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4Dec

The Death of a Boobyphobe

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

Though people who met me as a college freshman might disagree, I am generally shy. I’m that girl you see melting into her soup rather than speaking up at dinner parties and crying when someone at the beach has the audacity to glimpse her in her swimsuit. I’m also a boobyphobe, which happens to be the topic at hand.

Flashback to the unspeakable horrors of puberty. On second thought, let me just repress all that for you. We’ll start instead with the slightly-more-speakable horrors of my first Super Ultra Mega Top Secret Boyfriend (Now with plausible deniability! Warranty not included!). We were sitting in his truck exploring the enticing gray area beyond homeschool courtship standards, and he asked me in a voice like fornication itself what I was wearing under my tank top. Now the dilemma. I could not possibly utter the word “bra” (this scandalous term was replaced by “shoelaces” in my house, no kidding), but the alternative was saying–and thus implying–nothing. Obviously, the only dignified solution was to let him find out for himself.

Flashforward to now. Though I have had many years to get comfortable with my own bosom, I would still rather people think I cruelly starve my infant than know that I breastfeed her. But did I mention that I now live in a land of topless beaches, billboards, and book covers? A land where TV hostesses only wear strategic bits of fringe? A land where crowds of women fight to try on bras in the outdoor market? So I should not have been surprised when the following conversation happened amongst a group of ladies at church last week:

Lady #1, pointing to the innocent, unbreastly bottle I’m using to feed Sophie: “You don’t breastfeed your baby?”
Me, wishing I could be untruthful in church without crashing through a trapdoor to hell: “Um, this is my milk.”
Lady #1: “It’s your milk?”
Me: “Yes.”
Lady #1 to Ladies #2, 3, 4, 5, & 6: “It’s her milk.”
Lady #2 to Ladies #3, 4, 5, & 6: “It’s her milk.”
Lady #3: “It’s your milk?”
Lady #2: “Of course it’s her milk! Look at her!”
Lady #4: “With those breasts, how could she not have milk?”
Lady #5, incredulously, as though I have sporting goods stuck up my shirt: “You have very large breasts.”
Lady #6, gesturing with both hands: “Very large breasts.”
Lady #4: “See, how could she not have milk?”
Lady #1, showing bottle to uninvolved passerby: “That’s her milk. From her very large breasts.”

You may be asking yourself if there is a universal lesson to be learned from this story, and lucky you, there is: Don’t teach your children that bras are called shoelaces, or they will end up standing buxomly in an Italian church debating whether to just die right there or wait till they get home.

3Dec

Bucket-Free

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 3 Comments

Confession: I hate mopping. And by hate, I mean really, truly, intensely, abhorrently hate, even more than onions or politics or the aggravating need to shower occasionally regularly. Part of the reason is that I have a two-year-old, and two-year-olds see clean floors as some sort of nuclear threat that MUST BE STOPPED! as quickly and with as much ketchup as possible. The other reason is that mopping our house involves rolling up the rugs, relocating the furniture, soaking a rag in a bucket of hot, soapy water, scrubbing the floor with said rag, ringing it out, repeating until my spine begins to audibly plead for mercy, and keeping my feet and those of my active child off the floor until it dries sometime next spring. I have a favorite saying for times like these: “Yea, though our floor become a 24-hour bacterial orgy, I shall never mop again, amen.”

Today, though, everything changed. Behold, the Swiffer mop! If my husband knew how in love I am with this contraption, he would no longer leave the two of us alone without a chaperone (preferably Bob Jones himself). Disposable cleaning cloths! Swivel head! Sleek, bucket-free silhouette! For the first time in months, our kitchen floor is squeaky clean!

(And here we end with a technical discussion about the meaning of “is,” since, technically, I’m using it more in the “was” sense. As in, “Our kitchen floor was squeaky clean for at least five minutes until Natalie entered with the pickle juice, but good for her, because that kind of unprecedented cleanness just had to be stopped.”)

29Nov

That’s Why

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 1 Comment

Why? you ask, in gurgles and coos, through stretches and wiggles and dream-drenched yawns.
Well, I answer, in smiles and hums, through kisses and cuddles and heart-full hugs,
It’s your feathery duckling head, smelling like silk and serenity and baby girl secrets.
It’s your milky rosebud mouth, full of curiosity and bubbles and half-asleep giggles.
It’s your wise mirror-lake eyes, shining with newness and knowing and shy peek-a-boos.
It’s your squeaky kitten cry, resonating with innocence and milk-memory and heartfelt littleness.
It’s your soft blanket-wrapped snuggability, curled in my arms like marshmallows and puppy-love and a ball of dandelion fluff.
It’s your velvet honeybee breath,
Your dimpled button toes,
Your priceless sunbeam smile,
Your luminous butterfly soul.
That’s why, baby mine, that’s why.
Your fingers squeeze OK as you drift back to sleep, still and safe next to my skin. I love you too, Mommy mine.

27Nov

Thief, Ogre, Janitor = Mom

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 2 Comments

It’s hard to relax when you’re a thief, stealing a few minutes for music and uninterrupted breath in your sunny corner studio. Even though all your offspring are contentedly sleeping in the other room, you coach your guilt along–I should really be cleaning or editing or studying or cooking or saving the world–as though, without the guilt, you will disappear.

You dig farther into the reserve, tonguing your 9 a.m. frustration like a mouth sore. I wasn’t going to be a yelling mom. I wasn’t going to use the TV as a babysitter. I was going to smile constantly at my children, be accessible, stimulate their creativity, enjoy every minute with them. It’s worse, even, because you used to be a Good Mother™. Now, you’re mostly ogre, and the monster is coming out in your little girl, and you have no idea which prompted the other.

You don’t mean to change the subject, but there are no solutions in sight–only dusty windowsills and dirty coffee mugs. Your serotonin levels plummet under the weight of so many unfinished tasks. The physical laws of the universe dictate that housecleaning is never finished–not when people move and breathe and inhabit said house–but universal truths are no match for your dissatisfaction at uncompleted projects. You’re a terrible janitor for the same reason you’re a stellar one.

You wish you didn’t think of yourself as a janitor; no one embraces that label. Plus, it’s an overly dramatic and negative interpretation of your role as mom. It also shows a horrid mix-up in priorities; when did janitor replace playmate and teacher? And how could something as mundane and fundamentally imperfect as a house take precedence over your own children?

You swish around the guilt in your head, vaguely wondering how much of your brain it has taken over. You wonder how different your days would be if you hadn’t grown up believing that guilt was Godliness. You wonder how you can keep it from spreading like a toxic stain over your family. If only it could just be scrubbed from your persona… How did I get stuck with myself? My personality traits, my memories, my vast inadequacies? I know how to skin emus, play Chinese flute, write iambic pentameter, pronounce words in Zulu, and teach babies to sleep through the night but not how to make myself work right.

You grimace at how self-centric your thoughts have become. You don’t know if sharing your foibles with the world at large is helpful or entertaining or hideously presumptuous, and you run through the disclaimers: I still love my family. This is just a stage, compounded by a lot of major life changes. And it’s not actually that bad; I’m just a pessimist. But you know that the disclaimers will only sound fabricated, in a “she doth protest too much” way, and presumptuous or not, un-disclaimed honesty has value.

You swallow several times, write “Stop overanalyzing!” on a to-do list, and sit down to play puppies with your two-year-old daughter. The dirty dishes–and the guilt–can wait for a while.

26Nov

Pile-Up

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 2 Comments

I feel the words piling up throughout the day, then the week, like speeding cars in the fog. But these moments are not mine, even when I’m too dazed to properly distribute them among family and housework and other assorted obligations. Tomorrow, a babysitter is coming over to give me an entire morning alone with my laptop. I’m looking forward to it, but also mildly terrified that I will glance into my brain only to find that it doesn’t work anymore. Or that I won’t accomplish enough to justify the expense. Or that four hours a week won’t be enough to maintain sanity for this mama (though oh, it will help). It will be like re-assimilation, an experiment in boosting my odds. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find some salvageable scraps among the pile-up in my head.

15Nov

Time Is [Not] On My Side

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 1 Comment

Last week, a mere ten days post-C-section, we wandered all over Assisi with friends and had a marvelous time. I took this to mean that I had finally developed super-powers and agreed to host dinner for friends, entertain a house guest, and cook a Thanksgiving feast for fifteen people this week. I believe the term for this is “delusions of grandeur.”

It’s not that taking care of a newborn is difficult; Sophie’s happy with a full tummy, a clean diaper, and 23 hours of sleep a day. It’s just that everything takes so much time now. Or rather, ordinary household duties don’t magically take negative time to make up for the 350 minutes a day I now spend feeding and changing the precious little addition to our lives. (Not to mention the compulsory hour or two reminding her how ridiculously cute she is.) (Beyond legal limits of cuteness, in case you were wondering.)

With a new six-hour deficit to each day, I find the hideous words “time management” pacing through my mind like the Grim Reaper. They don’t help except to cackle ominously each time the clock prevents me from taking the girls on a walk or sitting down to write or showering before lunch. And it’s hard. Hard to reconcile my sense of individuality and ambition with the reality of constant momhood. Hard to soothe my impatient mind with the fact that I will one day miss the way my little girls cling to me for survival. Hard to give enough quality time to each child to diffuse the guilt of so much busyness, even though the children are the source of that busyness.

Many people have offered their help, but I don’t know what to ask for… except maybe a clone. Or double-strength sleep. Or self-cleaning laundry. Or an hour dispenser. (Paying attention, Santa?)

The last thing I want to do is stumble bleary-eyed and frazzled–or worse, grudgingly–through this irreplaceable stage of life. I know that all too soon I’ll miss the way Natalie feeds me pretend candy 700 times a day, and the way Sophie giggles every time she drifts off to sleep. Maybe I just need to take a course on time management to figure this motherhood thing out. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time…

7Nov

One Week Later

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

One week later, I’m feeling closer to myself than I have… well, all year. Longer, actually. The last many, many months have dragged me across uncharted and incredibly rocky terrain, shredding my stability and grinding gravel into my view of the world. You know. Sort of.

But this morning? Not a single looming uncertainty on the horizon. Energy. Patience. An unexpectedly friendly number on the scale. Golden sunlight through golden leaves. Half-giggled conversations with Natalie. Sweet-smelling baby snuggles. Recovery.

Our sweet Sophie Ruth was born last Wednesday, already months old in size and awareness of the world. One week later, her peaceful little presence is filling in the blanks of our family, her spontaneous smiles and squeaks eclipsing even the stress of a dirty kitchen (::shock::). One week later, the four of us find ourselves meshing together, layers beneath our skin. One week later, life is full of the kind of mushy metaphors that will only sound butchered and Hallmark-y when typed out loud. But trust me, they’re true.

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