IV

I found it weird at the time, but I failed to say anything. It might even be standard procedure. When the nurse came to put in the IV, I was just happy to be lying down and working on breathing through contractions. But in all my medical history I've never had an IV put on the side of my wrist. I've had one on the underside of my wrist, one in the top of my hand, inside of my elbow, and even my foot. But never on the wrist bone.

And so, 15 months after giving birth, I'm not surprised that the wound, in which the IV was once oddly placed, has still not healed. It's a sore that is raised and red. Sometimes it gets swollen and painful. Sometimes it dries up and flakes off. There are times I get frustrated enough to go buy expensive ointments and waterproof Band-Aids. Other times I pick at it mercilessly. But most of the time I just ignore it.

But in the past 15 months, the sore on my wrist is the least of my problems. Because there is, in fact, a long list of my problems and my wrist is second to the bottom. Stretch marks and belly flab are dead last.

Staying at home with my child, however, is right at the top.

When professional women ask if I'm a stay-at-home mom, I usually respond, "No, I work part-time." If a stay-at-home mom asks if I work outside the home, I usually respond, "Only twice a week. I'm with my child the rest of the time." And both sets of women respond the same way, "Oh, you have the best of both worlds!"

Nope, bitches. I've got the worst. 

Because I'm still a member of a professional world, I hold myself to a pretty high standard professionally. That is to say that I try to curb my vulgar mouth at work, and I almost always wear underwear. I also go so far as to pretend to others that I don't have a child. Not that I don't brag about her, wallpaper my office with her pictures and put my hand to my chest every time someone even mentions her name. But if someone schedules a meeting in which several people are invited, I pretend that I'm open and available at all times. What child?

And though I have full day, day care on Tuesdays and Thursdays, most every single meeting I've been to in the past 15 months has been on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday. So I scramble. I call my mother-in-law, whose help I cannot do without, despite the new dynamic it creates. I check with my own mother to see if she's able to drive an hour to help me. I call a neighbor. Jim takes a personal day. And though I haven't tried this yet, I still can't see a good reason why I can't leave her in the crib with a sleeve of crackers and a sippy cup.

Further, I have a variety of professional friends who like to meet up for lunches. And there is nothing more wonderful in the professional world than work-day lunches. But if I meet them on days that I actually get to go into work, then that takes up an hour of the very few precious hours I have to sit at a computer and work without a tantrum over green beans happening somewhere in the periphery. But if I schedule lunches on MWF, then I'm dragging along an active, loud toddler and chasing her around a crum-riddled restaurant, rather than enjoying any of the majesty of work-a-day noon.

My work and school are truly important and thrilling parts of who I am and yet it is reduced to two days a week. And even those days are usually consumed with squeezed-in dentist appointments and haircuts. I also teach some time in there, which involves an hour commute. So yes, my time in my chair in my office is pathetically small.

But that's my work life.

That's not the problem. Never once have I thought that giving up my career or dropping out of school would make it all better. Yes, school and work are stressful, but it's good stress. Anything that makes you a better, more knowledgable, more well-rounded person isn't really stress anyhow. It's just growing pains.

But this important part of my life is completely overshadowed by the way in which I spend most of my time: raising a child. These are the hard days. The exhausting days. Days that I'm okay with saying I like the least. In fact, if I am super honest, I actually hate staying home with my child.

Settle down. I'll redeem myself in a bit.

Staying home with my child is a choice. In fact, my husband and I planned to get pregnant when we did because of the flexibility of my working hours and classes. We knew it would be tough, but we agreed it was the right time for us. We knew we could spend just a little money to get a couple of days of day care so that I could work two long days to keep up with everything, while still getting oodles of time to care for and raise our child.

Oh, we mice and men.

I've had some insane pressures on myself with motherhood. Breastfeeding. Baby food making. Cloth diapering. Staying at home. And with most of them I've been able to recognize when things weren't working, or when to adjust certain expectations.

Breastfeeding: Worst experience of my life. Once I realized I was doing it more for me than for my daughter, I gave it up. And never looked back.

Baby food making: Enjoyed buying $5 organic pears, steaming them, pureeing them, dividing them into little portioned cups, freezing them, thawing them, warming them, spooning some up for Lowery only to have her spit them all down her shirt. Then when I realized stores sold little packs of organic baby food (with veggies and fruits I couldn't pick out of a line up), I said "F**k you, Magic Bullet," and bought enough pouches of mushy rutabaga to last through her adolescence.

Cloth diapering: I have friends who are pretty avid about this. I wanted to do it purely for environmental reasons, not for any concern of cost or fear of chemicals touching Lowery's precious ass. But there are all these web pages and posts on facebook that say things like "I love cloth diapering!" What the hell? No one loves diapering, whether you throw it in a trash can or throw it in a laundry basket. They are all full of shit. Now, I can say I like the cloth diapers. They are soft, and cute and I had my kid run around in those and not much else during the summer as they are also good in the pool. But by no means do we cloth diaper full time. We wash a load, use up that load and then use disposable until we get around to doing laundry again. Not unlike our own underwear.

Staying at home: There are numerous studies out there that show women with children who work are significantly happier than those who stay at home. Yeah, no shit. Other studies suggest that taking time off to raise children grossly affects women's earning potential in the job market. And even more studies try, but can't, point to any significant differences between children of stay-at-homers and day-care babies. Society, of course, also likes to weigh in. If you stay at home full time, you must not have any professional ambition. If you work full time, you must not love your children.

Ah, to have a penis. Even if only for a day.

Women who stay at home full time (all five days and weekends) have my universal support and respect. I would imagine they could also use a drink. I understand why people always say, "I don't know how they do it," about stay-at-home mothers. But I suppose my question is not how but why they do it.

For starters, when I take my child to day care (they prefer we call it "school"), she gets a lot of time with other children, other adults, lots of different toys, reading, outdoor activities, art, music, made-from-scratch kosher meals, a solid nap and a couple of good BMs. When I pick her up she's happy, her daily progress sheet gushes about her day and how sweet and independent and talkative she is, and when we get in the car, my child is a song bird of happiness. Babbling all the way home about her day.

When she's with me, I fight to get a shower. She gets bored easily. She whines a lot. She won't touch things I fix for lunch. And she throws herself on the floor in a tantrum over not being able to play with the Wii remote.

She does get to spend time with me, though. Wrestling on the floor. Swinging at the park. Reading the same three books over and over and over. Walking around the mall. Running to the bank. Watching me work at a computer. Watching me unload the dishwasher. Watching me poop. And looking for the Wii remote.

And at the end of the day, I'm so physically and emotionally exhausted that I just don't want to look at her any more. I want to hand her to Jim, go in the bedroom and be by myself for 20 minutes. And the next day, when she goes to daycare, I'm sad we aren't together.

This isn't to say I don't have some really great times with my child while I'm home with her. I get all the kisses and hugs and giggles I want. I truly enjoy taking her places because store clerks and strangers seem in awe of her and that makes me swell with pride. I've never missed a major milestone, and I've been able to trace most of her words, mannerisms or silly quirks back to something I've taught her.

It makes no logical sense to me that I can love a person as much as I love my child, and yet need some time away from her. But I suppose it makes emotional sense. I mean, it's no secret I adore wine but even I know the dangers of overindulgence.

I feel silly having such an overwhelming problem with such a simple solution. Jim has said, for the past 13 months, that if ever we need to increase Lowery's days at day care we can. And every time he says this (which has been every week since she was born) I snap at him for implying that I'm not loving my time at home with our daughter.

But I'm not.

And yet getting to the point of making the call, closing the door on all other options, has been debilitating. In the battle between Jim and me in which I argued to keep her days at day care as minimal as possible, I've realized how much I value my time with my daughter. How much I fought for it. Even if I do hate some of that time, I still value it. And I value her. I adore her. I respect her. I want us to be bonded and close and for her to see me as a positive, loving, supportive mother. But it's also important to me that she see my ambition, my work ethic, my drive and my life outside of her.

So if full time day care is the solution, so be it.

I know Lowery will thrive. And I will too. This might even allow me to concentrate on the other problems on my list. And if I can address those, I'd be cooking more meals, getting more sleep, exercising more, reading more books, crying less and enjoying life to a greater degree.

And as I look at the sore on my wrist right now, my eyes seem to be playing tricks on me.

Because it almost looks like it's starting to heal.

Portuguese Man Of War

The most stressful class I took in college was a journalism class with an older, bitter lady who once managed the crime beat for the LA Times. At the beginning of class each week she would hand us a slip of paper as we walked in the room. On that paper would be a prompt, typically just a few sentences. We would get exactly 10 minutes to write a news story based on the prompt. When the time was up, she would clap her hands sharply and randomly point at a student to read his work. Rarely would anyone get through a paragraph, let alone finish his entire article, before she would sharply clap again and say, "You buried the lead! Next!" Or, "You disgust me. Next!" And on and on slapping her papers on someone's keyboard or flicking her hand in dismissal.

One day the prompt said something like this: Mayor of Florida town warning citizens and tourists about an unprecedented number of Portuguese Men-of-War on the shoreline. They are prone to attack and their poison can cause serious harm. Alert authorities if you spot one, and step cautiously around them.

I set to work on my article thrilled by the day's prompt, as I felt this was going to be my most dramatic and impressive work yet. At the ten minute mark, she pointed to the student beside me as the first to read. I was surprised to hear his article and its passive attitude toward these vengeful men ready to attack any American who set foot on the beach. When he talked about the importance of being able to recognize a Portuguese Man-of-War, I chuckled to myself thinking that their poisonous spears and face paint would be a dead give-away. And when he explained how they "shimmy" out of the water, I stopped and thought maybe that was just how the Europeans train their men to fight. Shake the shoulders back and forth to the beat of government-issued steel drums while walking toward the enemy; it lures them into a false sense of security.

The next student called to read her article waxed poetic about their beauty. The closest I'd come to seeing one was the Spaniard in my advanced Calc class, but I would assume anyone from that region has the same lovely skin tone.When she talked about seeing some off the coast of Hawaii, I wondered why everyone was so concerned about the Middle East; seemed we had big problems in Portugal. And only when she mentioned getting to feed one at an aquarium in Cleveland did I start to get a tad suspicious that maybe I didn't have a f**king clue what was going on.

I spent my pregnancy convinced my child would be like my husband.  I wrapped my mind around her having a long, lean face with angular features. I embraced the idea she'd have dark hair. Was excited she would have green eyes. And I accepted the fact that she would be sensitive, quiet, studious and kind.

I was extremely prepared for how to handle a child like my husband. I knew the child would have a consistent temperament, would be quiet and sensitive, would have a high metabolism and long fingers and would be frighteningly smart, 

But much like the alternate universe I created in my head about the vengeful men on the Florida shoreline, how I envisioned my child's personality couldn't be further from reality.

She's not my husband at all. She's me. 

She's extremely vocal. Self possessed. Strong willed. Animated. Affectionate. Happy. Expressive. Emotional. Impatient. Silly. Exhaustingly sociable. And a wee bit demanding. On top of that, she looks  like me: round face, light hair, blue eyes and a turned up nose. And there's a strong chance she, too, is left handed.

And so I had to tear down my old reality of raising a child like my husband, and replace it with the real one in which I would be taking care of, raising and loving--basically--myself.  At first, this was thrilling. There are some advantages to my personality. Being friendly and outgoing has gotten me further in life than any of my other qualities or accomplishments. My trust in people makes me a great team player. My ability to read facial cues and body language helps me engage people in a worthwhile manner. And my sense of humor got me through the trials of adolescents. Yes, perhaps a child like me would be a fantastic thing.

Her similarities to me also means that she's naturally drawn to Jim for the same reasons I am: he's a calming, gentle presence. When he gets home at night, we both curl up on his lap with tears streaming down our faces as he tries to calm us. He's found we both respond well to bottles.

But as I see more and more of myself in my daughter, I've become less enthralled by the idea of her being a carbon copy. I think of my own existence and the way in which my personality has both rewarded me and punished me.

Mostly, I'm concerned Lowery won't get from people what she truly needs.

For starters, I can already tell that Lowery is a multi-tasker. She will have a dozen Cheerios in one hand, a book in the other, and will use her wrists to drink from a sippy cup. All while walking around the house looking for the dogs.

I suppose I like that I'm able to juggle so much at once. That I'm able to tackle motherhood, a dissertation, teaching a couple of classes, researching for the university and cooking roughly three bland meals a week for my forgiving husband. In 12 years of college I've never missed a deadline, never asked for an extension and never, ever skipped a class. In my 7 years in the work force I've never been late to work, never missed a meeting and never got a bad performance review.

Would my child enjoy the Cheerios more if she'd just sit her ass down and eat them? Would she consume more milk if she held it with her hands and not her wrists? Why does she try to cram it all in at once?

Secondly, Lowery's very outgoing. Extremely social. She's far happier around people, and she gets cranky if we are cooped up at home. So out we go, every day, to the mall, or grocery store, or the park or anywhere she can get to talk to people. And talk she does. She says "HI!" loudly to everyone she sees. And they always startle, giggle, put their hand to their chest, cock their head to the side and say, "Well hi! How old are you?" At which point Lowery proudly thrusts two fingers high, exclaims "I am two! Two!" and they giggle wildly before nodding approvingly at me and moving on.

I appreciate that Lowery is friendly to strangers. It may be inherent or it might be learned behavior, but from the safety of my arms or her stroller, I appreciate her ability to engage strangers and get their cold faces to warm.

But I catch myself worrying she's becoming a performer. I'm usually energetic, outgoing, friendly, talkative and happy. But if I'm not, I feel punished. There needs to be an explanation if I'm not on my game. People are put off if I'm quiet. My family is annoyed if I'm not the clown. My friends mistake it as a cue to leave me alone.

I don't want this for my daughter. I find myself apologizing to strangers and friends if she's not her typically happy, bubbly self. And why should I do this? If she's sick, or unhappy, or not up for being friendly, that should be okay. I never allowed that for myself so now I am working overtime to allow my daughter to embrace her emotion of the moment.

Also, Lowery's a bit of a people pleaser. Not in an intentional way, but because I know how she is, I know how to manipulate her into doing what I want. For example, she recently had an eye infection that required drops. And putting those in is like throwing a potato into a garbage can that's a mile away, during an earthquake. So after a few days of kicking and screaming I stopped to think about what would motivate me. Then it hit me. I laid her down on the bed and said, "Lowery, you are such a good girl. Thank you for being a good girl for me and letting me put drops in your eyes." And she laid still. I touched her eye and she winced only slightly. I kept saying over and over how good of a girl she is and how much I appreciate her and she let me lift her lid, drop in two drops and then she smiled at me brightly.

This ain't good.

I've been called a people pleaser repeatedly. Usually by the people I'm trying to please. They say it (while they accept my efforts) as though it's a bad thing. Which I don't understand. I want people to be happy, with me or otherwise, and I like a world in which the people around me are happy and maybe I helped them get there. I worry--to a damaging degree--about my friends, and if they are okay and happy, and if they are getting what they need from me or others. This makes me a fantastic collaborator, but a horrible competitor. It makes me an engaging, though emotionally exhausted, teacher. And I know it's the single thing that makes me a good friend. Because if you are my friend, you can damn sure guarantee I'm worried about you this very minute. You okay?

But people pleasing does not mean I'm a sheep. If people pleasing means that I go around doing whatever anyone asks me, then I would be a very different person. For one thing, I would have gone to the same college as everyone else in my family. Or, I wouldn't have gone to graduate school at the one university of which they truly disapprove. I wouldn't have dated certain guys. I would vote Republican to please my peers. I would like Oprah to please the masses. And I would be a Christian to win the affection of my mother in law.

No, I'm not a people pleaser that changes my principles to appease others; I'm a people pleaser that puts others' feelings above her own. 

And this ain't good.

I suppose I avoid truly talking about myself by putting myself out there. I try to get ahead of questions because, in my experience, questions are usually for the benefit of the asker. Either to satisfy their curiosity or to allow them to answer their own questions. And questions have always made me feel on the defense. Questions about my car accident: my injuries, my inabilities. Questions about my relationships. Questions about the choices I've made as a mother.

So I avoid questions. Would rather talk about someone else. Talk about you. Worry about you. Do for you. And then I spend a great deal of time feeling invisible. Hiding in plain sight.

I'm an absolute head case.

And I'm so in love with my daughter that I worry I've made her one too. Given her all my ticks, my foibles, my fears, my incompetencies. I've constructed a reality in which my kid will have my life. Struggle with my struggles. Worry about my worries. That she will be exactly like me in every way. But I recognize the realities I create are quite extreme. Realities in which a trained soldier, and a jellyfish, can be the same damn thing.

But I am reassured by one aspect of my child's personality: her ability to demand what she needs from others, and to accept nothing less. She will point to vague areas of the room saying "Dat, dat!" while we scramble to touch everything in sight only to have her shake her head disapprovingly. And she won't give up. Won't take less than she wants. Instead, she grunts harder, yells louder and points with more vigor until she is given what she needs.

So my daughter and I may be the same person, exist in the same realm, share the same reality. But we have one very important difference:

She's the Portuguese warrior I envisioned, brave and ready for battle.

And I am spineless.