Motherhood Smotherhood.

You all might find this totally shocking but, according to Google Analytics, one of the phrases that people enter into a search engine that eventually results in them visiting my blog is, "I hate motherhood." I have to admit that I find this to be both disturbing and awesome. It's disturbing because it forces me to realize that I really do hate motherhood. It's awesome because it means that I am not alone! Yeah!

I don't hate everything about being a mother. Take Jack. I like Jack. He's actually an incredibly cool kid. He's funny and entertaining and sweet and cuddly. He's engaging and intuitive and he laughs easily and heartily. And I like other stuff about being a mom... I like the cute stuff about it. Like making Halloween costumes and getting to peruse the toddler section at Target.

But there's just so much about it that sucks. Like never, ever, ever getting to sleep in. Ever. And holding down a second job just to be able to afford a babysitter. Or, in my case, watching each one of my friends start avoiding my calls because they know I'm calling for free babysitting. And there are these moments where I fully believe that the insides of me are going to come shooting out of my mouth in a firey blaze of rage. This feeling usually happens at about 8:45am when I'm running late to work (due to having a toddler stuck to my leg all morning), have no makeup on (due to melt down about a bug), have no food in belly (due to melt down about lost choo choos), and I'm strapping a kicking child into a car seat. RAHHHHHHHHHHH!

Motherhood and I just feel a little bit incompatible right now. I'm craving social interaction and staying out late and sleeping in until noon. I'm irritated that I can't stay over at a friend's house, have too much wine, or take a weekend road trip. I'm frustrated that I can't go running when I get home from work because that three hours of time is all we have together before his bedtime. I know it's not about Jack and I really, really make an effort to not take my own stuff out on him.

It's really weird to equally loathe and love something so much. He can, in the same moment, fill me with rage and pride, annoyance and adoration. These pictures are from this morning when he woke me up (an hour earlier than normal) and screamed and cried and whined for a good 45 minutes or so. By 7 am, I had decided that I was going to hate today. I pulled out my laptop and googled, "I hate motherhood" to see if there was anyone else out there who could share in my misery. Turns out there aren't a lot of people admitting to it. But, it was in this moment that Jack hugged me around my neck, kissed my cheek and (in the most adoring voice) said, "Mommy!"


In case you were wondering, Jack was wearing his Halloween costume here. I don't usually dress him as a sailor. And don't be jealous of my morning hair.

Kissing a lot of toads...

It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I can go through an entire week and never talk to a man. Excluding my father and the one or two gay teachers that I interact with for 10 seconds when I pick up my clients out of the classroom, I have absolutely no contact with men. Every day I wake up to my son and my parents, go to work to women and children, pick up Jack from his all-female staffed daycare, and drive back home to my parents.

The weekends might offer an opportunity to interact with a male as I usually spend the weekends playing poker or other games with my friends, some of which are men. However, all of them are married. Or related to me. So..., yeah.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not necesarily complaining. I absolutly love the women that I work with. My office is filled with fantastic, brilliant, beautiful women who I feel completely honored and lucky to work with. And, surprisingly, I really like living with my mom and dad. Usually I like my son, and my friends are all incredibly loyal, loving people who are like extended family to me. I live a charmed life and I am damn grateful for it.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I found myself flirting with a lesbian coworker and wishing we could go make out in the file room that I realized that I am missing masculinity in my life. (Or, that I might be gay, which would be the other obvious conclusion.) This need to interact with male energy was potent, so I did what every girl who needs to get her flirt on would do: CRAIGSLIST.

So, I'll preface this "bad date story" with the statement that I have actually had some really good dates in the past few weeks. It's been great to get out there and remember what men look like and remember what it feels like to to be a girl around a guy. I've even been able to play kissy face with one or two of them. So when I found an ad with the title, "Margaritas at the beach," on the same night that I had a babysitter lined up, I responded with gusto!

His name was Mike. He, too, was feeling social this particular Monday evening and wanted someone to join him at the bar. We decided to meet near his house at the beach, which was within walking distance to the bar. I knew within seconds of meeting him that this was going to be a bad date.

I wish I could pinpoint what clued me into the fact that this guy was a wackadoodle, but I really can't. Maybe it was the statement, "Amazing things happen to me every day," followed by a story filled with syncronicity and coincidence about how he happened to win a local radio station's "Stupidest Tattoo Contest" received a free trip to Vegas where he ended up on stage with Pink, or his off-handed (or, I should say attempted off-handed) comments about his "career" as an actor, or the way every statement that came out of his mouth was an attempt to elicit a reaction from the listener. As in, "Yeah, my family couldn't believe who I was in a shoot with the other day..."

The man loved to talk. THe man loved the sound of his own voice. And he loved to share "his philosophy" on things (which, by the way, were so ridiculous. Like his "philosophy" on sex which I will spare you from). And what's worse is the way he would (very poorly) feign interest in what I had to say. It's as if he was allergic to eye contact and the social skill called reciprocity. It felt as though his idea of the purpose of my talking at all was to find something in what I was saying in which he could interject his opinions on.

Mike never once asked me a question about me. He did, however, at one point say, "Man, I've been talking a whole lot and haven't really heard a lot from you. What's your opinion of what I just said?" He went out of his way to tell me about how sensitive and sweet he is, and how he has a hard time finding women who can handle how much attention he gives them. He shared about his "problem" of being the one his friends come to for advice ("...you understand, being a therapist and all. God, we have so much in common!") and how it "annoys" him how they are constantly calling him and sending him emails asking for help.

Which brings me to the Blackberry. Oh God. How socially ignorant does one have to be to actually pick up one's mobile device EVERY TIME it goes off- even if the person you're on a date with is in the middle of a story (even if YOU'RE in the middle of a story)- and return the text, email, phone call? Internet, this man's phone was blowing up and it did not matter what the context of the moment was... he had that stylus out and his eyes glued to that 2" x 2" screen. And when he was done emailing or texting (or looking at porn or whatever the fuck he might have been doing), he would turn to me and ask, "So, what was I saying?"

To say this man was a narcissist in one of the hugest understatements I have ever made. He was the classic "one-upper." It didn't matter what I was doing, he had already done it or was doing it now or had invented it. I thought about saying, "Dude, I have the worst menstrual cramps right now," just to see how he would have responded. Probably with, "Yeah, my appendix is bursting as we speak."

One of the best (weirdest?) stories of the night was when he randomly interupted me to show me a picture on his (goddamn) Blackberry. He thrust it into my face and said, "Who does this guy look like?"

"Uh, the anglo depiction of Jesus," I answered.

"The story behind this picture is totally amazing. I spend the weekend with a friend of mine. You might know her. She's an actress? On (insert lame sitcom here)? No? Okay, anyway, I was spending the weekend with her a few weeks ago and we went out for drinks. She was talking to this guy (points to anglo Jesus guy) and asked me to take a picture of him because she was so astounded by how much he looks like Jesus Christ (!). While she was doing that, her boyfriend, Dan, called but she missed his call. He was out of town but was flying home that night. She tried to call him back but he was already on the plane. So, a few hours later I'm crashed out on her couch and she's in her bed and she wakes me up and she's crying. She says, 'Dan's dead.' I was like, 'No, he's not.' She was like, 'Yes, he is. I just got the phone call. He was killed in a plane crash.' You know that plane crash that killed Travis Barker? Yeah, well Dan was his body guard. Anyways, don't you think it's just totally amazing that she missed his last phone call to her because she was talking to a guy who looked just like Jesus Christ?"

No. No, I don't. I don't think that's amazing at all. In fact, I think it's just plain weird that you think ANYTHING of it at all. And furthermore, what is amazing is that I AM STILL ON THIS DATE.

So, I tell him I need to go. He tries to convince me to come up to his place, that we "don't have to do anything at all although (eyes scanning my body) I am totally attracted to you." I decline, and he says, in his usual manner of pontification, "You know, I never meet women like you. Women who are intelligent and spiritual and attractive. I want a girl like you, a girl with some meat on her bones (!) and who wears converse and who isn't teh usual Hollywood bimbo. I mean, I get that we're not going to do anything tonight. I get that we're either going to be really good friends or we're going to end up fucking each other's brains out (!!). We're just so much alike, you and me. And I'm curious... what's your opinion of me?"

You'll understand when I tell you that I threw up a little in my mouth at this point.

I answered that, if he was asking if I wanted to see him again the answer was no, and given that we are no more than strangers my opinion of him doesn't matter. The entire way back to my car, he was begging me for my thoughts on him, explaining that "I really respect your opinion," and that he knows that I've been "psychoanalyzing him all night" but (dramatic pause) "...I've been psychoanalyzing you, too."

Brilliant. Just what I need: his analysis of me. I thanked him for the drinks, got in my car and sped away.

The next morning, I got a text in true Mike form:

"Thanx for last night, figured out what my problem was..."

along with two emails that said the same thing.

Blurg.

It could be worse. He could love Barney.

My life has been taken over by Thomas the Tank Engine. Jack has found the love of his life and it is a blue steam engine. Jack eats, breathes and sleeps Thomas the Tank Engine, and due to our close proximity, I now do, too. The first thing out of Jack's mouth every morning is "Choo-Choo, Mommy," and it is apparently now a requirement that I kiss Thomas, Percy and Stanley along with my son at bedtime. He has a meltdown every day when I drop him off at daycare not because I am leaving, but because he had to leave his choo-choos in the car.

So, today while suffering under almost intolerably boring and painfully nerdy videos of model trains (to which Jack was glued), I was relieved to find the following video as it was the only one that Jack and I both enjoyed.

NSF

I think the thing I'm most looking forward to when I'm rich and famous is never seeing the words, "New Overdraft/Non-Sufficient Funds Notice" in my email inbox again.




Sigh.

Something's gotta give...

...Unfortunately, it appears to be my blogs. And my housework. Oh, and my exercise. Smoking, I still have time for.

As most of you are aware, I just went back to work as a therapist after taking two years off to be with my son. And by taking two years off I mean worked as a nanny for three kids plus my son. This was grueling work in the most rote of ways: endless diapers and games of hide-and-seek, constant searching for sippies and blankies and teddy bears, holding two and sometimes three babies in my arms, sending kids to time outs and rushing them to toilets... It was nonstop, all day long. But it worked for Jack and me. It allowed us to be together and gave him some kids to play with and learn from. And it allowed me to take every Wednesday off to be alone, to recoup on the beach or on my couch with a book, Jack safely at Grandma's or Aunt Lisa's or Aunt Mirna's.

By February, however, I began to hate all things toddler and the family (either sensing this in me or by a random stroke of good timing) decided to place their kiddos into preschool. I was out of a job. It was time for me to re-enter the work force, to place all of my fingerpaint-stained and macaroni-and-cheese tinted clothing in the dumpster, put on some heels and head into the adult world.

Somehow, and like it always does, everything came together. I found a job and a daycare that I felt good about and have somehow transitioned from Stay-At-Home-Mom to Working Mom. Jack and I have somewhat created a new routine to our lives: wake up at 6:00am, snuggle in the bed for a half hour, try to get showered, dressed, and coifed while Jack is begging to be held all morning, eat breakfast, pack a lunch, drive through Starbucks for my caffeine fix, and arrive at day care by 8:30. I usually stay for about ten minutes and get him acclimated to his day at Chrissy's, a mom who just recently decided to create a daycare in her home so that she could be with her two kids.

I spend the day in one-hour therapy sessions with children and families whose lives are incredibly challenging and complex. It's good work and I love it and I feel honored to be a part of their lives in this sacred, special way. I love how focused each session is, how still and clear and connected I feel throughout the day. I am doing what I love and this is a good, good thing.

By the time Jack and I usually arrive back home, it's after six. This is where my day goes to hell. I would love to just come to our home, fix us some dinner, and play with my son on the floor until bedtime. I would love to just relax with him, maybe walk to the park or play in our back yard. But the moment I come home, my second job begins. I am an apartment manager.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck goddamn fuck fuck fuck. I hate this cock-sucking job so goddamn much. FUCK. Fuck.

Every night I come home and it's phone calls adn people at my door, complaining about the maintenance guys or the pool filter or yelling at me because I charged them a late fee because they didn't pay their rent. They're upset with their neighbors or with the guy who parked in their space. They want to know if they can change apartments. Their garbage disposal isn't working and it's the seventh time it's broken since they moved in. And they want me to come take a look at it.

I get phone calls at 3 am. The roof is leaking. The couple in 205 is fighting. There's a possum in the backyard. I get strangers at my door wanting to come in and use the bathroom. I have old ladies who call me and can't hear me on the phone, or worse: they want to tell me all about their most recent surgery. I have tenants who want new carpet because "I've lived here for four years." I have tenants who constantly lock themselves out. I have tenants who find the most random shit to be upset about: the spiders in the palm trees outside, the noisiness of the garbage truck, the postman not coming on time.

And then there's Carlos. My maintenance guy. FUCK SHIT GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKER. He's the owner's brother-in-law, which means that I can't fire him. Which I would have done two years ago. Because he's a cocksucker. The tenants are always infuriated with him because he'll take three weeks to respond to their maintenance request, then forget to come when he said he would, and then do a shitty job when he finally does make it over here. And who are the tenants complaining to the whole time? Yup! Me! Yippee!

So, going home is never what I want it to be. And after getting bitched at by a tenant for not taking care of them, the sound of Jack's whine is enough to send me through the roof. And poor Jack... it's SO not his fault but he gets the brunt of my frustration. I hate that I am this person when I'm at home: bitchy, annoyed, frustrated. Jack deserves more. I deserve more. I would SO drop this job if I could afford to. But, it pays the rent (literally) and until I marry a man solely for his money I'm stuck here.

Something's gotta give. We can't live like this. I won't live like this.

Bloom.

It's cold and gray here in San Diego, like my mood. I lost my job and my crush and I feel uninspired. I'm finding it hard to trust that if I just keep pushing I'll hit sunlight. I'm growing tired of hitting my head against a rock.

I want to feel the sun. I want to unfurl and grow tall, open the soft petals of my heart toward the world and allow myself to be seen. I want to be embraced and loved and caressed, scooped up and my scent inhaled into the body of another.

The effort of life is making me weary. I am tired of efforting. I want to be tugged along by the natural flow of a life of ease but instead I flail and thrash around. I'd like to find that current, the one that I can maneuver and stay afloat in, and feel myself hit my stride. But maybe that's a fantasy fueled by motivational speakers and spiritual infomercials. I don't know.

I'm ready, God. I'm ready to really take off. I'm tired of this small town living. I'm ready for my big break, that one role that gives me the leg up into the industry of my life. So go talk to your people and then get in touch with my agent.

Thanks,

Amber.

What to do, what to do?

It is so hard to admit that I am not strong enough to hang out with my ex and his girlfriend and my ex's ex and her boyfriend and their kids. I just don't want to be there. I don't really like any of them and I know that they don't like me. I wish that I was able to rise above it all, like some sort of Mother Teresa who hovers above all of the awkwardness and ugliness and remains rooted in her worthiness.

But this is not me. When I am around them I look more like Britney Spears, tweeked out and angry. Being in the home of my ex and his girlfriend is like hanging out in a torturous dream where I am sitting on my old couch, looking at photos that I took and framed, playing board games with the girls that I used to tuck into bed at night. My old bed, at that. With the comforter cover that I sewed. That matches the lamp I bought. And so on.

I am not good at this. I would like to be. I would like all of this to not bother me, to be able to participate in this very non-traditional family system where half of us slept with the other half and we're all okay with this, where there are multiple stepmothers and half siblings and grandparents. I would like to be like Bruce and Demi and Ashton, but I'm just not. And I don't think I ever will be.

I've been judging myself as weak for being unable to rise above it all for the sake of the kids. I've believed that it means that I have some big character flaw, or that I'm too traditional, or that I don't love my stepdaughters or that I never did. I've bought into this belief that I shouldn't still be affected by my ex and that I should be able to be around him without walking away totally wrecked. But oh well. So I'm weak. So I'm traditional. So I'm not done being hurt. Okay.

And so I am faced with asking myself, "Is it serving me to stay involved?" The answer to this is not as simple as it may seem. First of all, it is not in my programming to serve myself or to take care of myself very well. I have been programmed to believe that to serve oneself is selfish and quite un-Christlike. I was taught to put others before myself, to place my needs to the side and ensure that everyone else around my is served first. In the past, I have done this to such an extreme that I have almost died from my own lack of self-nurturing. To give myself permission to help myself first feels nearly impossible, but I am gaining in my experience of doing so the few times I have had the courage.

One of these times was when I left my ex. Getting out of that mess of a relationship was one of the most self-serving, courageous things I have ever done. Being around him was like being around a toxic poison that I had somehow devloped an addiction to. He was no good for me. Yet, I feel a deep obligation to stay connected with his children. I truly believe that to fully remove myself from the situation would be traumatic for them. And so the dilemma emerges: take care of myself or take care of them.

I would give anything to just walk away from him completely. I would love to just have the leisure of deleting his number from my phone and never, ever having to be around his toxic energy ever again. But there are other people involved with whom I feel a duty to remain connected to. It's just not as simple as I would like it to be.

And This Doesn't Help.

Flood

In psychotherapy, we use the term emotional flooding to describe the sensation of experiencing many emotions bursting forward at the same time, which can be a very overwhelming experience. In plumbing, we use the term water damage to describe what happened to my apartment two weeks ago when some flooding of the non-emotional sort took place. Also a very overwhelming experience.

I know that there is some sort of symbolism in water flowing out of my front door like Niagra Falls, but I don't want to explore how my outer experience is a reflection of my inner experience. In fact, I don't even really want to be present to my life right now. I would much rather numb out with TV and peanutbutter ice cream, lock my doors and turn off my cell phones and just sort of go away. I would, if it weren't for Jack, who yanks me out of unconsciousness with his demand to live life fully.

I've been angry at Jack for slapping me awake, wishing he would just let me sleep for ten minutes. Please. Just ten minutes. But maybe life knew that to allow me to do so would be quite dangerous and so sent Jack to be my EMT, always shouting at me, "Stay with me! Stay with me!" But oh, how I just want to shut my eyes sometimes.

Treading Water

I thought that I would be excited to see Jack after a weekend away with friends in L.A., but I wasn't. I mean, I was for a few seconds. I was happy to see that he was happy to see me, happy to smell his boyish, yeasty smell, happy to see his little brown eyes and his big, apple-shaped head. But along with all of that came the panic and the hollow-chested feeling that makes breathing hard to do. Along with his sweet, musty smell came the despair of knowing that I am totally alone in the caregiving of this child, that I am responsible for his needs, that it will be only me who will change his every diaper, answer his every cry, take away every dangerous object out of his hand today. Like the plastic bag he just came into the room carrying.

I am overwhelmed by his needs and ashamed at how little I enjoy meeting them. I hate that I hate motherhood. I hate all of the books that say, "Ask your husband to do this or that when you are feeling overwhelmed and tired." I don't have a goddamn husband. I wish I did, but only because then I would have someone to shoulder the responsibility for this little being of light.

I don't know what to do or how to move forward. I need someone to come and take care of me as I take care of Jack, someone to say, "Okay, now, it's time to eat. Then it will be nap time until four and then you need to go grocery shopping and here's the list." I feel pressure to make a decision about my life, to decide what's best for me, but I honestly cannot figure that out. Every choice feels scary; I still have Jack wrapped around my ankles, tripping me up.

When I was training to be a lifeguard in high school, I was required to tread water for 10 minutes while holding two, one-gallon milk jugs filled with water above my head. This image comes to mind as I write, of me swimming wildly, my legs kicking and cramping and it's getting dark out here as I hold myself and Jack above my head, above the water. I can't set either one of us down, but if I hold on to both I'm bound to get tired.