Staying Together for the Sake of the Children

I’ve tried to write this post before, but it’s one of those elusive thoughts that defies language.

When I was a child, I’d hear the phrase, “Well, they only stay married for the kids.”  It was the 1970s.  Divorce was new, though still a rarity in my world.  I lived in fear that my parents would split up - especially because my parents’ relationship didn’t seem like that of Mike and Carol Brady, or later, Cliff and Clair Huxtable.  When I’d hear about another divorce - my dad’s friend Gene, or his cousin Sharon - I’d breathe deep.  Statistically, perhaps the bad luck would pass us by.

Or at least, I figured, they might stay married for our sakes.  Soldier through; suck it up.  They’d borne us, without our permission.  They owed it to us to keep us happy, or at least to not make us the subject of whispered speculation. 

 

Showdown at the Bouncy House

From time to time, our town forgets that we’re a mere two miles from the city limits of Washington DC and instead masquerades as Mayberry-meets-Pleasantville.  During the summer, such episodes of municipal amnesia take place the first Friday night of every month.  We bust out a bandstand, a local resto sets up a grill and they even pitch a Bouncy House in the middle of 40th Street.

As our 3 y.o. obediently queued for his chance to bounce like mad, another small child rushed the gate and bodily propelled himself halfway through the opening before the attendant hauled him out by his feet.

We all looked about, expected a parent to come flying forward to claim the wayward child.  But no.  Apparently, Solo had toddled - he couldn’t have been much more than two - to the community festival on his own.  In fact, after grinning at the BH attendant, Solo cheerfully danced off onto 40th Street - conveniently blocked for the event.

If we accept that it takes a village to raise a child, how do you react when one of your fellow villagers is clearly falling down on the job?

 

Crushed

I have a dear friend, a woman whose intelligence, humor and raw nerve I admire.  But as it happens, we fell out of touch for a few months.  I’d moved four hours away, and we were both busy, blah blah blah.

But she dropped me a line today, just a quick one, and I responded with a chatty message, including the news of my pregnancy and a frank admission that I’d been struggling with depression since our move.

She wrote back immediately and admitted that she’d been having a tough time of it, too.  After trying to conceive a second child for some time, she’d miscarried a few months earlier.

I did the math quickly.  Our children would’ve been the same age.

 

This is Only a Test

I confessed to my doctor today that I’d been feeling nervous and on edge.  During my first pregnancy, I was the picture of calm.  Or at least, my flailing was more of the “how the hell am I going to manage all of this and a baby” variety.

The maiden voyage to Storkville was all about me.  Trip number two?  I’m obsessed with the Stranger Within.

My doctor gently reminded me that it wasn’t too late for genetic testing - but if I skipped the blood work this time, we’d have missed our window.

I took a deep breath and confirmed that no, we still weren’t interested.

 

Yoga Mat, $15; Inner Peace, Out of Stock

I occasionally suffer from delusions.  Some recurring ones:  that there’s a marathon runner within.  That I’ll master the preparation of an elaborate dessert.  That I’m really good at DIY projects.

Over the years, I’ve come to accept that these are lies that I tell myself.  But a grey area remains - things that I wish to master, that seem slightly contrary to my restless, aggressive, impatient nature.  Things that seem like they’d help me grow.  Maybe even, wonder of wonders, relax.

So yeah, I signed up for prenatal yoga and donned my stretchy pants this afternoon for the first time in months.

 

Kyd Gear

So yeah, I fret about the planet.  But kids still need gear, and I must say that I’ve derived much pleasure from seeking out products that are well-crafted, thoughtful and appealing to me and my child.

 

I Want To Do It All By Myself

Kids really say that.

My 3 y.o. just said it again.  This time, we were talking about pulling up his pants post-potty.  If I’m willing to overlook the occasional twisted waistband on his Thomas the Tank Engine underpants, he’s absolutely right.  

No need for you, Mommy.

 

Elastic Fantastic

Some women insist that maternity clothing is a waste of time.  I’m puzzled by this perspective.  While yes, some non-knocked up wear fits all through your pregnancy, there comes a time when something’s gotta give.

And for me, it’s the waistband.

 

Green Genie

A bajillion years ago, a friend told me that she thought becoming a SAHM would help reduce their carbon footprint.  ”Huh?” I thought.  I’m all for a petite carbon footprint, but how, precisely, did one follow the other?

After 14 months as a SAHM, I must admit that I get it.  Not only do I get it, but I’ve done it.  Going green doesn’t require a ton of cash, but it does take some thought, and a modest amount of effort.  It’s tough to do those things when you’re in a constant rush to keep up with the day-to-day.

So, in honor of Earth Day, here’s a list of the things we’ve done to tread more lightly on the planet since settling in our new home last July.

 

Men Not Damaged by Bisphenol A

Despite being short on storage space, I’ve hung on to all of my firstborn’s baby gear on two theories:  a) that we’ll use it again; b) that if I give it away prematurely, I’ll immediately fall pregnant at the worst possible moment.

The mojo worked.  Kyd is three, and baby #2 is on the way.  Just in time for me to freak about Bisphenol A in all those Avent bottles and sippy cups that I’ve saved, stored and moved - twice - since my son was a babe in arms.