No Shame in Mom Game

I want to address something that has been on my mind ever since I got pregnant.

 

Mom shaming.

 

It's definitely a thing.

 

Maybe you've never heard of it. Maybe you have unknowingly participated. Perhaps you have been a subject of being bad-mouthed by fellow Mothers -friend or foe. Well I am here to sound off and hopefully plant some type of seed.

 

The definition in my little brain is as follows:

mom-shaming

verb

1. The act of belittling or bad mouthing another mother out loud or in your own mind. This could be in reference to differentiating parenting styles, discipline and theory. Mom shaming is a way other Mothers potentially speak hatefully or disrespectfully about another Mom's way of rearing their child or live their lives.

 

Why is this a problem? Why is this even a thing?!? Am I crazy? Or just making it up?

 

Absolutely not. I am admittedly guilty of talking smack about the way another woman choses to Mother. I have hatefully partaken in conversations were myself and other Mothers have trashed our fellow Mama. I admit it. I am guilty...and ashamed.  It starts from pregnancy and doesn't stop because another Woman's child is 45. We women constantly pick apart the way we look and act while pregnant, the way others deliver, sleep train, dress, feed (don't EVEN let me scream about breastfeeding shaming) and entertain our kids. There isn't a right or wrong. Well, okay, I mean there are obvious no-no's like child abuse and cooking meth while your baby watches "Yo Gaba Gaba" (did I spell that right? Whatev) but otherwise there is not a theoretical "right" or "wrong" way to be a Mom.

 

So let me step up on my soapbox and PREACH for a minute.

 

On pregnancy:

So you go to prenatal yoga 4 days a week. Cut caffeine and all artificial colors/additives? You gained 16 pounds with your fabulous pregnancy? GOOD FOR YOU!!!

You have the perfect nursery? Stock piled 465798 boxes of diapers? Awesome.

Haven't bought a thing? Does the thought of holding a tiny human kind of freak you the hell out? That's ok!

Gestational diabetes creeping in with every donut and big mac? Haven't left the couch once? GOOD FOR YOU!!

Maybe you adopted or took in a baby under unusual circumstances.

At the end of the day, we are AMAZING ladies. Nobody else can grow a human being. Sure, we try to be healthy and do what is best for the baby. As long as we're not snorting lines off our bump at 37 weeks in da club...I think we are ok. Remember Alyia Montano? She is the 800 meter track super star who caught major shit for running a race 8 months pregnant. Unless you are Alyia or her OBGYN, what right do we have to tell her what is safe for her baby? Her doctors actually encouraged her, while her fellow Moms...her SISTERS in life bashed her for doing something that is natural to her body. Guess what? That baby came out perfect and is loved every bit as much as anybody else's baby. 

 

On Delivery:

Total natural? No meds? No epidural? Holy crap you are insane and you are a champ.

Wanna press that epidural button 500 times a minute? Doctor may I have another oxy? Sister I feel ya. That contraction stuff? SUCKS.

Scheduled section? It's all good. I will drive you anywhere you need to go in the 6 week window you aren't allowed to drive after you have MAJOR surgery AND have a baby!

At the end of the day, you are giving birth...one way or another. YOU are the awesome powerhouse that God has chosen to bring another human life into this world. Do what makes you the most comfortable (or uncomfortable you au natural goddess) and post 300 pictures to facebook to show off what YOU did.

 

On Feeding:

Were you amazingly lucky enough to survive that first year breastfeeding without giving your baby a drop of formula? Hell yeah! I envy you!

Tried your best? Did you spend hours pumping and crying and begging your baby "take the friggin' boob kid"!!!! Before you caved and gave (gasp!) formula? God created formula for a reason. YOU are NOT a bad Mom or a bad person.

Look at you making all of your own baby food! Buying all organic? No additives or meat for your baby? Nice work.

Gerber 4/$2 super sale savvy saver? Ooopsies the baby just downed a honey bun when I Wasn't looking type of Mom? Ha! I've been there. Let's talk when she eats mud, sand, dog food.....the list goes on.

Guess what? Either way, that baby is getting nourishment. Every Mom is not a dietician or registered nutritionist. We try our best. Some of us can afford time and money to make top notch non-gmo homemade meals while other Moms scrape together whatever they can or whatever WIC will give them to feed a teeny, tiny, hungry mouth. As long as those rolls are getting fatter and those lips are smacking, you're doing it the way that is working for you and your baby. Bravo!

 

On Sleeping:

So you co-sleep. Baby gets to spoon you every night. You can sleep well knowing your baby is right next to you. Every now and then, your 13 year old crawls into bed with you some nights? If that is ok with you, that's ok with us. Maybe you put your baby on her tummy at 6 weeks (guilty) because she slept like an angel from then on out. Maybe you never put them in a stylish bassinette or Granny's antique iron crib. Those super expensive and beautiful bumpers stayed regardless what the SIDS campaign says. So white noise making your house sound like a category 5 hurricane is in your backyard...whatever works!

Maybe you let your angel cry it out like Ferber said or can't stand that horrific sound (omg, the anxiety...I KNOW) and spent endless hours and sleepless nights awkwardly snuggled with the babe in that glider you thank God for or on the couch while watching weird infomercials at 4am.

My God. If there is a struggle all Mamas face, it is the sleep battle. Whether you were that lucky duck who's kiddo slept 8 hours a night at 4 weeks or your 18 month old STILL wakes up at 2 am...you aren't doing anything wrong. We all miss sleeping, one way or another. When Roslyn wakes up like clockwork at 6am day after day, I tend to glare at friends who have sleepy angels who whimper for food at 8am. But the struggle is equal and different for us all. Through it all, we are in a sisterhood of exhaustion, insomnia and endless googling of  "Why the shit won't the freaking baby sleep for ___ hours after ____ o'clock and why is he trying to kill me"? TELL ME SIRI!!!!

 

 

 

Ya'll. This is the tip of the iceberg. I could easily get into discipline styles, judging the way other Moms dress, look, or how they chose to spend free time. Either way, we as women can do better. If you are a Mom, you are part of an elite sisterhood of women who have been there and done that. These women are your support, NOT your competition. They are doing what works for them. They love their children as much as you do. They miss sleeping, secretly google everything and panic at least 17 times a day over the littlest things just like you do. How are we going to raise strong, confident and smart children is we are constantly breaking each other down and working ourselves to the bone endlessly trying to achieve that "super woman" status?

Allow me to let you in on a secret.

YOU ARE SUPER WOMAN

You are a Mother.

 

(steps off soapbox)

 

 

 

 



Mom Brain

 

It's a thing, ya'll. But not like what you think it is. I just felt compelled to share some of the embarrassing, housewifey/mom-ish things that have gone through my head today. Things that I would be annoyed that other Moms felt the need to post on Facebook or something. On this page I can say what I want though and not feel bad about it. You came here voluntarily right?

 

 

1. Gross. There is a strange brown ring on the sink under Petey's toothbrush. I should probably clean that.

2. Why does this bathroom always smell like pee?

3. My spray tan is coming off of my legs. I look like a blind person who played in the mud who was then washed by another blind person.

4.. I totally want a smoothie, but I want the baby to stay asleep more...so I'll just pour some of these ingredients into milk.

5.. Hot damn that milk is bad. Garbage is full.....to put back in or force into the trash...

6.. (As I am watching the dog lick up the baby's barf) I should probably clean that up and stop the dog from eating it. But, by  the time I tell her to stop after thinking about it, she's going to clean it...and the couch feels good. I'll clean it later, or not. It's gone. Oh well.

7.. I bet Kroger makes extra money on the "organic chicken" because they package it individually within the package. The hell man.

8.. Speaking of these little packages, why are they impossible to open!??!?!

9.. Damn, how did I get the world's smallest chicken breast in here?!?! Oh because I chose the cheapest one. Damn.

10. This shirt is wrinkly...dryer for 10 minutes.

11. I should wake Roslyn up....10 more minutes.

 

awful right?

Ugh. When did the cool stuff get evicted and replaced with this crap?

It's ok. I'll read my fashion mags and hit up Barre class and get my cred back tomorrow.

 

Lots of Love

Katherine

 



Summertime Sadness

 

 

Summer time. Growing up, this was my favorite time of year. No school meant zero responsibility other than summer reading lists (which, I confess, I read most of) and a dinky summer job. Summer meant melted popsicles and the smell of a grill burning. Summer was steam rising off pavement mixed with the smell of damp earth after a 10 minute storm. Summer was my escape. Summer was the only time I pretty much ever got asked on dates by random guys from different schools who didn't know what a goof I was to all of the boys at my own. Summer was freedom and joy and sun.

 

All of that changed last year. Summer has been stained. Incinerating heat indexes, long days and fireflies are now associated with sadness for me. Even tough I spent 28 years of my life with vibrant summer months, my mind can't escape last year. Instead of joy and excitement I feel pain and deep, deep loss. Preplanned road trips to the beach are replaced with the long and boring drives between Savannah and Marietta that I did every weekend. Quality time with family and friends on the porch watching fireworks have been replaced with passing out roses to my relatives from the spray on my Father's casket. My memories and brief daydreams seem to always rewind to the final weeks of my Father's life. All I see is his withering body. The sounds I remember are the oxygen compressor and his voice as it grew weaker and weaker. The smells are that of the hospice center, sterile and clean mixed in with the exorbitant amounts of shea oil I rubbed on my growing belly day to day. I can't forget sleeping on a crappy pull out couch at the foot of the hospital bed and listening to the clicking of a morphine pump.

 

It seems unfair. Why does the bad overtake the good? My motto is to live life looking at the glass "half full". Why is it that when I think about my Father, 95% of the time I can only think about him dying? Is this the way that all human brains work? Or am I flawed? Is there a way to rewire my thoughts? Or maybe, just maybe I am ok? Maybe this is part of the grieving process. I hope and pray that eventually my thoughts and memories of my Dad will only be the good ones. Like camping trips with shared naps and cuddling or super secret Sonic dates filled with grease and calories my Mom could never know about. I want to look back at times with my Father and smile. Instead I choke back tears and a quivering jaw.

Why am I writing this? This isn't an advice column and it sure as hell isn't a lame attempt at getting a group reaction. I think putting my thoughts down where I can see them help me feel like they are leaving my head and moving to this page. I don't ask people to read. I don't want to be criticized or understood. I just want to put it out there.

I want to share the two strongest memories I have of last summer. Both of them are incredibly strong moments for me emotionally. The first is July 3, the day my Father died.

I was awakened to my phone ringing at 7:30 in the morning. My Mom had stayed at the hospice center with my Dad (we rotated, it was her turn) and my Aunt was home with me. My Mom told me to hurry. That Daddy's vital signs looked poor and the classic "this is it" was happening. I remember my Aunt reading a crappy book downstairs and both of us rushing to change clothes. I drove us there, God knows how, and I remember my Aunt taking my Mom out of the room. Whitney was there with David already. I remember Daddy's breaths getting farther and farther apart. I gently placed his ipad next to his head and put Glenn Miller on softly to fill the silence in between raspy, gargled breaths. David and I knew what was happening and we sent Whitney to go find my Mom. It was just David and I. His children. The reason for every grey hair on his head and every moment of pure joy for 30 years. It must have been they way Daddy wanted it. We each had one of his bony, cool hands in ours as we each went back and forth between looking at Dad's face and looking at each other. It was only seconds after Whitey left the room that my Dad's final breaths were taken. "Always in My Heart" switched on the play list and David and I took our free hands and held on to one another. David said a prayer and we both Thanked God that he was free. We didn't cry. We breathed. What seemed like  the first time since the day we found out chemo failed, my lungs filled with air. I think that's the way it was supposed to be. Dad didn't want my Mom to be there for that moment. He knew David and I were there and that it was safe to leave us. My Mom came back into the room and sobbed. She placed her hands on my Dad and patted him. Sort of to say, "you are safe now".
The nurse (who was oddly named Dovey, which is my Great Grandmother's name) pronounced the time and a tech came to clean him up. We stayed on the porch and waited as they took him to the funeral home. That night, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant and looked into the future together.

My second strongest memory is September 24th. The day that Roslyn Jean Peters entered the world at over 9lbs and 21.5 inches long.

Petey and I had spent the past days walking as far as we could trying to kick start some contractions. There were a few nights I had a few hours of killer ones, but nothing to get the show on the road. My doctor finally decided one week over her due date that she was a little too big to hang out. Her eviction notice was posted and we were to be at the Hospital at 5am. The next morning, we arrived on time and Petey even found his strategic parking spot. We checked in and waited for the guy to call my OB and tell him I was here. 3 minutes later and one sad faced ER volunteer later, I was told that I was in fact, not on the schedule and I could either A. wait for a room or B. come back on Monday. Of course I cried. The excitement of meeting my angel and the pure exhaustion of being pregnant completely enveloped me. Petey took over and said, "We are having our baby today. We aren't leaving this hospital until you get my wife a room". 3 hours later, and  I was in my labor suite with Pitocin (that's the stuff they use to start labor) pumping around 10.

One fabulous epidural, a nap and 1.5 hours of pushing and well...there you have it. The doctor rested the fattest, Asian-looking dark haired angel on my chest. I was so focused on pushing Petey had to tell me to open my eyes, that it was over. I wish I could relive that moment over and over and over again. Like Groundhog Day, but minus the Bill Murray and the horrid 80's power suits. I couldn't let her go (I did, I really wanted Petey to hold her) in the 3 days I was in the hospital. We didn't luck out on our postpartum room-aka the Pediatric floor where the shower head was even with my boobs- and yes, Petey's truck got broken into. But on September 29th we went home with our daughter. Who has brought more joy and purpose to my life than I could have ever fathomed.

I hope that this summer, I build new memories. That I start to mold my child into a lover of all things water and sun and sugar like her Mother. I hope instead of looking at the sun and remembering the heat of a July day standing in heels pregnant and swollen by my Father' grave site is replaced with splashing in a baby pool in my backyard while Roxy dances around us and Petey grills hot dogs. I hope that Daddy's laughter and joy slowly erases the pain and suffering I saw those final weeks.

I pray that this tiny piece of time is shoved back into a dark corner of my brain and stacked on a shelf with algebra and Great Expectations. Only time will tell. If I have learned anything, it is that time might just not heal all things as quickly as I want. Rather the focus must be placed on time itself, and that I plan to spend whatever I have left in the sunshine of summer.