Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Grateful
I have so very much to be thankful for. So even though I'm not sleeping, not fitting into the size jeans I'd hoped to by now, and not any better at planning our family meals than I'd expected to be at this point in marriage... I'm feeling the blessed exhaustion that only comes from motherhood.
My little man woke up all night last night, refusing to surrender for more than an hour or two's sleep at most, and I got up with him each time. It was not heroically motivated. It was not a supreme act of sacrifice. It was, quite simply, my job. I've had lots of jobs in my life. LOTS. Probably twice as many as the average 28 year old. I've done everything from running a small non profit organization to slinging pancakes at Denny's to dressing up in a gigantic red bird suit and terrorizing young children. Oh, and I worked at a coffee shop for about a month when I was 15, and it was neither as glamorous or as gratifying as a java fiend might hope...
All this to say, this is just another job, this motherhood gig. It's "just a job" ... and so much more than that, all at once. It's filled with moments of drudgery and angst and frustration and clock-watching, punctuated by days where the weekend looms like a far-off fairytale, sustaining hope where hope has all but left the building. And then there are the other moments. The ones that catch your breath as you look down at your child, sleeping in your arms, breathing softly through tiny, parted lips ... cheeks as soft as duck down and rosy with new life, and you cannot fathom that this is what you "do" for a living. Raising humans is frequently thankless, often exhausting, but always miraculous. The tiny people we're entrusted with literally depend upon us for their survival, let alone their successful and eventual entrance into society. And when I read stories like this one, it stops me dead in my tracks, breath catching painfully in my throat as I realize that there are parents who would give anything for the privilege of being up at night with a fussy, healthy child.
And then I pour another cup of coffee. Brewed to perfection by my handsome husband before he left my "office" for his this morning. Life. Is. Good.
My little man woke up all night last night, refusing to surrender for more than an hour or two's sleep at most, and I got up with him each time. It was not heroically motivated. It was not a supreme act of sacrifice. It was, quite simply, my job. I've had lots of jobs in my life. LOTS. Probably twice as many as the average 28 year old. I've done everything from running a small non profit organization to slinging pancakes at Denny's to dressing up in a gigantic red bird suit and terrorizing young children. Oh, and I worked at a coffee shop for about a month when I was 15, and it was neither as glamorous or as gratifying as a java fiend might hope...
All this to say, this is just another job, this motherhood gig. It's "just a job" ... and so much more than that, all at once. It's filled with moments of drudgery and angst and frustration and clock-watching, punctuated by days where the weekend looms like a far-off fairytale, sustaining hope where hope has all but left the building. And then there are the other moments. The ones that catch your breath as you look down at your child, sleeping in your arms, breathing softly through tiny, parted lips ... cheeks as soft as duck down and rosy with new life, and you cannot fathom that this is what you "do" for a living. Raising humans is frequently thankless, often exhausting, but always miraculous. The tiny people we're entrusted with literally depend upon us for their survival, let alone their successful and eventual entrance into society. And when I read stories like this one, it stops me dead in my tracks, breath catching painfully in my throat as I realize that there are parents who would give anything for the privilege of being up at night with a fussy, healthy child.
And then I pour another cup of coffee. Brewed to perfection by my handsome husband before he left my "office" for his this morning. Life. Is. Good.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
And So We Continue
So this stay at home mom gig... it's a lot of work. And, quite frankly, there are days where I find myself battling unbelievable boredom/frustration/loneliness/insert negative emotion here... but I wouldn't trade it for the world. I've been "officially" working as a full-time mama for just over 18 weeks now, and while that seems like a remarkably short period of time on paper, it has felt like an entire other lifetime after 27 years of living differently.
Today is shaping up to have all the markings of a 'hard' day. I am sick. My baby is sick. It snowed (and is still snowing) and is barely into single digits outside. I have yet to shower (and to be completely honest, I don't know that I will get around to it today.) And it has been no fewer than 8 days since I last worked out. That's more than a week, and no, I'm not pregnant again. On top of it all, I ate half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, and I don't 'do' carbs. Except that now I do. Because you know what? They're cheap... and it's almost impossible to pack a south-beach friendly lunch for a husband who thrives on culinary variety. Oh, sorry honey, it's a breadless tuna sandwich on romaine lettuce with tomato slices and a hunk of cheese ... again. Yeah, that didn't last too long. And so we have bread in our home once again. And darn it, I eat it. Can't help myself.
So as I type, straining unconsciously to hear a wheezy, sneezy baby from the next room and hoping (praying!) he stays asleep for 10 more minutes, I want to share a few fabulous finds from around the internets... proof that other women are doing this job and doing it well... and living to laugh about it. And to look incredibly stylish and/or crafty while doing it. So enjoy. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be over at FlyLady engaging in a speed vacuuming competition while pondering the wisdom of chasing a pb n j breakfast with a grilled cheese lunch. Or maybe watching the Bachelor on Hulu while nursing. So sue me.
Today is shaping up to have all the markings of a 'hard' day. I am sick. My baby is sick. It snowed (and is still snowing) and is barely into single digits outside. I have yet to shower (and to be completely honest, I don't know that I will get around to it today.) And it has been no fewer than 8 days since I last worked out. That's more than a week, and no, I'm not pregnant again. On top of it all, I ate half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, and I don't 'do' carbs. Except that now I do. Because you know what? They're cheap... and it's almost impossible to pack a south-beach friendly lunch for a husband who thrives on culinary variety. Oh, sorry honey, it's a breadless tuna sandwich on romaine lettuce with tomato slices and a hunk of cheese ... again. Yeah, that didn't last too long. And so we have bread in our home once again. And darn it, I eat it. Can't help myself.
So as I type, straining unconsciously to hear a wheezy, sneezy baby from the next room and hoping (praying!) he stays asleep for 10 more minutes, I want to share a few fabulous finds from around the internets... proof that other women are doing this job and doing it well... and living to laugh about it. And to look incredibly stylish and/or crafty while doing it. So enjoy. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be over at FlyLady engaging in a speed vacuuming competition while pondering the wisdom of chasing a pb n j breakfast with a grilled cheese lunch. Or maybe watching the Bachelor on Hulu while nursing. So sue me.
- Fashion forward fabulousness
- DIY deliciousness
- Sweet thoughts on living simply
- Nursing support (disclaimer: not for the faint of heart, nor for the males of the species)
Sunday, January 16, 2011
It Doesn't Get Better Than This
Pinch me. I'm going to Rome. Rome! As in, the Eternal City... Audry Hepburn's holiday locale of choice... the Pope's hood... The cultural and spiritual center of the Church. And I'm going with the two men who are most dear to me on earth to witness the beatification of one of the men who is most dear to me in all of Heaven - John Paul the Great.
Stop it.
Seriously God, stop it. But don't really. It's just that, well, over the past year or so of life, He's granted each and every desire of my heart, from the seemingly piddling (a tropical honeymoon) to the profound (marriage to the man of my dreams followed swiftly by the birth of our firstborn son)... and I'm starting to get kinda nervous. Because, you know, things are so good right now that it's almost, well, too good.
As I was glancing nervously over my shoulder this afternoon, wondering whether my own mortality was creeping up behind me ready to pounce, my wiser (and far holier) husband pointed out an alternate - and far less morbid - possibility.
"Jenny, you know, we're living His plan now. This is what happens when you surrender control."
Huh.
I kinda prefer that to thinking I must be approaching imminent death and therefore God, like some kind of benevolent administrator at the Make a Wish foundation, is lining up all my chips so that I can, you know, cash out happy.
But if my husband is right and if this life, this glorious, complicated, unpredictable and highly enjoyable life is really what His plans for us look like... then damn, I wish I'd vacated the driver's seat years ago. But, c'est la vie. Or should I say ... questa รจ la vita.
Stop it.
Seriously God, stop it. But don't really. It's just that, well, over the past year or so of life, He's granted each and every desire of my heart, from the seemingly piddling (a tropical honeymoon) to the profound (marriage to the man of my dreams followed swiftly by the birth of our firstborn son)... and I'm starting to get kinda nervous. Because, you know, things are so good right now that it's almost, well, too good.
As I was glancing nervously over my shoulder this afternoon, wondering whether my own mortality was creeping up behind me ready to pounce, my wiser (and far holier) husband pointed out an alternate - and far less morbid - possibility.
"Jenny, you know, we're living His plan now. This is what happens when you surrender control."
Huh.
I kinda prefer that to thinking I must be approaching imminent death and therefore God, like some kind of benevolent administrator at the Make a Wish foundation, is lining up all my chips so that I can, you know, cash out happy.
But if my husband is right and if this life, this glorious, complicated, unpredictable and highly enjoyable life is really what His plans for us look like... then damn, I wish I'd vacated the driver's seat years ago. But, c'est la vie. Or should I say ... questa รจ la vita.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Liberated for Slavery: The Life of a Cosmo Girl
I have a confession: I used to read Cosmopolitan magazine. Really, I did. And while it made me feel kind of dirty and offended my sensibilities as a woman, a Christian, and a human being... there was something, I don't know, almost addictive about reading all about the lifestyle contained within its tawdry pages. It was, for me at least, a precursor to reality television; something you know in your gut is just terrible for you, but something so fascinatingly awful you can't look away. Kind of like "The Hills." But I digress...
The thing is, when I look back on that dark time in my life - the college years - and I remember the girl who used to eagerly devour her roommate's monthly subscription, there's a stark, obvious juxtaposition of my own personal misery to the gospel of liberation Cosmo preached. As I look back over my life, it was during the lowest times that I saw only one set of footprints... okay, kidding. But seriously, during what were for me the least satisfying times of my life, the times where I was living exactly as I pleased, answerable to me, myself and I alone...and hating every minute of it, these were the times during which I found Cosmo relevant.
These were the times, quite honestly, when I found Cosmo palatable at all. They say misery loves company, and with 13 million copies of "the bible" ala Sex in the City being cranked out each month... it would seem to be true. But do I go too far by imposing my own subjective experience onto other women who may legitimately enjoy the read?
Well, have you read Cosmo lately? Even glanced at a cover? I would venture to say that no healthy, self-respecting woman in her right mind, no feminist for that matter (in the best use of the term) would be caught dead with a copy of Cosmo on the reading stand of her StairMaster. Period.
In a recent column for First Things entitled "The Cosmopolitan Life," David Mills pithily dissects the strange need for "liberated" women to subject themselves to the peculiar rhetoric of slavery to male approval which is familiar to each issue of Cosmo and every other magazine of it's ilk. Glamour. Marie Claire. Redbook. They're all preaching the same, tired lines promising mind blowing sex, steamy workplace hookup hints and beauty tips for shrinking one's backside in order to better attract a man whose head is stuck up his. Or so it would seem.
For all its big, blustery talk about being the guidebook of the modern, sexually-liberated woman of the 21st century, it would seem that Cosmo is, in reality, little more than a bit of poorly-crafted propaganda, a misogynistic rag intended for instructing women on the niceties of pleasing and keeping a man.
"But, but..." the editorial staff might sputter, "these women are freely choosing to engage in wild, spontaneous and uncommitted sex. That's progress."
Is it really?
It seems awfully backwards to me to have to fill each monthly issue with remedial instruction on the carefully-crafted art of emotional detachment and hookups. For above all else, Cosmo preaches relations without relationship. Sex without security. Booty calls without boundaries. In other words, unpaid prostitution.
Think about it...at least a hundred years ago or so, women who engaged in casual, meaningless recreational sex were reimbursed for their troubles. And actually in the state of Nevada, I believe some still are... But the point is this; if this is freedom, then perhaps we should ask to be put back in chains, because I've yet to see a truly liberated woman gazing back at me from the cover of Cosmo... or from behind its pages.
Call it freedom, call it progress, call it feminism if you will... but kindly do so with your tongue placed firmly in your cheek.
The thing is, when I look back on that dark time in my life - the college years - and I remember the girl who used to eagerly devour her roommate's monthly subscription, there's a stark, obvious juxtaposition of my own personal misery to the gospel of liberation Cosmo preached. As I look back over my life, it was during the lowest times that I saw only one set of footprints... okay, kidding. But seriously, during what were for me the least satisfying times of my life, the times where I was living exactly as I pleased, answerable to me, myself and I alone...and hating every minute of it, these were the times during which I found Cosmo relevant.
These were the times, quite honestly, when I found Cosmo palatable at all. They say misery loves company, and with 13 million copies of "the bible" ala Sex in the City being cranked out each month... it would seem to be true. But do I go too far by imposing my own subjective experience onto other women who may legitimately enjoy the read?
Well, have you read Cosmo lately? Even glanced at a cover? I would venture to say that no healthy, self-respecting woman in her right mind, no feminist for that matter (in the best use of the term) would be caught dead with a copy of Cosmo on the reading stand of her StairMaster. Period.
In a recent column for First Things entitled "The Cosmopolitan Life," David Mills pithily dissects the strange need for "liberated" women to subject themselves to the peculiar rhetoric of slavery to male approval which is familiar to each issue of Cosmo and every other magazine of it's ilk. Glamour. Marie Claire. Redbook. They're all preaching the same, tired lines promising mind blowing sex, steamy workplace hookup hints and beauty tips for shrinking one's backside in order to better attract a man whose head is stuck up his. Or so it would seem.
For all its big, blustery talk about being the guidebook of the modern, sexually-liberated woman of the 21st century, it would seem that Cosmo is, in reality, little more than a bit of poorly-crafted propaganda, a misogynistic rag intended for instructing women on the niceties of pleasing and keeping a man.
"But, but..." the editorial staff might sputter, "these women are freely choosing to engage in wild, spontaneous and uncommitted sex. That's progress."
Is it really?
It seems awfully backwards to me to have to fill each monthly issue with remedial instruction on the carefully-crafted art of emotional detachment and hookups. For above all else, Cosmo preaches relations without relationship. Sex without security. Booty calls without boundaries. In other words, unpaid prostitution.
Think about it...at least a hundred years ago or so, women who engaged in casual, meaningless recreational sex were reimbursed for their troubles. And actually in the state of Nevada, I believe some still are... But the point is this; if this is freedom, then perhaps we should ask to be put back in chains, because I've yet to see a truly liberated woman gazing back at me from the cover of Cosmo... or from behind its pages.
Call it freedom, call it progress, call it feminism if you will... but kindly do so with your tongue placed firmly in your cheek.
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