Sometimes, When I Open My Mouth, My Mother Comes Out

When did I turn into my own mother? 

Was it when I became a mother, myself?

Maybe it was when I first moved out and found her presence lacking in my life, I then tried to fill the void?
Or was it even earlier?  Was my youthful eye-rolling and embarrassment just the outward expression of an Oedipus/Electra complex to mask the fact that I truly identified with my mother all along in order to compete for the affections of my father?  (‘Sup, Freud?)

Whenever it happened, I know there’s no denying it now:  I am my mother’s daughter. 

And that’s not a bad thing.  In fact, if I can be so bold as to say this whilst making a direct comparison between she and I, I think my mom’s pretty great.

So here’s what we share.

A Love for Games

I was involved in planning a social event for the teachers in our primary organization.  It was supposed to be very casual with just some food and time for people to get to know each other, but before I could stop myself the words were already out of my mouth: “Can we play a game?  I’ll plan it.”  So of course I had to call up my mother, the queen of party games, to figure out what we could actually play.
Honestly, I don’t know what people who grew up without a massive Jeopardy board in their home ever did for fun.

Making Friends

My mom always told me, “I’d rather be thought of as foolish and friendly than wise but aloof”.  For all the times I groaned in mortification at my mother’s constant small talk and outreaching, I now find myself going out of my way to make introductions, catch up with people, and extend invitations.  I’m still not much of a conversationalist, so I’m sure I’ve got the “foolish” part down, but I’d like to think I’m there on “friendly”, as well.

A Good Sport

Growing up, I was taught to be both a good loser and a good winner.  And I’ll be darned if I’m not the best sport around in all forms of game play, win or lose! 

(Okay, my husband might disagree on the few occasions that Settlers of Catan has gotten heated…)

Sighs

You know when some someone says something humorous but painfully truthful?  It’s funny but sad.  I tend to let out this same little chuckle that turns into a pathetic sigh.  Without fail, Thomas will tell me, “You sound just like your mother.”

Looks

What can I say?  We’re stunners.  And we can both rock short hair. 

Parties with a Theme
I am a sucker for a good themed party.  Admittedly, I am not so great at actually planning these parties, but tell me there’s a theme – carnival, western, princess, or the 70s – and my mom and I will be there dressed in matching clown costumes, cowboy hats, tiaras, or gaucho pants.

Throw in a game that’s on topic and you couldn’t keep us out!

Happy Anniversary*

I really lucked out in marrying my husband.  

I mean, maybe this sounds obvious, but of all the guys I’ve met, he is by far my first pick of ‘Men I Want to Marry’.  

Can I tell you why I love him?

He is so kind.
I don’t think I’m always an easy person to live with.  I’d like to think I do a lot of good things, too, but I know that I am quick to be frustrated, easily offended, and even something of a grudge-holder.  Thomas, though, sits on the other end of the spectrum - ever patient, quick to forgive and slow to anger.

He’s affectionate.

We’ve been married for almost 3 years and we have 2 kids, so I’m not sure if we get to call ourselves newlyweds anymore.  Still, Thomas always wants to hold my hand or put his arm around me.  Sometimes, when we’re with other, more “mature” couples, I feel a little self conscious, not wanting to give off that “annoying newlywed” vibe.  But then I remember it could be the opposite, and I feel so grateful to be loved!

He’s goofy.
When we were first dating, I planned an outing for us and insisted on paying.  Thomas joked that I was playing the man’s part which meant he had to be the woman.  That night and for some time afterward, he would talk in his falsetto “Juliet” voice to tease me.  I loved that he could be so light-hearted. 
Though I admit to not always being so appreciative of his silly side, I’m honoured that I regularly get to see a side of him so few others do.

He's a "take-home-to-your-mom" kind of guy.
In fact, it was our parents that set us up!

He's a great pillow-talker.
Surely we'd be out of things to talk about after three years of marriage, right?  Somehow we still find topics of conversation to fill our waking hours and I'm even excited to share the details of my (sometimes monotonous) day with him.  He's particularly chatty at night as we prepare to go to bed, and often keeps me up later than I intend - but I love that he has things he wants to tell me, too.

He shares his interests with me.
Drumming, video games, CAD software, sports...  We might not share all of the same interests, but he is always eager to include me in his, teaching me new skills and thinking up ways to help me enjoy his favourite activities.

He's a fine specimen of manhood.
Seriously, have you seen him?  He is your classic "tall, dark, and handsome."  Dreamy.

*(A couple days late, but I love him all the same.)

Excuses

Thomas is pretty hard-fisted when it comes to keeping the electronics away from the babies.  I'm the one home with them all day, and I'm a little more lax on the rules.  Often, he'll come home and ask me:
What's this sticky stuff on the phone screen?

"Oh, that was Rosie.  Sorry."

"Why did Rosie have the phone?"

"...Sometimes I like to go to the bathroom without little fingers reaching in the toilet.  Sue me."

A Post Partum Profile

When you’re expecting, you have nearly nine months to get to know that bundle of joy inside of you.  Nine months to imagine what she’ll look like, what her personality will be, and how much you’ll love her when she’s finally in your arms.  And you do love her already - for every kick in the present and all the potential of the future, you love that baby that has already made you a mother.

That’s why no one could have ever explained to me, could have possibly convinced me, that when my baby girl was born I wouldn’t fall instantly in love with her. 

And yet, that’s exactly what did - or didn’t - happen.

When my baby was born, we didn’t have that magical bonding moment every new mom describes when we first looked into each other’s eyes.  When I first saw my baby being carried to the weigh station, being cleaned and diapered, I felt awe and wonderment.  I also felt fear and disbelief.  Then, in the midst of delivering the afterbirth and my obstetrician trying to stop the bleeding from a detached placenta, Thomas tells me that I held her, but I have no recollection of that moment.  From there, I waited each day for that maternal bond to form with my perfect new girl, and yet, I continued to feel so little for her.  It was easier when family was around, gushing over how precious she was, to feel that she was something special, but it was when we were alone - especially during those middle of the night feedings and later, when the family had left and Thomas went back to school - that I could barely muster any affection for my baby.  Most often, I felt regret, some resentment, and a lot of despair.  

I’ve always tried to be an accurate person.  So when people asked me how I was, how motherhood was, how the new baby was in those first weeks after her birth, I would answer diplomatically, yet truthfully: It's hard.  But it's getting a little better each day.  I couldn’t recite the cliches about motherhood being magical, or my baby being perfect that I’d heard other new moms deliver.  I just figured I was a little more honest than everyone else, that everyone else was having just as hard a time and didn’t want to admit it.

At my 6-week post-natal appointment, I was given the routine survey to assess postpartum depression.  The nurse that met with me let me know that my score fell right in the middle, so I could go either way as far as any treatment was concerned.  I told her I would refrain from seeking any treatment since I already felt like I was beginning to get better.  The truth is that I was a Canadian figuring out American health care on a student’s budget - I just assumed achieving mental health was out of my price range.  I knew I was having the baby blues, but still, I believed that I was within the range of normal.  I was managing.  Surely, I didn’t have a reason to be worse off than any other.  

Rosie was 4 weeks old and giving social smiles before I felt that I really loved her.  Longer before I liked her.

She was 4-months-old when I could first say that I was able to find some moment of happiness in each day.

But it was at 13 months, just 1 month before my second baby was due, that I finally hit a turning point.  I fully and quite suddenly “snapped out of it”.  It wasn’t until I found myself feeling better, feeling more myself than I had in the last year, that I realized just how awful I had been feeling and for how long. 

It seemed like a night and day difference to go from simply getting through each day - often resenting my role of mother, questioning my choices, and desperately searching for purpose - to loving life!  All of a sudden I was hopelessly in love with my little girl; I had energy and motivation to make her a meaningful part of all my daily tasks; and I was finally beyond excited to welcome our little boy into our family in a short time.

If I'm being truthful, I began writing this post months ago when I was still in a dark place.  What I wanted to say then was how I was robbed of the joy a new baby should have held.  I wanted to be bitter that I didn’t have the magical new mom experience.

Now as I sit here typing, all I can express is gratitude.  

I’m grateful for my two beautiful children.

I’m grateful to be a mother and to have the opportunity to stay at home and act as their primary care-giver.  

I’m grateful that the awful feelings of postpartum depression didn’t last forever and even more grateful they didn’t come back with the birth of my second child.

I’m grateful for (surprisingly) affordable modern medicine so that I don’t have to risk feeling that way again.

And, perhaps, I’m even grateful for my first postpartum experience because it has given me a better appreciation now for the wonderful blessings God has put in my charge.

Infidelity

Sometimes...

I feel like I'm cheating.

On Rosie.

With Andy.

While I'm consoling and commiserating with her, I'm secretly making faces behind her back to get him to laugh.

Why I'm a Santa Pampootie

Remember that annoying kid in elementary school who went around telling everyone that Santa Claus isn’t real?  

That was me.

I don’t remember ever believing in Santa - my parents never tried to spin that yarn for me.  We still left out cookies (or our traditional cheeseball and crackers) for him and got one big “Santa” gift on Christmas morning, but I always knew it was all done in jest.  

I’ve talked to many people who would tell me that I've never experienced the “magic of Christmas” if I've never believed in Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick.  

So call me crazy, but I plan to raise my kids the same way.

There are plenty of reasons not to give in to the Santa tradition.  Though I’ve not experienced it personally, I’ve heard enough of the ensuing heartbreak when kids finally learn the truth to be dissuaded from this path.  I’ve also been told by more than one individual that shattering the Santa illusion led them to then question if Jesus and His miraculous birth were just another Christmas myth.  

Furthermore, whenever children have a misguided notion, there’s the risk of embarrassment when corrected - and the parents might not always get to be the ones to do some gentle explaining.  Cue 7-year-old-me.  And while I may have been the school yard jerk in second grade, I assure you, it was every other kid in my sixth grade class laughing at Morgan for being the last kid unlucky enough to still believe.

My personal conviction in doing away with Kris Kringle has to do with learning gratitude and eschewing any attitude of entitlement.  Just like I hate watching a 2-year-old open gift after endless gift at her birthday without any thought as to who should be thanked, I abhor the scene of Christmas morning where kids rush downstairs to rip open their gifts, unaware of who gave what, simply knowing that “Santa came!”  Santa means that you get presents; Santa means that there’s no reason you shouldn’t get presents (precluding, of course, naughty-list behaviour).  Santa does not mean thoughtful choosing of gifts, or sacrifice to make those gifts a reality, or offering sincere thanks to the giver.  

My husband, at first, attested that the notion of Santa Clause gives you the opportunity to give anonymously, a practice he remembers fondly from his childhood Christmases.  Still, I contest that to experience the tenderness of giving without thanks, you have to be in on the ruse.  In order to ‘play Santa’, you have to understand that he doesn’t exist.  

When asked why the tradition of Santa Claus is so important, I have only heard Father Christmas enthusiasts splutter, “because that’s the magic of Christmas!”  What a poor Christmas, I should think, we are giving our children if mysteriously appearing toys are the most magical thing we have to offer them.  Watch any cheesy Hallmark movie and you’ll be reminded that the true magic of Christmas is love, sharing time with family, and, lest we forget, the birth of our Saviour.  

This past Christmas, we spent the gift-giving morning with my parents.  There, we’ve always had a tradition of taking things slowly, opening gifts one at a time, oohing and ahing as everyone else receives their presents, too.  As I watched my brother unwrap an item that my parents had clearly put some thought into, I thought to myself, “this is magical.”  Seeing the hard work they’d gone to in order to make Christmas special, not just for me and my family, but for all of their children, made me feel blessed and appreciative for this time of year.  I don’t need Santa Clause to make the season enchanting.  

So I’m sticking to my guns.  My children don’t need to be fed the Santa story to experience the “magic of Christmas”.  And while I’ll try to make sure my kids don’t spoil it for yours when they meet on the playground, I also hope you’ll consider being the one to decide the jig is up before they have the chance.