Straight from the Bottle : Motherhood

Moments When Everything Seems Worth "It"

GirlsGoneChild — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 04:16:00 GMT

I guess "it" would be relative. We all have different lives and situations and crap we're dealing with, so you can fill in the appropriate words (stress, chaos, depression, fear, instability, confusion, did I say stress?) for "it"...

As I've written ~~ten-squillion times~~ before, parenting is tough, marriage even tougher (or any committed relationship, especially when a child's in the mix) but there are times, moments, when "it" kind of melts away... These moments are seldom caught with a camera because... like SNAP! they're gone.

I used to call these moments "rainbow moments" when I was little, because they were so "colorful and quick to fade." One minute: an upside-down smile across the sky and before I knew it... "Wait, what was I looking at again?"

I experience such moments of ephemeral emotional bounty every now and then. I can only describe the feeling as one of great spiritual? high followed by the absolute fear that such a feeling might soon be forgotten. (Perfect moments often are.)

It took me until writing this post to remember the night, years ago, when an ex-boyfriend and I drove home from Las Vegas the night of a meteor shower. The top of his convertible was down and we shivered in our coats, the heater full-blast in our faces. (I had insisted we watch for shooting stars all the way home.) Or an afternoon, eight years ago, when I got lost in Paris only to find myself in the garden of some obscure palace, a wrong turn and POW: Paradise. I have a picture in my travel-journal to remind me: a badly-drawn sketch of a bench overtaken with vines. More recently, there was the moment Archer said "I love you Mommy" for the first time, at which point I fell to the floor like Amelie, a puddle of water in the middle of the room.

The other day I was lucky enough to catch one such moment on my camera. A moment so perfect I was knocked almost out of breath. The photo is mediocre at best and most likely doesn't translate but I felt that same rush of "ohmygod! life is fucking awesome!" when taking this photo (a "rainbow moment" indeed):

It was such a joy to watch my boys hand in hand watching The Hollow Trees rock out, Archer in awe of the lights and how he didn't let go of his dad's hand all afternoon.

I would love to hear the stories of your moments (or see them if they were captured on film), that is if you're willing to share. It's amazing how easy it is to forget how beautiful life really is.

Rainbows fade, even when we swear to ourselves we will remember them. And before we know it, we're once again trying to navigate the "its" of life, forgetting all too soon the shooting stars and hidden chateaus, the lights that flash red in the shadows, transient moments spotlighting permanent love.

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The Art of Loneliness

GirlsGoneChild — Sat, 18 Aug 2007 04:22:00 GMT

I was warned of the loneliness that came with being a mother. The shot social life and fighting the crowds of faceless faces, the voices that sound the same, the park-life rich with cliches and clowns. I was told it would take some getting used to, waking up every morning, going through the motions. I was told to make friends, to get out there, to be around other mothers who might be in the same boat-- paddling the same seas. Like the first day of school with babies on our backs instead of Jansports.

Except all of that made me feel more lonely. Making an effort is exhausting. Friendships are supposed to be organic. Bonding must occur over mutual interests, over books and music and favorite films.

My favorite movie of all time is Hannah and her Sisters, what's yours?

Being a mother can at times be very lonely just like being a writer has always been. Alone all day and then at night, alone again, talking mainly to someone who doesn't understand and then at night, talking to no one, whispering words against computer screens and characters that look back with my same eyes. But there is a fine art to being lonely, there are windows to open into the night. There are stars, the same stars that everyone with a window in her office can see.

Yesterday I took myself on a date. I took myself to see a beautiful little film about beautiful people. Lonely people who make the other feel a little less so. And I cried in the corner and no one saw. I waited for the credits to run and all of the people to file out of the theater before holding my own hand and walking myself outside into the afternoon. I took myself to the bookstore afterwards and paced the aisles with a head full of thoughts, wanting to talk to somebody. Anybody.

"Do you sell Moleskine notebooks?" I finally asked.

The man behind the counter showed me the way.

So I bought one and I wrote everything I wanted to talk about down on paper. I wrote for two hours, until it was time to go home and I felt instantly better. Less alone. Perfectly content to say nothing to anyone for an entire afternoon. And then I wondered what I would do if I didn't write. How would I handle this? How would I embrace the feelings of being so often alone?

When I'm alone, I like to pretend I am on my own. That I am single and childless and like most women my age. I pretend to the mirror as I dab my face with toilet paper. I pretend to the spines of books as I browse through the book store. I pretend until my hours are up. Until it's time to come home, cook dinner, get Archer ready for bed and when he's fast asleep, open the office window to the stars.

There is an art to loneliness, of sheltering oneself from and at the same time craving the sounds of strange voices, potential friendships or lovers or the simplest interaction. There are a million mothers out there reaching out to something that understands, trying to find the words to tell ourselves everything is going to be okay, treating ourselves to popcorn in the darkness so we might feel the presence of strangers surround us like a hug. So we can take a moment to mourn our past. A moment to reflect, to embrace the quiet and learn to understand ourselves. Or at the very least, try.

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Mothers Who Make Bead Necklaces and Sip Coffee at Sidewalk Cafes

GirlsGoneChild — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 00:48:00 GMT

Every day the same woman sets up shop at the coffee shop in my neighborhood with her son. She's beautiful and tall and carries with her a plastic case of beads and string and little clasps that look like hands. Glass and wood and crystal beads with little faces. She doesn't make eye contact with anyone but her boy and she sits outside by the window, with her coffee and materials, sometimes for hours, as her son peels at straws and kicks the window with his scuffed shoes.

She works through the morning with squinty eyes and rocks her son's stroller with her right foot. Back and forth and back and forth. She could just as easilly work from home, away from the condescending eyes of Hancock Park patrons but she likes it there, at the coffee shop with her table in the shade out on the sidewalk.

The other day I was walking behind two women, both pushing strollers-- both mothers like me, mothers like the woman with the beads and the stroller she drags back and forth with her foot.

The women waited until they were safely up the street before shaking their heads and talking shit:

"It's like torture what she does to that child."

"I know it. Her poor son just sits there all day waiting for her to finish."

"It's so sad what some children have to go through."

"She doesn't even pay attention to him. She just sits there and makes crappy jewelry all day..."

"We are so lucky..."

I'm not saying I'm above judgment. I judge people every second, in shallow and terrible ways but when mothers judge each other's "mothering" I get angry. Because it's always the pot calling the kettle black and for whatever reason it's impossible to see the mirrors in the broken glass after the stones have all been thrown.

I wanted to turn around and say hello to the woman with her Caboodle full of beads but I didn't. I wanted to tell her that I identify with her-- rocking her son to sleep as she strings beads on fishing wire. Concentrated on the two things in her life that will never be less than inspired and inspiring: her child and her craft-- working and creating and mothering all at once. Because she has to. Because maybe she wants to stand on her own two feet without locking her knees. Because maybe she bought that coffee with the money she made selling a box full of bracelets. Because she stained the coffee lid with lipstick she forgot she even had on.

I saw my name on her cup. And the lipstick stain looked just like mine.

We need to give each other a break. Some of us have to work. Because we need the money. Or perhaps more importantly, because we need to feel like we are fulfilling ourselves. Because there are different ways to be a good parent. And the woman who strings beads on the sidewalk with her son by her side is no different from me or any other mother doing the very best she can to balance her worlds, her loves, and her selves.

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The Bittersweet Taste of Freedom

GirlsGoneChild — Fri, 16 Mar 2007 03:28:00 GMT

Before this week, the longest I had ever been away from Archer was two days. So I had no idea what to expect when I went away for five full days. I knew I would miss him but had no idea how much and in what way. Would I have fun? Would I be sad? Would our separation be too much to bear? Was five days too long?

I was shocked at how easy it was to say goodbye. To walk away from my son who smiled at me from the backseat of my mom's car. To wave from the curb and get on an airplane and fly away. It wasn't sad. Or hard. Not even a little bit.

I love my son with all of my heart. It's just that up until now I thought he was my world.

"Archer is my life," I so commonly hear myself say, but it isn't true. He isn't my "life". He is my son and there's a difference. I guess I didn't realize what it was until I went away for long enough to feel my wings like feathered stubs behind my shoulder blades. To clear my mind and live completely in the moment. Which is okay. It is. It has to be.

I guess I didn't realize how much I love to be alone, almost as much as I love to be with my son. Except for the past week I have been ashamed to admit this to myself... Or to any of my friends or some of the parents I met on the trip who were pining to be with their children.

"Do you miss Archer?"

"Yeah. but..."

But. But I'm having fun. But I want to be alone right now. And go out. And do crazy things. And be selfish and separate from everyone else. But. But. But.

I always thought a mother was supposed to make her child her life. Her whole world. Drop anything and everything to make her kids happy. But I don't know if I think so now. I don't know if I can live without weekend escapes. Without alone time. Without being on my own now and then. Because I think I would go insane otherwise. I think I would go stark raving mad without weeks like this.

Of course it helps that I left Archer with the two people I trust most of all, my parents. So not even for a second did I worry about his well-being... In fact, the opposite. When I came home from my trip Archer was beyond angelic. Well-behaved. Able to hold a spoon. An older, wiser boy.

So I felt guilty again... Because maybe he was better off without me...

I wouldn't trade parenthood in for anything. I will never love anyone the way I love my son. And I loved the way he smiled at me when he came with my mom to pick me up from the airport.

I love being a mother. But I also love being on my own. I love that I can be independent. That I can pull away and live in the moment. Nothing to feel ashamed of. No reason to be guilty.

And yet... I do. I am. Guilty. Because it is frowned upon for a mother to enjoy her time out on the town. Because motherhood manufactures ideals and lines we aren't supposed to cross. Because our children are our everythings... Our lives.

Except the thing about it is, sometimes it feels good to be free.

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Yes. It's True. Moms Like to Dress Up, Too

GirlsGoneChild — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 22:13:00 GMT

I realize that motherhood and six-inch spike heels don't exactly mix, but I also don’t think that motherhood should mean retiring one's (usually impractical) shoe collection (Yes, I'm on a shoe kick right now.)

So when I fall in love with a pair of heels, even if I have nowhere to "wear" them, I buy them. Even if it means sacrificing comfort for something sexy. Okay, okay. I'm a mom. I know. I should be practical and rock sweatpants and baggy jeans. Or at least that's the assumption, right? I should be wearing flats and sneakers every day of my life. Because seriously, who wears heels out to a play date? Or to the playground? Or to Mommy and Me class?

I do.

Yup.

I know. Call me c-c-c-craaaaaazy. Because sometimes I like to get dolled up with nowhere to go. Seriously guys, I'm a work at home mother. Where am I going? Errands? Play dates? The occasional stroll around the city? Pulease. Bachelorette parties aside, there is no dress code for me these days. And that sucks. So I have made up my own. And sometimes, that means wearing the highest heels I can pull off. Or the tightest jeans. Or the shortest skirt. Yup. Sometimes I whore it up on the blvd. And I'M A MOTHER!

Ack!

According to parenting magazines, moms are clueless when it comes to fashion. (And so are stylists.) But should we be? Does looking good on the outside become less important when we have kids? And if so, why?

In elementary school I remember one of the boys in my class had a mom who dressed, um, not like a mom. She wore leather knee high boots and her DDD breasts were on display at all times. She was a former Playboy centerfold, which we all were well aware of. And when she came to our class to volunteer her services we all felt terribly uncomfortable. As a little girl I was frightened by her bazungas. And I assume, for the little boys, Mrs. Hugetitkneehighs was quite an introduction to the female form and Playboy Magazine (which the boys had all stolen from their fathers to sneak a peek at Ms. Hugetitekneehighs in action.)

But I digress...

The moral of the story is that I think kids want "moms" to look like "moms." I know I did.

But looking back, now, I see things differently. And I can't help but wonder if maybe Ms. Hugetitkneehighs was just being herself? Maybe she was more comfortable looking like a porn star than a suburban mom. And why should anyone fault her for that? Sure, we all talked shit about her for as long as we saw her around. At the gym. And at high school functions. (I went with her son to a school dance.)

The last time I was in San Diego visiting my family, I saw her at the local supermarket. Still rocking her patent leather mini skirts and blood red lipstick. Old enough to be a grandmother... Working it as always.

And good for her. For being herself. For being a refreshing ~~piece of ass~~ change of pace. A true individual. Someone who confidently did her own thing. More power to her.

Should we all strive to look like strippers? Maybe not. But at the end of the day, comfort has many definitions.

A couple weeks ago, I wrote about feeling more comfortable in my skin, so can't I show some? Does the fact that I push a stroller mean I have to retire my push-up bra?

It's lonely being a mother. Staying home alone with your child all day. And as someone who has worked from home most of her life and spent hours inside by herself, my all-dressed-up-with-nowhere-to-go days are my favorite: rocking heels and skirts. Showing some skin...

Because, yes, wearing high heels to the playground and looking good on a walk around the block makes me feel good about myself. Even if that defines me as the "nanny" or the "hipster" or the "twenty-five year old with a kid."

I'm learning not to care. To be myself. To wear what's comfortable. Just like Ms. Hugetitkneehighs.

OF COURSE flats are more comfortable. And OF COURSE sneakers are more practical. But you know what? I don't have to be practical all the time. My feet don't need to be comfortable. I'll trip if I must, running after my kid. Because honestly, sometimes I feel more comfortable in a high heel and tight jeans than whatever it is I'm supposed to be comfortable wearing.

You love your khakis? Wear them with pride.

You prefer your leather jumpsuit? Do it!

You want to wear high heels to your playgroup... By all means!

You prefer going barefoot? Awesome.

Because confidence is the real message we should be sending our children. No matter what we choose to wear out of the house.

***

Viva Las Life Change

GirlsGoneChild — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 04:05:00 GMT

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, unless nothing happens-- nothing of any real consequence, anyway.

One of my earliest Vegas memories involves a foreign stranger a broken boot heel, a pair of handcuffs and a missing key. Nothing like being escorted out of the casino restroom by a security guard and a locksmith to get the party started.

Ah, yes. Those were the days.

Okay so not really. Unless you consider being sawed out of a pair of cuffs half-naked as good times. In the days before marriage and motherhood, Vegas was a common escape for my friends and me, who when tired of our local strip (Sunset) fled to the only Strip that didn’t close at 2am. (The one that didn’t close ever.) Nights became mornings. Clubs shape-shifted into seedy after-hours joints where we emerged as footsore drunks walking home in our party dresses in the harsh daylight.

And then months later we would all pile in the car to do it again.

The last time I was in Vegas I was six-months pregnant, waddling down the very short aisle of the Little White Chapel in my sweat-stained Diane Van Furstenberg maternity blouse. In case you are not familiar with the high-class establishment that is The Little White Chapel, it has been the setting of such successful nuptials as Britney Spears and Jason Alexander, Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow, Bruce Willis and Demi Moore and Mickey Rooney who liked it so much that he got married there twice. Our favorite accessory to the Little White Chapel was the little white-haired lady in the Jesus broach who at 4’9 seemed like the ideal witness to our marriage. So we asked her.

After waiting in line for over an hour it was finally time for us to marry. We enjoyed a pleasant 3.2-minute service where we exchanged vows before Bob the minister and our new friend, Ms. Jesusbroach. Bob pressed play on his boom box, which blasted Ave Maria on cassette during the short, but sweet “kiss the bride” speech.

When our ceremony ended, Bob pressed pause on the cassette and left the room as I threw my bouquet at our elderly witness (and sole audience member). She missed the bouquet by a long shot, pointed to her broach and said quite matter-of-factly, “I’m taken. The good lord is my husband.”

Amen to that.

So yes, that was the last time I was here, in Las Vegas. Sober as a skunk. Or however the saying goes. And tonight, as I write this by the green light of the MGM Grand, surrounded by passed-out friends on the second night of a Bachelorette weekend extravaganza, I think of what has changed. The birth of my son. The beginning of a new life. And in the reflection of the mirrored glass there are times like now when I hardly recognize myself.

Last night we stayed out all night. But instead of following my friends out after hours I went home, crawled into bed and passed out before the sun could reveal the truth. But what exactly was the truth? That I was a faker? Was I hiding behind my hat? In my little black dress and red suede ankle boots, howling and hollering with my hands in the air?

I used to be able to party all night long, wake up at noon and then do it again. So what happened? Parenthood? Old age? Could I be twenty-five going on forty?

A friend of mine with kids said it best this morning over breakfast.

“I knew it was time to go home last night when I thought it was a good idea to show everyone pictures of my boys.”

And I understood

Being a mother gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Vegas, Baby, Vegas.” Because there is a small part of me who is indeed a fraud-- a part of me who, freaking nasty on the dance floor is also a wife and a mother and all of the things you aren’t supposed to be in Las Vegas, all the things you try to hide to keep from becoming obsolete.

Look at me. I’m dancing. Look at me. I’m not afraid to take another shot. Look at me; I’m not afraid to be sexy even though I’m a mom and a wife and someone else, now. Look at me, I’m not afraid to show some cleavage, even if it’s not what it used to be. Look at me. I'm not afraid of growing up...

... Or am I?

I make my way downstairs in my pajamas and leopard print coat. I take the last of my weekend cash and I hit the poker table, gambling my last twenty bucks on a hand one suit short of a Royal Flush. Ace of hearts. King of hearts. Queen of hearts. Jack of hearts. Ten of diamonds. Damn.

“Drink?” The casino cocktail waitress asks, as I pull away from the poker tables.

“No thanks. I’m off to bed.”

That’s the thing about gambling in Vegas or just in life in general. You only hit the jackpot when and where you least expect it. Like the last time I was here. Dead sober. Laughing down the aisle in The Little White Chapel with my sweaty pregnant pits. Like tomorrow when I get to go home to my husband and my little boy, who wears his sunglasses at night and contrary to the frat brothers howling away at the Craps table down the hall, can actually pull them off.

Sometimes it’s fun to be a phony for the night. But it’s even more fun to leave behind the craziness and the fakery and head home. To something absolutely and positively real:

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