I hate babies. Well, I guess hate is a strong word here. It’s not like I’m gonna cross the street to spit on a baby, but babies are definitely NOT my thing.
I used to think I’d love being a Mommy. I had fantasies of having 5 children or more, even adopting some kids that no one else wanted. A big family seemed like so much fun.
I should have known this little fantasy wasn’t really for me. After all, if I had really given myself a good, hard look, I would have seen the truth of how babies annoy me. For one, I NEVER wanted to hold other people’s babies. I would cringe inside whenever a glowing mom said, “Oh, do you want to hold her?” Hell, no Lady, that thing could blow at any moment. I’m not even sure which end is up.
And there’s another thing: have you ever really looked at a baby? They are fucking ugly! I know everyone says babies are cute, but that’s just biology. We are programmed by millions of years of natural selection to find our babies adorable. It’s a perception thing. When you really look at them objectively, babies are quite horrifying. First there’s that giant head, with eyes that never really focus on anything. So alien. And then there’s the rubbery arms and legs, totally useless and flailing. And the cries? Like nails on a chalkboard. The skin is purple or translucent or covered in gross pimples (my kid had the pimples—eew!) These are unpleasant creatures, ladies and gentlemen.
All that’s just looking at the thing. Now it’s time to take care of it. Of course, baby care is pretty basic. Feed it, clean it, get it to sleep. It sounds simple on paper, but in execution the finer details will get you screamed at and crapped on. If you deviate from the idea of normal that your baby has in her head, she will scream until you get it right. And the getting the baby to sleep thing can be an exercise in futility.
So this ugly, screaming meatbag is dependent on you for its every need. Fortunately for our species, your body is flooded with hormones that drive you to care for this tiny evil being, no matter how little sleep you get. Oh, and although the baby gets heavier every day, it’ll be years before you are freed from the backbreaking burden of carrying your little man-cub.
I should have known. These feelings should have clued me in. That and the fact that I’ve spent almost every sexual encounter of my life hoping that I don’t get pregnant. The signs were there, People.
But anyone who knows me knows that I never listen. Not when I think I want something. So I had a baby. I held him. I nursed him (he never had a bottle). I helped him sleep. I took him places. I carried him around with me and sang to him and talked to him and loved him. I am fiercely attached to this child, and I never knew I could love someone so much (sounds cliché, but shit, it’s true).
Why am I writing about this now? My son isn’t a baby anymore, and I couldn’t be happier about that. He’s 2. He talks. He uses the potty. He walks everywhere by himself. He’s learning how to dress himself. The shit he says every day is so funny – he cracks me up daily. It’s like I have a little sidekick now, a beautiful, smart kid who loves to tell jokes and help Mommy. He is amazing and wonderful, and I only had to spend 2 years in hell to get here. I now have 10 years to enjoy my sweet little boy before the hormones of adolescence take over and I lose him forever to the realms of girls and status and being cool.
I’m finally getting happy about being this kid’s mother. So when well meaning people ask me, “So… When are you having another one?” I totally want to punch them in their smiling faces. But, of course, that would be rude. And I’m a Mommy now. I’ve got to be a good influence on my kid. I can’t just go around punching random strangers who piss me off. Not anymore anyway.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
This one is for Heather
One of the projects I'm working on right now is about the expression and suppression of anger. This is a modified, edited exerpt from my anger journal. I thought I'd share it after a conversation with my friend Heather revealed that I'm not alone in these feelings.
***
I threw my cat out this morning. He was going to wake my kid, and the idea of that threw me into an angry, panicked frenzy.
Liam has been having trouble sleeping lately, and I don’t know what’s the matter. It could be nightmares, or just dreams in general. He’s only 2, so it’s hard to get reliable, descriptive, accurate information about anything. He wakes up crying several times a night and wants to be rocked back to sleep again. It feels like a stalling technique. What’s going on? He loves his bed. He loves his room. He goes to sleep without a fuss. So what wakes him up crying at all hours of the night?
Last night he slept until 3:30am when he woke up crying. Scott went in briefly and came back out. Liam cried again immediately, so Scott went back in and back out. Liam was quiet for almost an hour. Did he even go back to sleep? Did he sleep for an hour and then wake back up? Whatever, he’s crying again. My turn.
I went in. He asked to be rocked and I told him no, it was time to go back to sleep. He put his head down on the pillow, crying, and asked for my hand on the bed for him to hold. I complied, and told him I was going to lay down by his bed for a few minutes, and then Mommy was going back to her bed to sleep, too. Ok.
I laid there for half an hour on the floor by his bed, my neck cricked from lying on that stupid giraffe pillow. He tossed and turned, occasionally popping up to see if I was still there. Once or twice I whispered for him to go back to sleep. I forced myself to keep my breathing deep and quiet, but he just wouldn’t go to sleep.
My neck hurt. My back hurt. My hip hurt. I was fucking tired. Finally, after half an hour, I got up to sneak out quietly. He must have heard me, or just looked for me because he sat up crying immediately. Fuck! I was patient with him, and despite my fatigue I was able to control myself. I made him lay back down (crying) while I explained to him that it was time for Mommy to go to sleep and for Liam, too. I turned his music on and left. He cried for half a fucking hour.
By this time, it’s 5:30 in the fucking morning. I am fucking tired. I am angry because I have, like, an hour left to sleep before I have to get up and do shit. Like make breakfast and get me and the boy cleaned and dressed for the day and wash dishes and feed the fucking cat. Fuck.
This time I couldn’t control myself. I marched into his room and told him to stop crying and go to sleep. He started crying harder, with the little hiccupy things happening. Goddammit. I picked him up and he curled up on my chest like a newborn and stopped his crying immediately. I melted a little at how sweet he was, clinging to me like the little monkey he is. Unfortunately, my love for my child did nothing to cut through the exhausted frustration that was building inside. I was sitting in the rocking chair with him, holding him and waiting for his cry hiccups to fade away. I told him again that we have to go to sleep. I restarted his music. I laid him in his bed and he snuggled down onto his belly. I tucked him in and left. No sound except the Celtic lullaby CD.
I went back to sleep for an hour.
When the alarm woke me up, I dragged my headachy ass out of bed and started the coffee. Fed Mojo. Who has been a ROYAL turd lately, meowing loudly in the mornings and pissing me off. He’s gotten quite mouthy in the mornings. Demanding food immediately as I wake up and demanding to be let out of the house immediately upon finishing his turkey and rice flavored cat food. And I mean, like, strange, otherworldly meows. RoWOWER! MOWWA! RrrrROWW.
So this morning after starting the coffee and feeding the cat, I went to the bathroom. So I’m taking a shit, minding my own business, not bothering anyone, when all of a sudden, those freakish, loud meows start reverberating all over the house. FUCKER! I finished wiping, cursing him silently and plotting his violent death.
When Mojo saw me running quickly and silently from the bathroom down the hall, he didn’t know exactly why I was so furious, but he saw fast that his morning was about to turn very ugly. He skittered under the kitchen table, muttering and chirping at me to please have mercy. I felt I showed marvelous restraint when I caught up to him and popped his ass 3 times with my open hand, snarling at him, “Shut the fuck UP Mojo! Just shut up.” Where the fuck is the squirt bottle of water anyway?
It was of course at this moment, while I searched for the evil squirt bottle of death water (Mojo HATES being squirted with water) and Mojo used my distraction to slip away and hide behind the coffee table, that I realized that the cat didn’t understand why I didn’t want him to meow in the mornings. My rage was completely incomprehensible to him, it was random violence from a much larger animal, and one who is trusted as a companion by him. How strange and frightening a creature I must be to him, this tiny predator who sleeps at my house and eats food from my hands.
A loud, gimpy MowWOWAH pierced my reverie. FUCK! GODDAMN CAT!! Where did he go? Are you fucking kidding me, he ran back to the bedroom and began meowing right outside Liam’s door! I ran silently down the hall and found him where he cowered from me, under my dresser. I dragged him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up under my arm. “You want to go out? Fine. Fucking FINE. Get the fuck out of here and shut the fuck up!” With that eloquent speech to an animal that doesn’t speak English, I tossed him out under the carport and slammed the door (QUIETLY!) behind him.
I went and poured a cup of coffee, feeling victorious, angry, confused, relieved, and guilty.
***
I am able to control my anger for a long time. I have lots of patience, and I am able to empathize with others and see other perspectives. This helps me remain peaceful for a long time in stressful situations. However, when I run out of energy, the end in my patience is abrupt. This can be frightening for the people and animals who are around me when I finally snap. It seems to come out of nowhere, when in fact, it’s been building and building for quite a while. I’m not in denial or anything. I acknowledge these feelings, but I put them aside to deal with them later, when I can sort through them without the danger of getting lost in the emotions of the moment.
This is a system that generally works for me. It breaks down when the stresses and pressures on me feel relentless, and I’m unable to find some time to escape and regroup and sort through all that’s happened to make me feel this way. When I’m caught out in the open, so to speak, the tears come. Also the screaming. It seems like so much because I’ve been saving it up for a while. It’s like a dam bursting inside me, and what comes out isn’t just a trickle of what’s happening NOW, it’s a flood of feelings from this morning, yesterday, last week, month, year.
Mojo and I hugged it out, and Liam and I are working on a good night's sleep.
***
I threw my cat out this morning. He was going to wake my kid, and the idea of that threw me into an angry, panicked frenzy.
Liam has been having trouble sleeping lately, and I don’t know what’s the matter. It could be nightmares, or just dreams in general. He’s only 2, so it’s hard to get reliable, descriptive, accurate information about anything. He wakes up crying several times a night and wants to be rocked back to sleep again. It feels like a stalling technique. What’s going on? He loves his bed. He loves his room. He goes to sleep without a fuss. So what wakes him up crying at all hours of the night?
Last night he slept until 3:30am when he woke up crying. Scott went in briefly and came back out. Liam cried again immediately, so Scott went back in and back out. Liam was quiet for almost an hour. Did he even go back to sleep? Did he sleep for an hour and then wake back up? Whatever, he’s crying again. My turn.
I went in. He asked to be rocked and I told him no, it was time to go back to sleep. He put his head down on the pillow, crying, and asked for my hand on the bed for him to hold. I complied, and told him I was going to lay down by his bed for a few minutes, and then Mommy was going back to her bed to sleep, too. Ok.
I laid there for half an hour on the floor by his bed, my neck cricked from lying on that stupid giraffe pillow. He tossed and turned, occasionally popping up to see if I was still there. Once or twice I whispered for him to go back to sleep. I forced myself to keep my breathing deep and quiet, but he just wouldn’t go to sleep.
My neck hurt. My back hurt. My hip hurt. I was fucking tired. Finally, after half an hour, I got up to sneak out quietly. He must have heard me, or just looked for me because he sat up crying immediately. Fuck! I was patient with him, and despite my fatigue I was able to control myself. I made him lay back down (crying) while I explained to him that it was time for Mommy to go to sleep and for Liam, too. I turned his music on and left. He cried for half a fucking hour.
By this time, it’s 5:30 in the fucking morning. I am fucking tired. I am angry because I have, like, an hour left to sleep before I have to get up and do shit. Like make breakfast and get me and the boy cleaned and dressed for the day and wash dishes and feed the fucking cat. Fuck.
This time I couldn’t control myself. I marched into his room and told him to stop crying and go to sleep. He started crying harder, with the little hiccupy things happening. Goddammit. I picked him up and he curled up on my chest like a newborn and stopped his crying immediately. I melted a little at how sweet he was, clinging to me like the little monkey he is. Unfortunately, my love for my child did nothing to cut through the exhausted frustration that was building inside. I was sitting in the rocking chair with him, holding him and waiting for his cry hiccups to fade away. I told him again that we have to go to sleep. I restarted his music. I laid him in his bed and he snuggled down onto his belly. I tucked him in and left. No sound except the Celtic lullaby CD.
I went back to sleep for an hour.
When the alarm woke me up, I dragged my headachy ass out of bed and started the coffee. Fed Mojo. Who has been a ROYAL turd lately, meowing loudly in the mornings and pissing me off. He’s gotten quite mouthy in the mornings. Demanding food immediately as I wake up and demanding to be let out of the house immediately upon finishing his turkey and rice flavored cat food. And I mean, like, strange, otherworldly meows. RoWOWER! MOWWA! RrrrROWW.
So this morning after starting the coffee and feeding the cat, I went to the bathroom. So I’m taking a shit, minding my own business, not bothering anyone, when all of a sudden, those freakish, loud meows start reverberating all over the house. FUCKER! I finished wiping, cursing him silently and plotting his violent death.
When Mojo saw me running quickly and silently from the bathroom down the hall, he didn’t know exactly why I was so furious, but he saw fast that his morning was about to turn very ugly. He skittered under the kitchen table, muttering and chirping at me to please have mercy. I felt I showed marvelous restraint when I caught up to him and popped his ass 3 times with my open hand, snarling at him, “Shut the fuck UP Mojo! Just shut up.” Where the fuck is the squirt bottle of water anyway?
It was of course at this moment, while I searched for the evil squirt bottle of death water (Mojo HATES being squirted with water) and Mojo used my distraction to slip away and hide behind the coffee table, that I realized that the cat didn’t understand why I didn’t want him to meow in the mornings. My rage was completely incomprehensible to him, it was random violence from a much larger animal, and one who is trusted as a companion by him. How strange and frightening a creature I must be to him, this tiny predator who sleeps at my house and eats food from my hands.
A loud, gimpy MowWOWAH pierced my reverie. FUCK! GODDAMN CAT!! Where did he go? Are you fucking kidding me, he ran back to the bedroom and began meowing right outside Liam’s door! I ran silently down the hall and found him where he cowered from me, under my dresser. I dragged him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up under my arm. “You want to go out? Fine. Fucking FINE. Get the fuck out of here and shut the fuck up!” With that eloquent speech to an animal that doesn’t speak English, I tossed him out under the carport and slammed the door (QUIETLY!) behind him.
I went and poured a cup of coffee, feeling victorious, angry, confused, relieved, and guilty.
***
I am able to control my anger for a long time. I have lots of patience, and I am able to empathize with others and see other perspectives. This helps me remain peaceful for a long time in stressful situations. However, when I run out of energy, the end in my patience is abrupt. This can be frightening for the people and animals who are around me when I finally snap. It seems to come out of nowhere, when in fact, it’s been building and building for quite a while. I’m not in denial or anything. I acknowledge these feelings, but I put them aside to deal with them later, when I can sort through them without the danger of getting lost in the emotions of the moment.
This is a system that generally works for me. It breaks down when the stresses and pressures on me feel relentless, and I’m unable to find some time to escape and regroup and sort through all that’s happened to make me feel this way. When I’m caught out in the open, so to speak, the tears come. Also the screaming. It seems like so much because I’ve been saving it up for a while. It’s like a dam bursting inside me, and what comes out isn’t just a trickle of what’s happening NOW, it’s a flood of feelings from this morning, yesterday, last week, month, year.
Mojo and I hugged it out, and Liam and I are working on a good night's sleep.
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