The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Slice of pie

One of the reasons I like to visit my parents when my sisters aren't available to come around is because I get to be myself. My parents know all of my hangups, and even though my mother and I are prone to nuclear exchanges, I don't care much about what she thinks of me. She has to love me, it's in the mother's code. That she probably doesn't like me rarely ruffles my feathers because we're different people, and her values do not really have much in common with my own. Still, she's my mother, and I was never going to think she was perfect, anyway. There's no such thing, these mythic mothers of perfection, and one day I too will have a child who has a list as long as the large intestine of my faults and quirky characteristics. She will be embarrassed by me, the way I might still reach for her hand as we cross the street, the way I might whip out my teenaged vernacular forgetting that I'm no longer sixteen and that the word 'dude' doesn't sound so hip coming from a middle-aged woman. My music will embarrass her, the way I shut down when I'm in a mood will either annoy her or worry her, and we'll be at odds because my controlling nature will never be quashed. That's okay. I'll love her through it and pray she'll love me as well. It's all I can really hope for.

My sisters, though, are just as controlling as I am, and they're always on the hunt for weakness in anyone but themselves. I have heard more than once that I should be involving my child in 'play groups', or swimming lessons or whichever social engagement is in vogue for toddlers this month. I have been told that having an only child is a mistake, that she'll grow up bossy and self-absorbed because she won't have any idea how to compromise or share (for the record, my kid is the one who shares while their kids are the ones who regularly impose a death grip on their lego and dinky cars). I don't take her to the doctor enough, according to my sister P. who visits the doctor at least twice a month with her kids since they're always sick. The correlation between germ infested waiting rooms and frequent bouts of lung/ear/nose/throat infections has not occurred to her. I don't take her enough places, don't do enough crafts with her, etc. I hear about it all the time, through word of mouth (my mother), and sometimes it really makes me wonder if I'm the worst mother on the planet, causing me to panic that maybe I'm not cut out for this mothering gig, that my anxieties and admitted preference for all things introvert will only serve to warp the little girl I love more than myself. I worry, and I fret, and then I worry some more.

Obviously, a sister-free holiday weekend was just what I wanted and needed. My father talked incessantly, my mother showed me all of the new things she's bought during our two month standoff forgetting that during our argument that she had insisted that she didn't shop anymore, and I grinned and fought the urge to point out the obvious. As is the custom in my mother's home, there were bowls burgeoning with potato chips and chocolate eggs wrapped in foil, pop, Pillsbury turnovers in the oven and a crisper filled with sausage and bacon waiting for breakfast the following morning. My father made a roast beef and mashed potatoes, even though it was Good Friday, saying Jesus wouldn't mind the fishlessness, and I sipped on a glass of red wine, not once thinking it was the blood of Christ. I couldn't eat the roast beef, having given up four-legged beasties in favour of chicken and turkey, but I ate the overcooked broccoli and potatoes and chased it all with the turnovers, not letting myself think about the trans fat that Pillsbury still hasn't removed from their products. I then watched the sun set across the lake and listened for the hoots of owls which never came. It was a typical weekend with my parents, very much like what used to go on when I lived at home, and though some of it annoyed me, I can't deny missing it. I slept soundly, I took my time dressing in the morning, I listened to my parents bicker and then I walked along the edge of the lake and marvelled at how clear the water was. No stress or criticism, just fatty foods and the constant flow of my parent's voices.

I felt a little guilty about not wanting to spend the holiday with my sisters, but this mothering thing and how different we are all with it is a bit stressful. My inflexibility on changing my personality to fit into the mommy-mould better baffles my siblings regularly, just as my inability to shut off my emotions for R. does. They are black and white while I live in the grey zone. They live for their children, breathe for them and arrange their sleeping patterns around them, while M. and I have always felt that we are the ones who should set the tone in our home and that our child shall abide by it. We are sensitive to her needs, but not to the point that we would give up our way of life to accomodate them. She's the child, after all, and our job is to raise her, not the other way around. Does this mean we don't love her as much as they love their kids? Obviously not. The kid is the centre of our universe but not in a way that makes us servants. We love her, we sometimes dote on her, but we never forget that we are the parents and that she is learning how to become an equal member of the household. It doesn't make any sense to think of taking orders from a leader who can't manage a coherent sentence, and yet so many parents out there have three foot dictators in diapers running the show. It's beyond me.

So, in the spirit of mommy confessions, I give you some truths about myself and the way I conduct my mommy business. Some of it embarrasses me because I know it's not considered very 'mommy-like', and some of it I'm slightly proud of. I know some might be inclined to judge, and this is their prerogative but I seriously doubt that they've discovered the treasure chest of perfect parenting in their own backyards either. In fact, I'd put money on that.

1) I do not bathe my child every night. My sisters do it, but I see no need for it, and I can feel their judgment whenever they ask me about it. Now, my wee one brushes her own teeth, flosses, washes her face and hands routinely, so I doubt there's any hygiene issue there, but for some reason I am constantly reminded that I should be doing it more. To this I say 'umm, whatever'. We're good once or twice a week.

2) I often say 'umm hmmm', or 'oh, really?' when I haven't actually been listening to a word she has been saying.

3) I let her watch the Treehouse channel in the morning so that I don't have to get out of bed. I get up around 8am or so and make her breakfast, so it's not like I'm sleeping until noon. She's self-sufficient, she knows how to access the one channel she's actually interested in and she doesn't get into trouble. Works for me.

4) I sometimes throw out her school work. Now, I know I'm supposed to think all of it is absolute genius, but let's get real. There is only so much room on my refrigerator and I can't imagine she's going to want to look at it all when she's thirty, so keeping it seems unnecessary. The exceptional work I will obviously keep, but circling all the 'b's' in a sentence does not seem worth holding onto. Also, she draws about four to six pictures on average a day. I'd need a separate room just to house her drawings, most of which she only puts marginal effort into.

5) I refuse to ever take her to McDonald's. Now, most mothers I know who take their kids there often admit it sheepishly, like they're apologizing for it, but I am taking the other position on this. I often get criticized for my firm stance on fast food and how I am 'depriving' my child by not letting her eat it. I say this: I ate it as a kid, a LOT, and I am constantly worried about what it might have done to my body. I have never been thin, had bad skin for years, and now have gall stones. I don't think these places serve real food, and I will not be a party to poisoning my child with it. Pure and simple.

6) I don't take my girl anywhere outside of a three mile radius. I will walk with her, take her to the park (when I feel like it), take her to the library and will entertain her little friends if they should come over, but I can't imagine just loading her into the car and driving across town to go to the mall. First, I hate malls. Second, my anxiety over driving is a well-established fact. I am trying to get over it, knowing it will be an issue later on, but for now I am trying to hide my phobias from her and I am hoping she isn't catching on. I drove her and my mother around yesterday in a city I don't know well, but to drive her around myself frightens me terribly. I can't make sense of it.

7) While I'm on the computer at various intervals in the day, she is entertaining herself. She watches PBS or Treehouse, draws pictures, plays with her toys or looks at books. I can't stand the idea of playing dolls with her all day without taking the time I need for myself. Some say this is selfish, while I see it as self-preservation. I also clean while she busies herself, which she sometimes wants to help with, and when I cook I let her watch but I don't have the patience to let her get right in there. She can hold the egg beaters, she can pour things into the bowl, but I seldom stand back and just let her experiment with it. Food costs money, and I've no tolerance for wastefulness.

8) I used to have to psych myself up to take her to her reading group at the library, and I'd watch the clock until it was over so that I could browse the books I wanted to look at. While the other mothers all chatted in their little groups, I sat off to the side admiring my girl and delighting in everything she had to contribute to the conversation. I am not a joiner, but I went for my girl, and it was harder than you might imagine.

9) I never give her dessert unless every bit of vegetable on plate has been eaten. This is to do with my anger over my own mother always filling me with sugar as a child which had me grow up with a distaste for all vegetation. Now, I love vegetables and actually crave them but it took me until my thirties to want them. Many cavities and health problems later.

10) M. calls me 'The Fun Police' because I am always on her to pick up her toys or to quiet down when I'm trying to listen to the television. He doesn't understand why I can't handle all the chaos of tiny plastic figures all over my floor or why I immediately shut down when I see splashes of juice on the just-washed floor but all I can say is that I like order. I also find myself laughably incensed with her for not understanding that I need her to be quiet when I'm trying to hear the television when I put so much effort into respecting her when she's listening to her programs. She's four. I know.

11) Because my child is so well-behaved, I sometimes allow myself to think that it's because of me and my natural abilities, when really it is because she's herself and because M. is such a hands-on dad. He's always here, unlike so many working dads, and we partner on almost all decisions. My sisters do not have this luxury and are often overwhelmed which makes me feel superior until I acknowledge that the wee one has two full-time parents at the moment and that maybe this is why I feel so relaxed.

12) I have let her cry herself to sleep in her crib when she was a baby. Some people have criticized this. To them I say 'She did it for two nights and then she went to bed like clockwork from then on. No more crying. No protests. In fact, she watches the clock for her bedtime and voluntarily goes up to brush her teeth when she sees it's time.' Take that.

13) I haven't put her into any extra-curricular activities to date, other than the library reading group which obviously reflected my preferences rather than her own. I know some kind of sport would be beneficial but I have never been a sporty/active/mobile person and I've been dragging my feet and every other body part on this point. I know, I need to get on it or I may very well condition her behaviour to reflect my own, and I do enough bellyaching over myself to know that this would not be ideal.

14) I can envision actual bubbles in my blood when she interrupts me while I'm reading to her. This prompts me to skin entire lines just so I can get to the end of the story quicker.

15) This one bothers me a lot: When she was a baby, I left her on my bed to get something from the bathroom. At that point, she was barely able to lift her head so I didn't think I had much to worry about, until I heard a thump followed by a raucous wail. That's when I first learned that my baby could actually roll, and off the bed she did. I was a stupid mother that day.

16) This one bothers me more: I was taking her for a walk when she was about seven months old, and I had strapped her in her stroller before I went inside to close the garage door by pressing the remote. As I came back outside, after frantically trying to orchestrate things to ensure I wouldn't be leaving her outside for too long, I noticed that the door was actually about to close right on the stroller. Mercifully, the door opener had a sensor which immediately forced back into the open position as soon as it touched the top of the stroller. I could feel all the blood drain from my face as I watched the door come down, though, knowing I didn't have immediate access to the door opener which was (stupidly) in the house (M. had the other one in his car and he wasn't home). If it hadn't had that sensor...let's just say I was a bundle of nerves for about a week afterward and that now I'm extra cautious with her.

17) I have a tendency to watch certain programs during dinner (right off, I know it's technically 'wrong' to watch television while eating dinner, but it's a habit, sadly) thinking that she doesn't understand the content. Recently, certain questions and comments she's brought up make me realize that she's caught on to sexual innuendo and that I'm going to be stuck watching 'American Idol' forever unless someone comes up with more family friendly viewing. There's absolutely nothing on for families, anymore.

Other criticisms which have been hinted at or breathed over the phone line have been that I'm too strict, that I have dinner too late at night (7pm, actually), that I should put more effort into 'decorating' her room (for the record, I like her room, but my sister who is an obsessive and superficial sort has an actual 'theme' in her son's room. I don't do themes), and that I am something of a lazybones because I don't rise at dawn and jog with her to the park to hang out with the other mommies. It's just that there's nothing in my body that says I need to do that. I'm not a park mommy. I'm not a rise at dawn mommy. My girl sleeps until about seven thirty, at which point she goes downstairs and watches her program until either M. or myself go and make her breakfast a short time later. If it's a school day, she goes, and if not, she busies herself with her drawings or toys. I see the other mothers, the ones who put on their running gear and Ipods and who push their strollers as they run, but I feel like they're trying to run toward their sanity, while mine seems to be somewhere under my roof. Those are the women who can't stay home because they'd lose their minds if they did, the ones who have to be shopping or in part of a social group because they are a few short steps from a mommy coma. I have always been more comfortable in a room full of books or in a room in my house. I don't think I'm depriving my child of much by staying in when it's cold or by not opting to scour the malls just to be liberated from the house. She is loved, she is healthy, and she is a part of every decision M. and I make. Isn't this enough? Do I have to give even more?

These are my confessions. I am not perfect, and I have no plans to change most of it. I hope that it's enough for her, even if it's not for anyone else.

Even though I miss my family during the holidays, I find that I am still able to find the good in staying where I am. I am not hiding from them, I am simply living my life in the way which makes sense for me. I know that as I type this, two hours to the west are my siblings and their respective families, seated around a perfectly decorated table, complete with unlit candles and empty wineglasses (they're just for show), and a huge, browned turkey that my sisters huffed and puffed while making. In contrast, we will each have plates heaped with roast chicken stuffed with garlic and onion, as well as crisped potatoes, gravy and tender carrots. The dessert will be fresh baked apple pie, from scratch, and we will be seated informally in the family room, M. in his leather chair and me on my side of the couch, while the wee one sits at her white and pastel coloured table nibbling and chatting incessantly. It will be unceremonious and subdued, but it will be us.

I miss them, though. I miss who we used to be back when all we had was one another.

As this entry has taken me many hours to write, what with an afternoon interruption to take the wee one bike riding and then to the park, and then for me to make the dinner which is now inside of us all, I know that I have jumped from one theme to another. The flow of my words might seem choppy in certain areas of this but all one has to do is insert a break to understand how my mind was working. It seems as though I am conflicted about missing my family as well as wanting my distance from them. I suppose the grown-up version of myself is missing the child, and that with all the years which have transpired in between, I've lost my ability to withstand the throwaway comments and disposable judgments. I'm more sensitive about things now, likely a combination of my own motherhood and my discomfort with making my own life. I don't want to think I'm doing it wrong. I never knew failure when I had others who waited with their arms out. I am now responsible for my wins and losses as well as those of my child and I know the eyes are on me. It's a heavy weight that burns.

There's no going back. There's no way to turn any of it around and I have to start accepting it.

Pause.

The pie, though. The pie was excellent tonight.