An open letter to my son on his first day of Kindergarten

September 12, 2016

Dear Will,

Today is your first day of Kindergarten. You are smiling and amped up, but I know you. I know that's anxious energy pulsing through you this morning.

I ask if you are excited, and you say yes, but I hear the catch in your voice. I know there is a big part of you that wishes you were spending another year where it's comfortable, where you know what to expect, where you're the Big Man on Campus.

I understand this, Boo. Change is hard. It will continue to be hard, even when you're 6. Even when you're 16. Even when you're 36. And, I imagine, even when you're 66.

When you are older, I will tell you how I lied awake, tossing and turning, the night before starting school or a new job. I will tell you how I ate lunch in my car the entire first week of a new gig because I didn't know where else to go. How I skipped parties and happy hours and events because I didn't know anyone else. I will tell you how I cried on the way home from work, in my office, during a conference call, in a meeting. How I quit a job after two weeks and went back to the place where I felt comfortable. How I resisted change time & time again, even when I knew it was inevitable. I will tell you those things later.

But today, I will tell you that I understand.

I know you need to observe a situation before making a move. I understand.
I know you like to be alone and sometimes need space. I understand.
I know you don't take friendship lightly, and it can take you time to make friends. I understand.
I know that you don't always want to talk about things with me because that makes them feel too real. I understand.
I know you are a brave, independent, wacky, bold, sensitive spirit who needs to do things in his own time, in his own way. I understand.

When you are older, I will tell you how I traveled and adventured and jumped off high things and took risks and faced my insecurities and learned lessons and saw the world and made a difference and made mistakes and swallowed my fears and swallowed my pride and took chances and took giant leaps of faith and fell down and got up again and loved deeply and hurt deeply and changed and changed and changed again. One day, I will tell you those things. And you'll understand.

But for today, I will tell you this. You are brave, you are bold, you are loved.

Go get 'em, kid.

Love,
Mommy

"Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid." 

No, Really, It's Okay

The statements I am about to make might be startling to some of you.  They might make you uncomfortable. You might not be able to relate.  But I am going to say them anyway.

Sometimes my child is an asshole. 
Sometimes my husband and I long for the days when it was just us.
Sometimes I long for the days when it was just me.
Sometimes I want to go back and make different decisions.
Sometimes I wish we had just used a condom.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if Tim and I had just broken up after that big fight right after I moved to Seattle.
Sometimes I want to be somebody other than me.

I know some of you feel the same way as I do, and maybe you've been mommy-shamed or friend-shamed or spouse-shamed for feeling this way - I know I have - but I am here to tell you that it's okay.  It's okay to feel this way.  It has to be okay for us to feel this way.

It's okay to miss your freedom.  It's okay to miss flirting.  It's okay to miss your independence.  It's okay to miss international travel.  It's okay to miss sleeping in.  It's okay to miss being selfish.  It's okay to absolutely delight in your time away from your family.  It's okay to take a Girls/Guys Weekend to Vegas.  It's okay to schedule an Adventure Night (our code name for the otherwise hideously known "Date Night") every week and wish for more.  It's okay to miss the "old days".  It's okay to long for an entire weekend to yourself.  It's okay for you to want it to be about you every once in awhile.  It has to be okay to feel these things.  It has to be okay for us to talk about feeling these things without fear. 

It doesn't mean we don't love our families.  It doesn't mean that we are bad parents or bad partners.  It doesn't mean that we aren't happy with the lives we lead.  It just means that sometimes we're looking over the fence at grass that appears greener. 

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, but it has to be okay to check it out every once in awhile.  How else will we know that our own grass, though overgrown & mossy in patches, is still pretty fucking green after all?

I Just Looked Away For A Second

***Disclaimer:  This is actually a post I wrote a few years ago.  Several conversations I've had recently made me think it might be interesting to some folks now. 

***Another Disclaimer:  This post was originally inspired by nothing specific except for years of musing on the topic and possibly a Tori Amos song.  

Sometimes we, as coupled folks, get our heads turned.  You know what I mean by "heads turned", right?  We get, shall we say, distracted by someone that is not our partner.  Maybe it lasts for a dance or a song or a drink.  Or maybe it's a little more durable - it becomes a crush.  This person is not your partner.  You don't pick their dirty undies off the floor.  You don't bicker with them over the little things...or the big things.  They can be anything you want them to be.  And so, our heads are turned.  

It's natural, normal, human for us to turn around for someone else every now and then.  Fidelity is a gift we give our partners.  I certainly wouldn't say it comes naturally.  It's work.  It's hard.  Often, we fail.   Having our heads turned is almost like a get-out-of-jail-free card.   As long as you don't act on it.  

Tim and I made a deal a long time ago that we would tell each other about our crushes.   (And if anyone tries to tell me that they've never had a crush on anyone else other than their partner, I will openly call them a liar.)   I think this seems like a good thing.  When you talk about it with your partner, they are now part of that world.   Nothing is secretive, nothing is hidden.  And who knows?  Maybe you might have a little fun with it.   Depending.    

Because having your head turned can be really quite exciting, can't it?  The fantasy of someone you don't know well.  The imagining of who they might be, who you want them to be, how the two of you could be.  The not knowing.   Ah, the delicious taste of ambiguity.

Badges of Honor

The other day I was at the hair salon, and I was eavesdropping - as you do - on the women at the station next to me. 

"I cannot believe that's Beyoncé.  She's way too skinny.  That's airbrushed to hell."
"Do you think she really had her baby?"
"NO."
"I don't either."
"There's no way that girl would have only gained that tiny bit of weight.  If Beyoncé was pregnant, she would've been HUGE.  She would have had fat freakin' arms.  Her face would be all bloated and huge.  Girlfriend puts on WEIGHT.  You just know she'd be that pregnant woman with the nasty gas, zits and a mustache."

It was at this point that I began to interrupt to say, "And clearly, you have children too.  Cause that's the only way you're allowed to even comment about pregnancy...and get away with it."

I was thisclose.  But I chose to keep my mouth shut.  Hey man, I really like this place, and I am not trying to start fights with random strangers.  Especially as I was 99% sure that this woman did not have children have her own. 

Okay, Gentle Reader, here's the thing.  If you haven't been there, you don't know.  And if you don't know, you need to shut the hell up.  Pregnancy is a messy business.  Yes, some of us get huge.  Our bodies do crazy things, make crazy sounds, turn crazy colors.  And the horrors that come along with giving birth?  Yikes.  And the post-baby experience - even years later - is still no picnic. 

Listen up - We were GROWING A PERSON inside us. Perhaps we could be cut a little bit of slack as we're rocking meaty arms, swollen faces, and acne better suited to a 13 year old boy.  Just a little bit?

And later, after that little person has officially joined our world, I say we wear our new bodies like uniforms - and with pride.  My little(ish) tummy pooch?  An achievement medal.  My less-than-perky breasts?  Life-saving gear.  Thick arms?  Necessary for combat.  Stretch marks?  Service ribbons.   

Our imperfect bodies are worthy of this recognition.  They went above and beyond the call of duty, my friends.  They are heroes.    

So what if we need a little camouflage every once in a while?

The New Reality - A Continuation

We are nearly 16 months into this crazy adventure, and I continue to be amazed at this New Reality.  I remember when my BFF, Katie, was pregnant with her first, she said to me, "You know, I don't really think our lives are going to change *that* much.  We'll still do all of the same things only there will be a baby with us."

Ahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahha.

This is a false statement.  Katie, you so funny.

Welcome to the New Reality, friends.

• Getting up at 8am is really sleeping in.
• You will use the word "poop" more than you could ever imagine.
• You will not think twice about eating something that has already been been in the mouth of another person.
• "Going down" means something very, very, very different.
• The idea of going out at 9pm seems like absolute madness.
• At 3am, you are willing to barter *anything* in order to not have to take that feeding.  
• Your vocabulary is expanded not via literature but through Diapers.com.  Bumbo.  Boppy.  Moby.  
• You will always have Cheerios - both in the house and on the floor of every room.  
• You will know that the Yo Gabba Gabba characters are not sex toys.  
• You will not only know the face your child makes while he's pooping, you will know the face he makes before it happens.  
• You will dress your child up in the cutest clothes from Baby Gap while you yourself wear yoga pants and sweatshirts.  
• You will smell your child's butt in public.  You will be unconcerned about this action.

And finally, the most important piece of the New Reality:

• You will have more love in your heart for one person that you ever imagined possible....and even more so each night after he's gone down.

Why Don't You Bring Your Baby To The Bar Anymore?

My last post was on Halloween.  I don't think it will surprise anyone that I went back to work 6 days later.  When you are a working parent, the time one has to take babies to bars and then blog about it is greatly diminished. 

Let me catch you up.  Will is now 7 months old.  Here is the new reality.

It's the one day a week that all three of us have together.  We decide that, for research's sake, of course, we should take our baby to a bar.  Obviously, we can't go at night because Will has to be in bed by 630pm.  We can't go from 11a-1p because that's when he takes his long nap.  We can't go after 4pm because that's when he gets crabby.  That leaves after 1pm and before he needs to take his short late afternoon nap.  But on this particular day, Will naps longer than usual.  When he gets up, we need to give him his cereal & fruit.  Apparently, he no longer likes apricots, and he spits them out all over himself, me, the floor, and the cat.  Now we all need to change clothes and clean up apricot slop from the kitchen.  Of course, since he didn't eat his fruit, now he needs a bottle.  Okay, Will's has his bottle, we're all in clean clothes, let's head out the door!

Wait.

It's time to tag team.  Tim gets Will's coat and hat and carseat and blankie and paci.  Will does not want wear his coat or his hat so he is screaming as Tim attempts to wrangle him.  Meanwhile, I am putting together a diaper bag for this 1 hour journey to the local pub.  He'll need 3 diapers and wipes, an extra outfit in case of a blowout, 2 pacis in case the other one gets lost, 3 types of toys for amusement's sake, a full bottle, a burp cloth, another hat, and his stuffed bear. 

Will is in his carseat and he appears to be calm.  We have our coats on.  Keys are in hand, and the diaper bag's on my shoulder.  Let's get that beer.

And then a ghastly, horrible sound emanates from my child. 

Ah, shit.

After extracting Will from his carseat, from his coat, and from his clothes, and cleaning the blowout and the child, it is now 4pm.  He is crabby, needs his late nap, and refuses to wear socks.  Sigh.

Maybe we'll make it to the bar next week.  As for tonight, boxed wine & PBR?  Why not?

Another POV

Seattle's Real Underage Problem?  Clearly, Hanna Olson would not enjoy this blog either. 

Okay, y'all, let me break it down for you. 

First, it's not illegal to have a baby in a bar that has a distinct and seperate bar area.  Obviously, Will isn't all up in his Graco sitting on the bar next to your tequila shots and packs of Camels.  If there isn't a "No Minors" sign on the front door, your baby is in.  Wouldn't it be nice if there was some "No Assholes" policy that had to be abided in the same manner?

Now, I understand that you're not enjoying your PBR if my kid is screaming his face off next to you.  I'M not enjoying my wine if my kid is screaming his face off next to me, trust.  We're going to hightail it out of that joint as soon as this happens.  Or, one of us (and by one of us, I mean Tim) will be heading outside to calm the kid.  Now if only you could do the same for your drunk-off-his-ass friend who won't stop screaming during his pool game or hitting on me when I go to the loo. 

And seriously, let ME worry about the decibel level and the appropriateness of my kid watching you make a fool out of yourself after your third car bomb.  He's seen worse.

Also, consider the state of the parents of this city.  If stopping into Naked City for a beer during our Saturday evening walk helps keep us normal, sane and not-constantly-baby-talking parents, isn't this actually doing Seattle a service?   If not Seattle, then at least the folks that interact with us on an every day basis. 

Finally, if my baby is at a table next to you, chillaxing quietly in his Manny's onesie, among the dull roar of voices, the punk jukebox, and the clink of pint glasses, think about this.  My kid at 6 weeks is already cooler than you'll ever be.  True story. 

Man About Town

I feel confident in saying that, in his 6 weeks of life in Seattle, Will has visited more bars and restaurants than many first year UW students.  True, this may be due to the fact that his mother had not had any wine in nine months and is now making up for lost time.  Ahem. 

No matter the reason, Will is a man (okay, newborn) about town, and I love this.  Bringing our baby to bars gives Tim and me a little bit of "normal" in our lives.  Will can now sleep anywhere, he loves people, and he's not freaked out by new experiences.  It's true:  having our baby in a bar actually makes us better parents.  And you can too!

Watch this blog* for reviews, photos, and info of various Seattle-area bars and restaurants without the dreaded No Minors sign posted on the front door.  This isn't about being kid-friendly.  This is about us.  (Or as much about us as anything can possibly be when we have a kid.)

*Thanks, Maura, for the inspiration!