Lest my readers mistake my fast and flippant tone for serious criticism, I think it may be time to lay forth some basic
Playground principles. One is that this is not a blog about how to parent well or properly. I don’t pretend the circumstances of my life have somehow landed me at the pinnacle of parenting know-how or that I have any universal knowledge on the topic at all. Most of my understanding of children and child-rearing is drawn from my own personal experience as a mother of two, big sister to three, first cousin to twenty-some-odd, and very brief foray into the world of professional nannies. This is augmented by countless books, articles, websites, and blog posts about pregnancy and childbirth and childrearing. So I speak the language; but put me at the corner of Pacific and Dundas with my own screaming toddler and newborn baby and I have no idea what to do.
This is a blog about how it feels to be at that corner. About what I’ve tried and what works and what doesn’t. About what’s going on in the wider world that might impact our lives as parents. About what kinds of stuff might be worth getting and what’s garbage. I’ll complain about my kids and I’ll brag about them. I’ll bitch and whine and gossip. Blogs are of a transient nature and what’s bugging me one day might not bother me in the least the next.
Still, insofar as all the content is filtered through my perspective it might behoove me to make clear any biases I have. I am not interested in any stay-at-home versus working mom arguments. (Though I thought I might be for a short while; it is all so stupid. Here’s the best rant I could find on the internet on the subject and it’s not even written by a mother.) I think any suggestion that women should participate less vigorously in the workforce than men, for whatever reason, is complete nonsense. But choosing to work at home caring for the children is just as admirable as working anywhere else. I do not have a fulfilling and promising career to return to. I probably wouldn’t even be able to get a job (especially in this market) that pays much more than full-time childcare for two kids costs. I enjoy taking care of the kids and I generally dislike work. But I cannot, simply cannot, bring myself to identify as a stay-at-home mom. For one, I’m almost always working some part-time gig or another to make ends meet. (I even worked full-time throughout the last half of my pregnancy; note the complete lack of blog posts during that period.) But it’s mostly because I want to work. Not full-time for now while the kids are young, and not doing menial tasks for someone else. But I need some external validation and a role to fill when the kids begin to need me less. I am jealous of both worlds: the moms who tuck their children in and fold the rest of the laundry and go to sleep satisfied that their day’s work is done, and the moms who love their children just as well all while contributing to the working world and the family’s finances. There is no right way.
Other biases include a procrastinating perfectionist’s attitude to housework. If it’s not going to be done right, then don’t do it at all, I say. That isn’t working around here so well these days as nothing is really getting done. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I’m on the highway to hell. There is absolutely no moral rectitude involved in scrubbing your bathtub; if you can afford to have someone else do it, by all means. I tend to be fiscally left-wing, but a social libertarian. I think I might be agnostic, but still identify as Catholic. I have no ethnic identity, though, beyond my Canadian-ness. I drink a lot, a lot, of tea. And I have lately started to wonder if I shouldn’t have kept with the Latin and become the definitive modern voice of the classics. Puer puellae rosas dat. The boy gives the girl the roses. A boy is giving roses to a girl. You see? There’s so much room for interpretation … this will undoubtedly cast the longest shadow across my blog.
The hardest thing about breaking a months-long blogging hiatus is finding the time and energy to write the all-encompassing, profound post that will leave your readers in both tears and gales of laughter and praising your blogging muse. The kind of post that will instantly make up for the weeks of nothingness and leave instead a readership sated on a gratitude and fulfillment never before found within the confines of a mommy-blog.
Let me instead, then, dear reader, tell you about the mesh bumper pads I bought for Irene’s cradle today. This cradle was made for my husband by his grandfather at the time of his birth. It is truly beautiful and nowhere close to meeting today’s safety standards. My primary concern is the space between the bars is probably big enough to trap a baby’s head. (Particularly a head so tiny and round as my dear Irene’s.) The easy solution — and what we did when Colum was using the cradle — is to use bumper pads to protect the baby from the bars. Alas, those are also not recommended anymore (and haven’t been since well before Colum was born) as they are suffocation hazards and have been linked to SIDS. Still, the SIDS-inducing bumper pads lined her cradle for the first ten nights of her life as I weighed the risks of bumper pad vs. bare bars vs. the less beautiful and seemingly more wobbly bassinet we aren’t using vs. co-sleeping because she wasn’t having any of this sleep-on-your-back-in-your-own-bed business anyway. And then I thought why not just line the cradle with some sort of mesh netting that would both protect baby’s head and be unlikely to smother baby. Why, I could probably fashion such a thing myself out of the right material. Wait. I can barely make it to the shower every ( … other …) day. (Why it is that having a newborn makes me want to do things — crafty things — that I have neither the time nor ability for, I’ll never know.) Instead, I Googled “mesh baby bumpers”, or some such thing, and found that I could just buy one ready made, which I did. There are two layers of meshing, which I worry might make the product somewhat less “breathable” than it claims, and I’m not convinced that this bumper would be strictly recommended by the safety powers that be either. It is lacking the pretty eyelet lace and satin ribbons of the other bumper pads. “Don’t take off the ribbons, Mommy!” Colum pleaded. Nonetheless, I will be able to sleep easier with this bumper pad in place — even if Irene would rather sleep cradled on my forearms as I type than spend one sleeping minute in her cradle.
I am still on a babymoon of sorts since I have my husband home until next Monday. In preparation for the upcoming week I am lowering expectations on what I might hope to accomplish on all fronts. In that spirit, then, you might look forward to blog posts on such topics as “how I spent my pregnancy”, midwifery and natural childbirth, Irene’s birth story (and Colum’s for that matter), and breastfeeding: dos and don’ts. But, really, I wouldn’t bank on it.
Let me also throw to another Junction mommy-blog, one that actually delivers on it’s promise of regular posts, and is both informative and entertaining: Junction Parents. And who knows? Maybe I’ll also get around to making up a proper blog roll and resource list, too.
It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve posted and I want to apologize to both my devoted readers for the delay. I’ve been busy
and haven’t had the time to draft well-thought out opinions on black-focused schools or Bisphenol-A.
I’ve been inspired tonight, though, by Kanye West. What most of us would do in silent prayer, or at a gravesite or while lighting a candle in church, Kanye does in an acceptance speech at the Grammys. He expresses his love for his recently departed mother and vows to become as great as she would want. And that, my two dear readers, is truly the essence of blogging. My innermost thoughts and desires should be published here in real time without benefit of censor or editrix. That’s what the people want. So, I will develop some mature thoughts about books and current events and issues of especial concern to parents. But I’ll try to keep posting during the drawn-out gestational periods those thoughts seem to need.
Picture this: My 21 month old son has never had a haircut and he’s sporting a sort of natural mullet. His fine strawberry blonde hair has grown slowly in the front and falls neatly halfway down his forehead. It then wisps and curls out in all directions in the back, snaking down his neck and sticking straight out. He has, in other words, hockey hair. Appropriately, then, he was decked out in a sweater depicting hockey sticks, skates, a helmet and a net, and jogging pants when a Guns N’ Roses CD started playing. As soon as the first chords of “Welcome to the Jungle” sounded, Colum launched into a frantic dance consisting of countless quick steps and crazy spinning. Before long he was lurching around the room like a drunk and desperately trying to regain enough balance to keep dancing. I guess you can take the rusted-out and broken-down cars off the front lawn, but you can’t beat genetics.
One last thing. The Grammy Awards were not only a source of inspiration thanks to Kanye West. They also featured performances by both Leslie Feist and Amy Winehouse which is a boon for both real artists and real-looking women. That makes me happy.
(Photo courtesy the New York Daily News.)
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