean, I know it can; I have seen lots of examples in my life. I have friends who have great relationships with their mothers. I have friends who have great relationships with their daughters. But in my own family, the relationships are contested at best, particularly the one between my mother and sister.
You see, my mother and sister don't really talk. They text, and they attempt to communicate through me. I talk to my mother about twice a week, and she invariably asks "Have you talked to your sister? Do you know what's going on with her?" Sometimes I have talked to my sister, and I occasionally share what I consider to be fairly innocuous details with my mother, primarily to appease her and make my life easier. Lots of times, though, I haven't spoken to my sister in weeks, sometimes months, and I have nothing to share. When I do talk to my sister, she says thinks like, "Why does Mom call you and not me?" Well, I know the answer to this, but I don't share it. Telling my sister that my mom finds her to be self-centered (she is, but so is my mom) and reticent about discussing her children (we are, after all, at the point in our lives when our mom is more interested in hearing about her grandkids than about us, and that's fine with me, but not so fine with my sister). My mom calls my sister to check on her, but she also wants to know how Brown-Eyed Boy and Girl are doing. My sister never discusses them, never. This upsets my mom, so she has stopped calling, relying instead on weekly text messages.
My mom isn't much better than my sister at communicating; in fact, she's rather judgmental, particularly about my sister's choices. Simply put, she can't keep her opinions to herself. Sure my sister makes poor choices, but as the choices rarely impact her children, I don't think my mom should offer her opinion. That said, I also don't think my sister should seek out my mom's opinion and then get pissed when my mom offers one my sister doesn't like. It's complicated, and it's childish.
In fact, this is the model that most mother-daughter relationships seem to follow. It's as though strong, independent women revert to adolescent behavior when dealing with their mothers and their daughters. It's odd and disconcerting. I realize I have no guarantee my relationship with my sons will be any different, but I'm taking notes, and I'm cautiously optimistic.
In fact, I'm often glad I don't have a daughter. I'm often uncertain a mother and a daughter relationship can be healthy. I mean, I know it can; I have seen lots of examples in my life. I have friends who have great relationships with their mothers. I have friends who have great relationships with their daughters. But in my own family, the relationships are contested at best, particularly the one between my mother and sister.
You see, my mother and sister don't really talk. They text, and they attempt to communicate through me. I talk to my mother about twice a week, and she invariably asks "Have you talked to your sister? Do you know what's going on with her?" Sometimes I have talked to my sister, and I occasionally share what I consider to be fairly innocuous details with my mother, primarily to appease her and make my life easier. Lots of times, though, I haven't spoken to my sister in weeks, sometimes months, and I have nothing to share. When I do talk to my sister, she says thinks like, "Why does Mom call you and not me?" Well, I know the answer to this, but I don't share it. Telling my sister that my mom finds her to be self-centered (she is, but so is my mom) and reticent about discussing her children (we are, after all, at the point in our lives when our mom is more interested in hearing about her grandkids than about us, and that's fine with me, but not so fine with my sister). My mom calls my sister to check on her, but she also wants to know how Brown-Eyed Boy and Girl are doing. My sister never discusses them, never. This upsets my mom, so she has stopped calling, relying instead on weekly text messages.
My mom isn't much better than my sister at communicating; in fact, she's rather judgmental, particularly about my sister's choices. Simply put, she can't keep her opinions to herself. Sure my sister makes poor choices, but as the choices rarely impact her children, I don't think my mom should offer her opinion. That said, I also don't think my sister should seek out my mom's opinion and then get pissed when my mom offers one my sister doesn't like. It's complicated, and it's childish.
In fact, this is the model that most mother-daughter relationships seem to follow. It's as though strong, independent women revert to adolescent behavior when dealing with their mothers and their daughters. It's odd and disconcerting. I realize I have no guarantee my relationship with my sons will be any different, but I'm taking notes, and I'm cautiously optimistic.
Conflicted. . .
that is the word that best describes how I am feeling today. In fact, it best describes how I've felt for a week or so now. I know why, more or less. My mat leave officially ends next week. I say officially because I timed my leave with the start and end of classes; thus, I don't go back into the classroom until September as the Winter semester at CU ends April 11th. My responsibilities to my departments will be relatively light: end of the year meetings, faculty development retreats, and evaluating transcripts. I have to finish adapting one of my courses to teach as an on-line course, but I have much of that done already. I have two essays I need to finish revising and submit, and my goal is to have both under review by August 15th. But given all this, I don't expect much will change, at least not till exams are over. So I have another six weeks or so in which I will primarily be a stay-at-home mom. George is slated to go into daycare part-time sometime at the end of April or beginning of May, depending on when a spot is available.
I know this is a great situation. I know I've been really lucky this year. I like my job, and I know I'll be happy once I go back to work. But I'm still conflicted. I didn't expect to like staying home as much as I do. I haven't longed for "adult" conversations, the way so many people told me I would. I've enjoyed making muffins with Bear and just hanging out with George. I've liked meeting Wild Man at the bus stop almost every day and listening to him describe his day. I've found a groove of sorts, and now I have to find a new groove, one that will be infinitely more complicated and focused on schedules--at least by September.
And on the other hand, it will be good to have more than 45 minutes at a time to work, to know my work time is my work time, and that my time with my kids doesn't have to be so split. I think I'd feel less conflicted if the last few weeks I hadn't been so focused on getting an essay done. I've been writing in snatches, but most every free minute is devoted to trying to get this thing finished. As I wrote before, it is slow going, which is frustrating. I know I am ready to have time to focus on work. But dropping George off at daycare the first day will be infinitely harder than it was to take Wild Man or Bear, and neither of those days were what I'd describe as easy.
I know this is a great situation. I know I've been really lucky this year. I like my job, and I know I'll be happy once I go back to work. But I'm still conflicted. I didn't expect to like staying home as much as I do. I haven't longed for "adult" conversations, the way so many people told me I would. I've enjoyed making muffins with Bear and just hanging out with George. I've liked meeting Wild Man at the bus stop almost every day and listening to him describe his day. I've found a groove of sorts, and now I have to find a new groove, one that will be infinitely more complicated and focused on schedules--at least by September.
And on the other hand, it will be good to have more than 45 minutes at a time to work, to know my work time is my work time, and that my time with my kids doesn't have to be so split. I think I'd feel less conflicted if the last few weeks I hadn't been so focused on getting an essay done. I've been writing in snatches, but most every free minute is devoted to trying to get this thing finished. As I wrote before, it is slow going, which is frustrating. I know I am ready to have time to focus on work. But dropping George off at daycare the first day will be infinitely harder than it was to take Wild Man or Bear, and neither of those days were what I'd describe as easy.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
I do exist
I am still here. Here are some random updates to prove that.
- Student loans suck. I am paying mine back, but I failed to consolidate them when I could have last year. (I was busy, you know, having a baby) I went online to make my monthly payment but I couldn't find the loan. Seriously. I typed in my info and no account showed up. So I called and was told my loan had been sold to another company. I have gotten nothing informing me of this. Luckily I was able to get this figured out so that my payment wasn't late, but really. These companies could make it easier on people trying to make payments.
- I have two weeks left on my mat leave. I am not happy about this, but we are trying to figure this out. I have emailed both chairs of the departments in which I am appointed to let them know I am available for meetings but will be primarily working from home.
- I am trying to finish a paper in my spare time (read: the time Archer can stop working to take care of George). The work is slow going, but I am happy with the results.
- I could write more, but I'm tired. Plus this has already turned into one of the most boring posts ever.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
My grandfather
George and I visited my grandfather last week. I'd like to say it was a lovely visit. I'd like to say that George bonded with my grandfather. I'd like to say I feel like the visit was worthwhile. Unfortunately, I can't. My grandfather is miserable. He is exhausted. He is lonely. He is depressed. He is ready to die. I think he has been since my grandmother died in 2010. I think I could handle all of that if he hadn't gotten mean, but alas, he is so unhappy to still be alive that he is unpleasant to be around. That makes me really, really sad.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
It takes a village
Archer is out of town for three days and two nights, which means I'm on my own with the boys. I've had lots of help though. Our lovely neighbor came by this morning to walk Wild Man to the bus stop, so I wouldn't have to take all three boys out at 7:20 in the morning. She is doing the same thing tomorrow morning. My good friends are picking Bear up at preschool this afternoon, so I don't have to drive across town again. Then they are joining us for dinner. This weekend I'm going out of town; I'm taking George to meet my grandfather, who is 88 and in really poor health. Another good friend has offered to keep Wild Man and Bear, so they aren't in the car all day as Archer goes to and from Big City airport. It definitely takes a village, and I'm glad we've found one in CU Land.
Thursday, February 07, 2013
The fallout
It seems the fallout from last spring's drama at CU continues. I've just been notified that unless I can get one of the two departments to agree to run the travel course I designed (which doesn't really fit in either department) I will be forced to return the money. There are days when I seriously wonder if this is the place for us.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
The baby I wasn't sure I wanted
In November 2011 I discovered I was pregnant. We were not trying to get pregnant, and if I'm being completely, brutally honest, I'm still not sure how it happened. I mean, I know how it happened, but the event, as it were, was brief. It was, in fact, not even completed because, as I recall, Bear woke up screaming literally seconds after it had started. Following an evening together, with a lovely dinner that Archer made for us and at least two bottles of wine, we had, apparently, done just enough. Thus, I blame George's conception on one too many glasses of wine, a momentary lapse in judgement, and, well, fate.
I was less than happy about being pregnant, as I wrote here. I was, in fact, horrified. I cried for two weeks. I called my best friend daily, who reassured me that I could manage. That it would be okay. That we could afford another baby. That I had really wanted a third child but convinced myself that I didn't. After three days of such phone calls, my friend said to me what I had been thinking but wouldn't allow myself to say outloud: "M, if the thought of another baby makes you this unhappy, you don't have to have it." In that moment, my dear, lovely friend offered me what I couldn't, what I had refused to offer myself: the space to consider what my life would be like without this unexpected third child.
I imagined life very much like it was: a good life, a happy life. Working, parenting Bear and Wild Man, being with Archer, traveling. I talked to Archer, who remained largely silent throughout my emotional turmoil. I talked to my doctor. I had bloodwork. I did the research. I talked with another dear, dear friend who had made the horrifying, gut-wrenching decision to end a pregnancy over a decade ago. I made an appointment. I knew Archer didn't want me to, but I couldn't see a future in which we weren't both so stressed out by work and by finances, struggling to be the parents we wanted to be but couldn't be because we were so constrained by time and by resources. I couldn't see a happy ending.
Then, my wise, honest, loving friend, who had been through it before she had her children, said, "You will want to keep it a secret, but this is big. You won't be able to keep it a secret forever. Somehow, I think, Bear and Wild Man will find out, or perhaps you will want to tell them. Can you explain it to them? Can you answer their questions?" I knew I couldn't. More importantly, I knew I wouldn't be able to answer my own questions, to address my own what-ifs. I would never be able to believe that Archer, whom I know only wanted me to be happy and excited, had forgiven me. Twenty-four hours later I cancelled the appointment.
Now, well over a year later, George is six-months old. He is a happy, blue-eyed, wiggly, giggly baby. He has completed our family. He is the piece we didn't know was missing. He has transformed each of us in big and small ways, even Wild Man and Bear, who are both more compassionate, a bit more patient, and so loving to him and each other. Now, I look at him and I get emotional. But not for the reasons you might think.
I don't regret that period, that whole horrible, dreadful time when I wasn't sure I wanted him. I realize now that was part of our journey, his and mine. His unexpected arrival made me stronger, made me a better mother in many ways. I'm more protective of my children now, of my time with them; I'm more empathetic and, perhaps, more understanding. In those dreadful, dreadful weeks--and even in the emotional months after I decided to go through with the pregnancy--I realized that, despite all my fear and worry, I was fortunate enough to be in a position to go through with an unplanned pregnancy. I don't take that good fortune for granted because not everyone has it.
In those gut-wrenching weeks, I learned firsthand, something I had always suspected: choosing to end a pregnancy is not an easy decision. It is not a decision that is made lightly. It is agonizing and horrific and vomit-inducing. Those of us who have been in such a position to contemplate such a decision, let alone make it, and go through with it judge ourselves harshly, perhaps daily for a long, long time. But I know now, again as I always suspected, that sometimes that decision is what is right for that person at that time. And the many, many women who have to make that decision, are not cowardly or desperate, nor are they cruel or emotionless, as so many people would have us believe. They are brave. That is what having George taught me.
I was less than happy about being pregnant, as I wrote here. I was, in fact, horrified. I cried for two weeks. I called my best friend daily, who reassured me that I could manage. That it would be okay. That we could afford another baby. That I had really wanted a third child but convinced myself that I didn't. After three days of such phone calls, my friend said to me what I had been thinking but wouldn't allow myself to say outloud: "M, if the thought of another baby makes you this unhappy, you don't have to have it." In that moment, my dear, lovely friend offered me what I couldn't, what I had refused to offer myself: the space to consider what my life would be like without this unexpected third child.
I imagined life very much like it was: a good life, a happy life. Working, parenting Bear and Wild Man, being with Archer, traveling. I talked to Archer, who remained largely silent throughout my emotional turmoil. I talked to my doctor. I had bloodwork. I did the research. I talked with another dear, dear friend who had made the horrifying, gut-wrenching decision to end a pregnancy over a decade ago. I made an appointment. I knew Archer didn't want me to, but I couldn't see a future in which we weren't both so stressed out by work and by finances, struggling to be the parents we wanted to be but couldn't be because we were so constrained by time and by resources. I couldn't see a happy ending.
Then, my wise, honest, loving friend, who had been through it before she had her children, said, "You will want to keep it a secret, but this is big. You won't be able to keep it a secret forever. Somehow, I think, Bear and Wild Man will find out, or perhaps you will want to tell them. Can you explain it to them? Can you answer their questions?" I knew I couldn't. More importantly, I knew I wouldn't be able to answer my own questions, to address my own what-ifs. I would never be able to believe that Archer, whom I know only wanted me to be happy and excited, had forgiven me. Twenty-four hours later I cancelled the appointment.
Now, well over a year later, George is six-months old. He is a happy, blue-eyed, wiggly, giggly baby. He has completed our family. He is the piece we didn't know was missing. He has transformed each of us in big and small ways, even Wild Man and Bear, who are both more compassionate, a bit more patient, and so loving to him and each other. Now, I look at him and I get emotional. But not for the reasons you might think.
I don't regret that period, that whole horrible, dreadful time when I wasn't sure I wanted him. I realize now that was part of our journey, his and mine. His unexpected arrival made me stronger, made me a better mother in many ways. I'm more protective of my children now, of my time with them; I'm more empathetic and, perhaps, more understanding. In those dreadful, dreadful weeks--and even in the emotional months after I decided to go through with the pregnancy--I realized that, despite all my fear and worry, I was fortunate enough to be in a position to go through with an unplanned pregnancy. I don't take that good fortune for granted because not everyone has it.
In those gut-wrenching weeks, I learned firsthand, something I had always suspected: choosing to end a pregnancy is not an easy decision. It is not a decision that is made lightly. It is agonizing and horrific and vomit-inducing. Those of us who have been in such a position to contemplate such a decision, let alone make it, and go through with it judge ourselves harshly, perhaps daily for a long, long time. But I know now, again as I always suspected, that sometimes that decision is what is right for that person at that time. And the many, many women who have to make that decision, are not cowardly or desperate, nor are they cruel or emotionless, as so many people would have us believe. They are brave. That is what having George taught me.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
A big deal
For the past ten days Bear has gone poop on the potty rather than in a pull-up. This is a big deal in our house, a really big deal.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Productive, sort of
Last week and the weekend were productive for me. I finished editing some essays for a project I'm working on. I finally finished the introduction and first part of a paper I need to work on. I ordered a bunch of books for another project, and I am in the process of submitting the receipts for those books (this is for the grant I was awarded last year). I have read abstracts for a panel I'm proposing for a major conference in my field and am in the process of finalizing the proposal. I'm trying to be productive today. George, however, is teething and has a cold. We've been up since 5:30 after being up several times throughout the night. I need a nap, but every time I get George to sleep he wakes up. I will now return to trying to be productive, and by that, I mean I'm going to put George in his activity center so I can watch The View.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Scattered
I'm writing this in an attempt to pull together my scattered thoughts. I'm trying to work on a paper, but I'm thinking of the 18 other things I need to do while Archer is managing George. My thoughts are scattered as I'm, mentally, somewhere between maternity leave and work. I want to be working. I want to write and compose course descriptions. I want to put together a research grant so I can do some archival work this summer. But I want to hang out with George, pick Wild Man up from the bus stop, and paint with Bear. I want to make scones and stew, but I want to read and take notes too. I want to stop thinking about home and try to focus on this task, but since I'm sitting in my home office, surrounded by crayon drawings, baby toys, and toy cars, I'm finding that a bit difficult.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Letting Go
I spoke with my dad today, very briefly. I called my mom, and he
asked to speak with me. This is a rarity. My dad and I tend to speak
through my mom or through short emails. For a moment, I was really
happy my dad asked to talk to me. I thought, "Hey, maybe some of the
conversations we had over the holidays had an affect." Then he said, "I
just wanted to ask what Archer wants for his birthday. You haven't
told me anything yet." I sighed and said, "I'll get him to email you,
Dad. Thanks for thinking of him." He then said good-bye and passed the
phone back to my mom. Every January, my father repeatedly asks what
Archer wants for his birthday. It starts on Christmas Day and continues
until Archer's birthday, sometimes well after. I usually manage to
come up with something--a book, a CD, a sweater. I am always, however,
hurt by my father's intense preoccupation with Archer's birthday. You
see, my dad never asks me what I want for my birthday, nor does he take
part in any gift my mom sends me; similarly, he never asks the boys what
they might want for their birthdays or for Christmas. So as thoughtful
as my dad is being of Archer, he seemingly forgets me and his grandsons
on our birthdays.
I am officially letting go of my feelings of disappointment and hurt. My dad loves my husband. I can't let that bother me. I choose to be happy that he cares about my husband. I know myself well enough to know that I will still struggle with this, but I will try.
I am officially letting go of my feelings of disappointment and hurt. My dad loves my husband. I can't let that bother me. I choose to be happy that he cares about my husband. I know myself well enough to know that I will still struggle with this, but I will try.
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Confessions of a Skinny Girl
I am a "skinny girl," whatever that means.* I'm 5'3" and weigh about 108 pounds. I've never been on a diet, not even after having my children. In fact, five months after giving birth to my third child I am back in my pre-pregnancy clothes with little or no effort. I am the kind of woman other women hate, as I have been told many, many times in my life. Because I'm petite, people tend to assume that I don't have body issues, that I'm comfortable in my own skin. While almost every woman I know complains about her body issues to her friends, I am not allowed to do this. In fact, if I say, "I don't like how I look in X," I am actually mocked. I've been told by more than one good friend, "The skinny girl doesn't get to complain." I, a "skinny" girl, have some confessions to make.
*I think this will be a series of posts.
- I do have body issues, and I do want to talk about those issues with my friends.
- Whenever someone says, "You look great, and I only hate you a little bit," my feelings are hurt.
- "Skinny" girls aren't skinny because we want to make women who aren't "skinny" feel bad.
- Even though I don't diet, I do watch what I eat, and I do eat healthily.
- I spend as much time thinking about food and my body as you do.
- I think I look awful in a bathing suit, and I'm not thrilled with the state of my abs.
- I don't think I'm skinny enough.
- I have a skewed body image, as do most "skinny" girls. Every time someone pays me a genuine compliment (and really, I feel like those are rare as most compliments include the statement "I hate you!" which I am meant to take as a joke), I think to myself, "Really, that person clearly doesn't see what I see. I think I could stand to lose a few pounds, and I really need to do more crunches."
*I think this will be a series of posts.
Friday, January 04, 2013
The first step
Keeping with my theme, the first thing I need to "let go" is disappointment over certain relationships, namely the one I have with my father. I could write a lengthy post about my dad, whom I love so very much. Then I'd end up in tears, and I'd be dwelling on things. Instead I want to write a few things that I need to remember about my dad that will help me let go of my disappointment about our relationship.
- I am an adult, and I am as responsible for the state of our relationship as he is.
- My dad is not at the place he thought he'd be in at 64, either financially or in terms of his health.
- My dad comes from a time when the father's primary responsibility was to be the "breadwinner." For a variety of reasons, he feels like he has fell short in that respect. Almost everything he does is colored by this belief.
- My dad did not have a good relationship with his own father.
- My dad (who is technically my stepfather) has never lived with children younger than 5 for an extended period of time. He truly has no idea how to relate to young children. He also believes children should just do as they are told without question.
- My dad will always rely on my mother to convey things to me; he doesn't want to engage in any sort of emotional exchange because he is afraid I will see him get emotional.
- My dad does the best he can. Often that isn't enough, but I need to remember that he firmly believes that.
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