I lied. I lied when I said I loved everything about being a mama. I lied when I said I loved it all; the snout to the tail of it. I didn't realize I was lying at the time; then we went on our family vacation to a place we've been three times in the past two years, and I was smacked in the face with the realization that I'd lied.
There is in fact one thing I don't love; one thing which breeds such deep, miserable, all consuming misanthropy in me, that I want to shoot my eye out.
The mother-fucking House of Mouse.
We've been as a family four times now. Each time I try to convince myself it won't be as miserable, and that I won't be as miserable as the last time; but that's simply, cruelly untrue.
I try, for the love of all that is good and holy, I try; I try to focus on how happy it makes the kids, I try to remind myself there is booze at California Adventure, I try to remind myself that if I made it through childbirth sans epidural, I should be able to make it through the god forsaken place to which others refer as the happiest place on earth.
Then I walk through the gates, where I'm inundated with the ubiquitous visual of adults sporting fanny packs, with Disney character hats (unironically), while double fisting a churro and an oversized turkey leg. Oh, the fucking humanity.
It's not just the visuals of the park goers; it's their actions: the line cutting (seriously, adults, cutting in front of kids, at the itty-bitty kiddie rides, at D-I-S-N-E-Y-L-A-N-D); the bratty behavior of over-indulged, unattended children; the bratty behavior of over-indulged, unattended adults; the barfing on rides, the barfing off of rides; the crowds, and the crowding; the repeated refrain of "have a magical day."
One of my littles and I (on two separate occasions) have both been rear-ended by people on Larks. I, by a young woman who was on hers for no reason, as evidenced by her promptly hopping off post rear-ending (with nary an "oopsie"), and running with excited glee to her next ride. My little (who was 15 months at the time, and just perfecting her land legs) by a gentleman whose sole reason for needing the Lark was the aforementioned double fisting of the churros and oversized turkeylegs. Yes, I just said something horrible, and meanspirited, for which I most surely deserve to be smited (smoten?) but for realz; PUT DOWN THE FRIED FOODS, AND LEARN TO STEER THOSE THINGS!!!
I've tried to be introspective and honest about my feelings about the place; I am able to acknowledge some uncomfortable truisms about myself, about all of which I'm ashamed, so very ashamed; most having to do with snobbery, sizeism, and an aversion to synthetic blends. But I think more than anything, it has to do with that forced, ersatz, frenetic happiness to which one is forced to bear witness while there. Adults running like mad, dragging their unhappy looking littles from one ride to the next; people waiting on line for hours, for rides that last four minutes; people spending a small (in some cases a large) fortune, not only on the abovementioned churros and oversized turkey legs, but the swag, the endless swag. That, plus It's A Small World freaks me out to no end (seriously, have you been there recently? F-R-E-A-K-Y!!!)
I don't get Disneyland, and I never will; but at least I thought I could abide it for the kidlets. It turns out I can't. It turns out I want to pull a Jack Handy and tell them it has burned down. It turns out I am too small of a person to be able to swallow my misery to aford them their joy. I feel really badly about this, truly I do, but not so badly to stop secretly plotting to convince them that The Lebowski Fest in New Orleans would be a super-duper fun family vacation next year.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
You know that one epiphany...
So, a friend roped me into being one of her models for a charity fundraiser (and when I say "roped me in," you know I mean got her arm twisted, by me, until she agreed to let me participate in all of the fabulousness with all of my fabulosity.) Anywho, she required a bio for participation: "just a few sentences about who you are." I get asked for these at least a couple of times a year; by clients, for work or charity functions; and I am always struck by the same thing: what do I put first? What is the one defining characteristic which should take precedence in this three sentence bio, above all others?
Logic and precedence dictate the j-o-b should come first. I'm a career woman. For realz; no for realz! I have business cards and an iPhone which has been surgically attached to my hand and everything. But when I think of who I am, I think of myself first and foremost as a mama.
I'd hazard a guess that because I am an uber-feminist career woman whose ability to hold her own with the big boys has never been called into question, it is easier for me to self identify as a mom first, in that it doesn't diminish or call into question my work ethic or abilities. Well that, and my kids are better than everyone elses. No seriously, they are.
But it's hard for some moms who work outside of the home to acknolwedge the prioritization of kids and mommy-dom, let alone to actually prioritize same. Such an acknowledgement, or acts of prioritization can be detrimental to one's career. For the vast majority of women, this is not a choice issue, as economic realities supercede personal preference. I get driven absolutely nut-balls by the ersatz Mommy Wars. I've never read an article on the issue which does an adequate job of clarifying that the "choice" to stay home or go back to work, is not a true choice for about 98% of women. Nor do the articles seem to adequately illustrate how it is equally important for some working moms to show their daughters the importance and value of work, and of options, and self direction, and of fighting for same, as it is to bring home a paycheck. But mostly, I hate the Mommy Wars because the premise of pitting moms against one another to judge and be judged, strikes me as nothing more than modern day Jello-wrestling. Granted, I'm in the unique and lovely position of having the best of both worlds. I have a career which I love, but one which grants me the flexibility to spend more time and energy on the mama-tip, than many others have the luxury of enjoying. So I get to bitch about the Mommy Wars, without actually having to participate in same.
But it's more than that that leads me to think of myself as a mom first. I'm a mom. A mom with a capitol M. Well, if I'm being completely honest, a capitol M and a capitol O and another capitol M. I love being a mama; I love every single part of it, the nose to the snout of it, and then some. I remember during maternity leave with my first, being at the park in the sand box, shoes off, covered sand, and dirt, and I'd imagine some twigs, seeing a mom who clearly wasn't having any of it, looking at me like I was cray-cray, and thinking to myself, "but this is the best bit!" All of the kid stuff you get to do when you have kids, is THE MOST FUN E-V-E-R!!! All of the conversations about what rainbows taste like, and whether they can simultaneously be (1) a lego engineer; and, (2) a plastic surgeon; and, (3) a comic book illustrator when they grow up, and how HILARIOUS it is that Uranus has two meanings, are all THE MOST FUN E-V-E-R!!!
You know that one epiphany; the one we've all had, the one where we come face to face with the fact that we haven't a fucking clue about how to be a grown-up? You know the one. The one where you are going along, doing what the adult folk do, and you are doing it convincingly, as there is a mortgage, and there is a job, and there are kids, and you eat your vegatables by choice, and you dictate to others the eating of their vegetables; but you know, in your heart of hearts you just know, that you are completely faking it? This epiphany of course leads to the even more fascinating epiphany, that other folks; including those adults who preceeded you, and even those who raised you, most likely are/were in the same boat. Which leads to the best ephiphany of all; that if everyone is in the same boat, and no one really knows what they're doing, your way of making it up as you go along can't be worse than anyone else's, right? Except, you have had all of these kids, to go with all of these ephipanies, and you conclude that regardless of certainty or clarity or whatever -ity goes hand in hand with feeling like you know what you are doing; someone has to pilot the ship. Which brings you finally, to the conclusion; that breakfast for supper, and underwear as a hat are perfectly acceptable choices, if that's what works on your family ship.
I love being a mom, in part because I love the concept that I am here as a touchstone, rather than as an edict giver. I love that all three of my kidlets are uniquely their own beings, and will have lives of their own making, completely seperate and distinct from my own. I love watching them morph into the mini-versions of the adults they ultimately will become. I love knowing that someday they too will have the "I have no idea what I am doing...huh...no one else appears to either...awesome...Uranus!!!" epiphany. And I love that I know, above all else, the best thing I'm doing as a mama, is letting them know that all of it is ok.
Logic and precedence dictate the j-o-b should come first. I'm a career woman. For realz; no for realz! I have business cards and an iPhone which has been surgically attached to my hand and everything. But when I think of who I am, I think of myself first and foremost as a mama.
I'd hazard a guess that because I am an uber-feminist career woman whose ability to hold her own with the big boys has never been called into question, it is easier for me to self identify as a mom first, in that it doesn't diminish or call into question my work ethic or abilities. Well that, and my kids are better than everyone elses. No seriously, they are.
But it's hard for some moms who work outside of the home to acknolwedge the prioritization of kids and mommy-dom, let alone to actually prioritize same. Such an acknowledgement, or acts of prioritization can be detrimental to one's career. For the vast majority of women, this is not a choice issue, as economic realities supercede personal preference. I get driven absolutely nut-balls by the ersatz Mommy Wars. I've never read an article on the issue which does an adequate job of clarifying that the "choice" to stay home or go back to work, is not a true choice for about 98% of women. Nor do the articles seem to adequately illustrate how it is equally important for some working moms to show their daughters the importance and value of work, and of options, and self direction, and of fighting for same, as it is to bring home a paycheck. But mostly, I hate the Mommy Wars because the premise of pitting moms against one another to judge and be judged, strikes me as nothing more than modern day Jello-wrestling. Granted, I'm in the unique and lovely position of having the best of both worlds. I have a career which I love, but one which grants me the flexibility to spend more time and energy on the mama-tip, than many others have the luxury of enjoying. So I get to bitch about the Mommy Wars, without actually having to participate in same.
But it's more than that that leads me to think of myself as a mom first. I'm a mom. A mom with a capitol M. Well, if I'm being completely honest, a capitol M and a capitol O and another capitol M. I love being a mama; I love every single part of it, the nose to the snout of it, and then some. I remember during maternity leave with my first, being at the park in the sand box, shoes off, covered sand, and dirt, and I'd imagine some twigs, seeing a mom who clearly wasn't having any of it, looking at me like I was cray-cray, and thinking to myself, "but this is the best bit!" All of the kid stuff you get to do when you have kids, is THE MOST FUN E-V-E-R!!! All of the conversations about what rainbows taste like, and whether they can simultaneously be (1) a lego engineer; and, (2) a plastic surgeon; and, (3) a comic book illustrator when they grow up, and how HILARIOUS it is that Uranus has two meanings, are all THE MOST FUN E-V-E-R!!!
You know that one epiphany; the one we've all had, the one where we come face to face with the fact that we haven't a fucking clue about how to be a grown-up? You know the one. The one where you are going along, doing what the adult folk do, and you are doing it convincingly, as there is a mortgage, and there is a job, and there are kids, and you eat your vegatables by choice, and you dictate to others the eating of their vegetables; but you know, in your heart of hearts you just know, that you are completely faking it? This epiphany of course leads to the even more fascinating epiphany, that other folks; including those adults who preceeded you, and even those who raised you, most likely are/were in the same boat. Which leads to the best ephiphany of all; that if everyone is in the same boat, and no one really knows what they're doing, your way of making it up as you go along can't be worse than anyone else's, right? Except, you have had all of these kids, to go with all of these ephipanies, and you conclude that regardless of certainty or clarity or whatever -ity goes hand in hand with feeling like you know what you are doing; someone has to pilot the ship. Which brings you finally, to the conclusion; that breakfast for supper, and underwear as a hat are perfectly acceptable choices, if that's what works on your family ship.
I love being a mom, in part because I love the concept that I am here as a touchstone, rather than as an edict giver. I love that all three of my kidlets are uniquely their own beings, and will have lives of their own making, completely seperate and distinct from my own. I love watching them morph into the mini-versions of the adults they ultimately will become. I love knowing that someday they too will have the "I have no idea what I am doing...huh...no one else appears to either...awesome...Uranus!!!" epiphany. And I love that I know, above all else, the best thing I'm doing as a mama, is letting them know that all of it is ok.
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