Even if Only for a Day

I like what Halloween does to people. Sometimes it brings out the dangerous side of people. Sometimes, the slutty side. For one of my good friends, it brings out the creative, winning mom in her.

Yesterday, I met this friend, in the middle of a rain storm, for lunch. She had just come from dropping treats off for a Halloween party at her son's school. She talked excitedly as she told me about the delicious themed snacks she had made for her son and his classmates: witches' brooms and hats. This involved small Reese's cups upside down with pretzel sticks poked down into them (brooms); and turned over Keebler Fudge Shoppe Cookies with Hershey kisses on top (hats). When she described making these, as well as a nutritious alternative--banana ghosts--I stared at her in horror.

"I feel so betrayed," I stammered.

"Oh, please," she swatted a hand in the air. "It took less than 20 minutes."

"Well, did you at least make the other mothers feel badly?"

"Affirmative."

For my friend to have come up with creative Halloween candies and deliver them to her son's school on a beautiful platter, with her hair brushed, makeup flawless and wearing a stylish outfit, well, it flew in the face of everything she and I have bonded over since becoming parents. But if doing so enabled her to intimidate another mother, her disloyalty to me could be forgiven.

To delight in the thought of another mother feeling inferior is completely counter to everything I stand for. That being said, sometimes feeling like the winning mom, even if only for a day, is worth the pain it might cause others.

Mothers come in all kinds, and they all share the same secret: they are intimidated by another mother. Even the mother who posts the most beautiful pictures of the rosemary chicken, that she raised in her backyard and then roasted in a chiminea she hand-threw and fired while the kids napped, is intimidated by the working mother who just got the new corner office. The mother in the corner office is intimidated by the woman who talks constantly about "baby wearing" and the baby wearing mother is intimidated by the mother who always seems to get a shower.

Some mothers are natural care-takers, or happy home-makers, or inexplicable bakers. Some mothers are power executives with important jobs. Some mothers handle motherhood with ease. Some mothers handle it with wine. But all of these mothers struggle with something. Making treats for school. Or finding the perfect Halloween costumes. Or work-life balance. Or stress levels.

That's the way the playing field is leveled. Every mother has her strengths and every mother has her weaknesses. But because mothers don't like to be honest about their weaknesses (never Pinterest a flaw, never Facebook a fumble), it's easy to assume they don't have any.

I know I'm a good mother. But I'm still intimidated by most every woman I know who is a mother. Those who were able to breastfeed. Those who make their own laundry soap. Those who don't ever seem overwhelmed. Those who dress well. Those who don't look like they've ever housed a small human inside their body. Those who have clean cars. Those who actually have both hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol stocked in their homes at all times.

But instead of assuming all those mothers have weaknesses, I instead focus on the times in my life in which I feel the most strength: my work.

Because I'm typically the youngest person in the room when I'm with my family, my friends or my husband, I find the classroom to be the one area of my life where I almost feel mature and wise. When I step into the classroom I feel myself overcome with confidence and energy. Not that this is necessarily backed by anything--lecterns just empower me--but there is a sense of accomplishment when my young students ask me what my husband is like, how hard graduate school is, or what it's like to be a mother. (And hey, they sometimes ask me stuff about the course material too, but first things first).

I enjoy giving lectures and answering questions and engaging with a group of young people who have their biggest life decisions ahead of them. And I really love that sometimes they seek me out for advice. I suppose I appreciate the feeling of being looked up to, a feeling even my fiercely independent two-year-old is sometimes uninterested in providing me.

This past week, after filling my students full of fun sized candy in celebration of Halloween, one student (early 30s, married) asked if she could stay after class and talk with me. After class was dismissed, we closed the door and sat down to chat. She revealed that earlier that morning she had taken a pregnancy test and it was positive. A wide smile spread across her face. We squealed and hugged (totally typical behavior between a college professor and her students) and compared due dates and pregnancy symptoms. After the excitement calmed down I realized that she was only sharing with me for the sake of sharing. She wasn't seeking any advice from me whatsoever.

But like all good mothers, I still felt the need to give it.

"Now, let's talk graduation," I said sternly. "That needs to be a priority."

"Well, I have one semester left," she said. "I'll graduate in May. The baby isn't due until July."

"And job hunting?" I pressed.

"Well, I own my own business, so that's taken care of."

"Ok. But you need to schedule ample time off. And you will return to work, right? Do you want to borrow my copy of Lean In?"

"I borrowed your copy last semester. I think I'm set."

"Oh, okay," I said, convinced she had her head on right. "Well, when is your first ultrasound?"

"Oh, Dr. Morgan...," she lowered her voice and furrowed her brow. "I would never subject my unborn baby to the harmful effects of an ultrasound."

I left class with my mind racing. The car ride home I thought back to every ultrasound I had with my daughter. How I loved seeing her dance and kick and squirm around on the large screen projected in the tiny, dark room. How I took the printed pictures the doctor gave me and taped them up in my office and on the refrigerator and bathroom mirror so I could look at her all the time, convinced she was happy and safe and healthy. And never once, not once, did I question whether or not an ultrasound was safe for my unborn baby.

When I got home I did what all confident mothers do. I Googled myself into a BabyCenter.com coma. I searched for hours on extremely reliable medical sites, and hundreds of blogs started by organic mothers who birthed in the woods. I scoured baby books I found in the back of our garage. Then I texted my father, who uses an ultrasound machine on a daily basis. Granted his experience performing ultrasounds is on thousand-pound mammals compressed in a hydraulic chute, but he was able to finally calm me down by affirming that he's never seen a link between ultrasound exposure and calves born with any of the millions of scary possibilities I'd read on crunchymomknowsall.com.

And while that may not be the most scientific conclusion, and perhaps there really are some concerns with ultrasound technology, I felt my father had restored my confidence as a mother. Even if only for a day.

Toward the end of our lunch my friend asked me what my child would be wearing for Halloween. We discussed our paths for Trick-or-Treating. We strategized a plan to steal half of our children's loot. And as we left, standing under umbrellas in the pouring rain, I caught a glimpse of her boots. When I complimented them she started laughing. She explained that they were cheap rain boots from Walmart and that just today, while dropping off her brilliant treats to the school party, she realized all the other mothers were wearing very high-end and fashionable Wellies. She was contemplating leaving our lunch date to try and find a similar pair to avoid embarrassment on the next rainy day.

Because just like Halloween, in which you get a chance to be someone else, being the winning mom has the same fatal flaw:

It's only for a day.

The Art of Reproduction

A recent trip to Vegas with my husband, to celebrate my 30th birthday, took me back to another place in time. Specifically, a trip I took with my brother and sister to Vegas to celebrate my 21st birthday.  Watching my brother play high stakes poker. Giggling over my "first" sips of alcohol with my sister while we played the slots. Shopping. Eating. Talking. That trip was great and I was eager to replicate the experience.

But when my husband and I arrived in Sin City, I was taken even further back in time.

To my semester abroad in Europe.

For all of the negative things said about Las Vegas, it's truly a marvel of replication. My husband and I opted to stay at the Paris Hotel, with our bedroom overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Sure, the tower is only half the size of the magnificent original--which my roommate and I hiked to the top of to avoid paying for the elevator--but it was a spectacular forgery. Inside, the Paris Hotel is paved with fake cobblestone and reproduction street lamps. My husband and I strolled arm-in-arm scouring knock-off Louis Vuittons and talking to the vendors, who were mimicking French accents. I felt myself taken back to my time in Paris with my four college friends.

Without even a train ride, in fact just a few steps to the north, we walked into Italy. In the Venetian, the counterfeit gold ceilings look remarkably accurate, and the gondolas look as realistic as the ones I had ridden in Venice 10 years earlier. The entire strip of Vegas mimicked some of my favorite trips around Europe. The stone work, marble steps, archways, fountains, art, stained glass, and sculptures were so authentic-looking it made me feel at home again, re-experiencing the greatest adventure of my life.

Even beyond my study abroad, Vegas recreated some of my favorite trips I have taken with my husband. In two short days we revisited New Orleans (Harrah's), NYC (New York, New York) and Hawaii (Mandalay Bay).

Around and around we walked in the August heat, marveling at how the places we had spent time and money traveling to could be so easily, and damn near accurately, replicated. Aside from the constant drone of slot machines and the smut being shoved into our hands, Vegas was everywhere we had ever been.

Craving replication is human nature. Replication is extremely comforting. So much so, we are constantly trying to replicate moments in our lives. Saving the top of a wedding cake for the first anniversary to try and recreate that special day. Anticipating the sequels to movies. Going to the same restaurant to hopefully repeat a fantastic meal. Watching old TV reruns to relive memories. Listening to the same song to evoke an emotion. This is what traditions are. Trying to replicate an original experience.

When Jim and I decided we were ready for a second child (and, boy howdy did feeling ready take a while) I had only one true concern: that the second child wouldn't measure up to our first.

I confessed to my husband that I was terrified to have a second child because our daughter was, in a sense, unbeatable. She is beautiful. Lion hearted. Silly. Verbal. Kind. Funny. And smart as hell. I feared that if the second child wasn't identical to our perfect, talkative brainiac, then I wouldn't feel as much love for it.

I needed to reproduce my first born.

But in the middle of all my concern that my second child wouldn't be as great as the original, Jim made a game-changing point. He reminded me of the night Lowery was conceived. To be reminded of that night, and all the horrific events that led up to it, always evokes a laugh from me.

Ten months of blood tests, vaginal ultrasounds and fertility medications led us to one specific night our doctor said we must obediently (and in a particular position and at a certain time) fornicate. But that night was the precipice of a strange series of unpredictable events. For starters, Jim had to undergo emergency dental surgery that would guarantee him excruciating pain and immense swelling for days. Also, my grandfather's health had taken a dramatic turn for the worse and we knew his time was coming to a close. Daily trips to the fertility doctor had me both hopeful (we were finally seeing results) and scared (please don't let our first chance to truly try for a child be when my husband or grandfather needed me the most). But, like all things in life you try to plan, everything came up at the most inopportune time. My husband had surgery late Monday afternoon. My grandfather's funeral was scheduled for Tuesday morning. And by 5 o'clock that night our window for conception would be officially closed.

We contemplated canceling the cycle and trying for the following month. When we explained the situation to my doctor, she very strongly urged us not to risk losing out on this chance. Plus, the money already invested in the endeavor was not easily ignored.

So, after a brutally sad and emotionally draining day at the funeral, and with my husband's face as swollen as Rocky, we had to follow the doctor's orders. Jim still insists that because of his state--drugged up on high potency narcotics--this wasn't entirely consensual.

But it was successful. And it made some truly awful lows in our life become one really fantastic high.

And yet, the second time around, having just decided we were ready to try again, and would call the fertility doctor the second we returned home from Vegas, we got pregnant with just the help of a little champagne.

This time, unquestionably consensual.

With my husband's reminder of our two vastly different conception stories, I realized there were actually aspects about my experience with my daughter I never want to replicate. For starters, I threw up multiple times a day from the minute I conceived Lowery, every day, up to and throughout labor. When I was pregnant with her, I was in the thick of my doctoral program--unequivocally the most stressful period in my life. I don't want to replicate her birth story--18 hours of labor and two hours of pushing. I don't want to replicate many other issues that followed Lowery's birth: breastfeeding, postpartum depression, constipation after an episiotomy.

Yes. There are things I don't want to relive.

But I've become so accustomed to my first child. She was born with her eyes open. She spoke early. She has a glorious (and inexplicable) mess of curly blonde hair. She's constantly getting praise from her teachers and strangers for her verbal skills, personality and eyelashes. She has changed the way I view myself. Her existence has been such a remarkable milestone in my life that I can't imagine another child could measure up to her, or have as profound an impact on me.

But the clues are already there that this second child won't be Lowery. No one could be. And I need to accept this. This unborn baby already has some points in its favor. Conceived easily and hasn't made me vomit once. A May due date will be a helluva lot less humid and miserable than Lowery's entrance in July. And perhaps this one won't talk in its sleep.

Though there's nothing quite as special as a first pregnancy with all the newness and anticipation, there is something that is making this pregnancy extremely unique. Last week my toddler came up to me as I was resting on the couch. She lifted my shirt, cupped her hands around my belly button and yelled: "Hi baby! I love you so much!"

So yes. No need to worry about replicating anything.

All I can really hope for is another one-of-a-kind.