More than six months have passed since my last blog entry. During these months, I certainly thought about writing a post, but I intentionally put it off because I was in the middle of a heated inner dialogue: to continue blogging for Hope-Full or creating a new and anonymous blog.
The summer and fall have passed and this morning Puxatony Phil came out of his cave - or wherever he lives - and said that spring was only six weeks away, so I decided to make a decision. I will begin to write Hope-Full again. I will probably start a new blog as well and keep it private. The issue is not that I want to write about deep seated secrets and neurosis (I already have) but that inevitably I will take into perspective the audience: friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, and total strangers, letting the knowledge of this visibility influence what I write or how deeply I write.
After all this build up, what do I want to write about? What do I have to say? Should I just provide a quick re-cap of where I am not? Nah, this is not a Dear Diary thing. I will offer that I was not in fact pregnant when I wrote the Juno post. However, the following month, I was pregnant.
In typical fashion, my husband and I had decided to wait another six months or so before trying and bada-bing-bada-boom (why am I using terms like bada-boom?, I was pregnant - and, oh, what a whirl-wind it has been. From learning that there might be complications, to that it might be twins, to learning, it was a boy! Another boy!~?.
I was pretty dang sure I was having a girl. I even went out and bought a few little girl outfits at a yard sale in anticipation. Deep down, I knew it was a boy. Also, because the issues in the first trimester, I had several early ultrasounds and one of the technicians, said that, although she could not say for sure, she thought it was a boy. Even so, I still kept hope.
When the sex was confirmed at 18 or 20 weeks, I was prepared. Admittedly, I was disappointed because I know that there is a 99.9% chance that this will be my last child and the way some young women fantasized about getting married (I never did), I fantasized about having a daughter and teaching her to be a strong young woman with self-esteem and a sense of humor. Don't get my wrong, my boys are going to be taught to be proper feminists as well. My husband accepts it and gets it, as much as he can. He wants to balance the gender neutral stuff with totally stereotypically stuff. Balance. This is the key to life. Our boys will engage in boxing for sport and self-defense and read bell hooks and Gloria Steinem for fun!
Middle-aged men, clad in colorful jumpers and Australian accents are jumping, dancing, and singing through my television set, transfixing my son at 6:00am. Who are these uniformed men and why do they have so much energy and why do they have so much power over my "almost two" years old boy? The Wiggles, of course.
Awaking from a full night's (if we are lucky) sleep, the boy will sometimes call for "Mama" or "Dada", but more likely, he will shout for "Banana", "Blue-berry", or his favorite"Wiggly Waffle." Wiggly Waffles are a perfect blend of his love for food and television.
My son is addicted to TV. Well, I embellish. He is not "addicted" but has a very real devotion to certain programs and characters, like Elmo and The Wiggles. Before having a baby, I thought that I would be one of "those" moms. You know the type. They breastfeed for at least 12 months, make their own organic baby food, and do not introduce TV watching to their kids until the American Pediatric Association's recommended second year of life - and then only with a strict two hour a day limit and content, of course.
My upstairs neighbor, a perfectly lovely woman, with two beautiful children, and does not work outside the home. Her youngest shares the same birth - day & year as my son. In fact my son is two hours older than her son. One afternoon, in an effort to be validated (my husband's least favorite word) by the fact that my less than one year old - at the time - liked watching certain children programs, a lot - I asked if her son does as well. Politely, and with genuine humility - she said something like ... "We try keep him away from the television. When my daughter watches TV, I take him in the other room". I was aghast.
A weakness of mine throughout my lifetime has been comparing myself to others. Friendly, non-athletic competition, has always motivated and inspired me. Spending more time preparing for an exam or completing a report for work early are types of silly things that have made me feel superior in someway. Sometimes such comparison, depresses me rather than comforts me, as it should. Inevitably thoughts like, How do they own a house in this fancy-dancey community? Or, How does she look like *that* after just having a baby? And, bingo, I start to feel badly about myself. Not healthy. Not productive. Yet, irresistible.
It is easy to compare oneself to the standard that which you think is paramount. As easy as it to try to keep up with neightbor or the uber-by-the-book parents, I try to focus on what is important. I love my son more than the day is long and would do anything for his unwaivering happiness and well-being - and, sometimes, that involves indulging a ounce or two of The Wiggly Waffle on a Saturday morning while the rest of the house sleeps.
