Last Sunday night, I watched the HBO show The Newsroom after a busy Thanksgiving weekend. I like the show, which focuses on the behind-the-scenes of a fictional newsroom and uses creator Aaron Sorkin’s trademark fast and witty dialogue. The characters are top-notch journalists, serious news reporters. This season, one of them is dating a woman who – gasp! – starts writing about her own life for a website. He accuses her of vanity, of trying to start her own reality show, of, basically, selling out.
As a blogger, this made me feel bad about myself and question why I’m doing it. Am I selling out my child and my family in the hopes of drawing attention to myself? Am I revealing too much? Am I contributing to a culture where anyone can become a “writer,” whether they’re any good at it or not?
Here’s the thing: I never really considered myself a journalist. I did not go to J-school – in fact I didn’t even major in journalism. I was an English and History major. What I also was, though, was a very good writer. I knew about sentence structure, grammar, how to outline a paper, how to prove my point. I also loved literature. After college, I fell into the publishing world by becoming a proofreader and later an editor.
It was not hard news that we were doing. Certain places I worked took shortcuts and liberties with stories. I knew that what was going on was not always at the level of, say, The Newsroom. But I still believed that what we were producing was something of value.
After becoming a stay-at-home mom, I no longer had an outlet for creative expression. I was no longer reaching out to others and maybe even impacting them with something I wrote or edited. I missed it.
I didn’t start blogging until my son was a year old. I admit that I looked down on it a bit – it seemed like everyone had a blog, that there was no special talent or skill necessarily required. “Mommy bloggers” were everywhere, and the butt of jokes. Did I really want to take part in all that?
The answer, eventually, was yes. Freelancing is hard – trying to make contacts, get gigs, write on-spec pieces that no one might ever read. And even though I’ve been somewhat successful at it, I missed just writing without the hustle. And not just writing in a journal – writing so that others might see it and learn from it and share it. So that it would touch others. That’s what writers d0 (or at least try to do). So I started a blog.
I have something to say, and yes, that something is personal and based on my own experiences. But that doesn’t mean it’s not valid or worthy of being published and read. I’m not writing because I want to be famous or because I think my kid is super-cute or because I want to be the star of my own reality show. I write because, as I stated in my first post, I think we, as moms, need to tell the truth about motherhood. We are not just silly “mommy bloggers” to be mocked for recording their child’s every dirty diaper. The reality of being a mom, and becoming a mom, is too easily dismissed. We need to talk about it. I need to talk about it. That’s why I write.
Fellow mommy bloggers, why do you write?
I’m not usually overly sentimental in my writing, but around Thanksgiving it’s a little hard not to be. For a long time while I was going through infertility, I felt very cynical about Thanksgiving. Yes, I was grateful to have a good job and a loving husband and a roof over my head and blah blah blah…but I took it for granted because the one thing I wanted more than anything else eluded me for so long.
Now I have a baby, and even though it’s not been all puppies and rainbows like I once thought it would be, there are enough moments of pure joy to warrant a
sickeningly sweet post about why I’m grateful I have him. So here goes:
1. He’s cute. Really cute.
2. He has the best smile around. I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom. Lots of other people have said so too.
3. He’s finally sleeping through the night.
4. After a lot of struggle, we got the breastfeeding thing right and are still going strong. I love nursing this kid, and he loves it too.
5. He now knows I’m “Mama” and that FD is “Dada.”
6. I love the joyous look on his face when he takes a few steps before falling into our arms (he doesn’t know how to stop yet).
7. Sorry, this one’s gross: More solid food mean easier-to-clean-up poops.
8. His laugh.
9. How he bounces along to music.
10. He’s starting to joke around and play games with us.
11. When he plays by himself for a half-hour or so, I can get a few things done.
12. I love when he falls asleep on me. He’s a great snuggle buddy.
13. You can almost see his mind working as he figures out how to do something.
14. His little smirk. It looks like his daddy’s.
15. He smells really good, just a sweet babylicious smell.
16. It’s adorable to see him interacting with his baby friends and cousins.
17. The way his hair curls around in the back.
18. Somehow he never seems very dirty, so I can get away with bathing him once a week.
19. His tiny body. He’s a little guy, and I love his cute little belly and nose and toes.
20. That he’s napping right now so I can get this blog post out.
I could probably come up with lots more, but 20 seemed like a nice even number. I am trying to stop and give thanks, not just on Thanksgiving but every day, for this sweet child that I didn’t think I was ever going to have. It’s hard when you’re caught up in the day-to-day work of a mom – the feeding, the changing of diapers, the calming down of tantrums, the just-trying-to-get-something-done-around-the-house-before-I-lose-my-effing-mind – to take time to appreciate what you have. I thought that I, of all people, would be able to do that, but it’s still difficult. So I’m going to try to remember what it was like before I had him, and what I would have given to have a baby. Now he’s here. And I’m ever so grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving! I’ll catch up with you all after the holiday weekend. In the meantime, tell me, what are you grateful for as a parent?
I might keep this one short, because I’m exhausted. Very foggy today. And not because I got semi-drunk last night. (OK, that might be part of it.) You see, last night was moms’ night out.
My sister was visiting my parents with her two kids, so I invited her along to my mommy group’s night out. We got a ride so we could indulge in a few glasses of wine without worrying about driving, and as my dad dropped us off I told him we’d call him later to come pick us up. It felt just like high school.
Entering the bar, we got carded. I am now at the point in my life where that is considered a major compliment.
The bar was noisy and crowded, full of people who work starting the weekend a little early with a Thursday night happy hour. I felt a little out of place until the second glass of wine. Then it all started feeling a little familiar. I had been here before. A long time ago.
Conversation between the other moms and I revolved around our kids. Somehow it seemed hard to talk about anything else – until the guys came along.
A group of women at a bar will no doubt eventually attract men. One of the moms made up a story that we were out for a bachelorette (nevermind that we all had wedding rings on) to fool an unsuspecting guy. Another dude attracted our attention because he was a giant – turns out he was six foot ten – and he used our stares as a reason to come over and strike up a conversation. A dorky guy (the kind you can tell is really very nice, so it’s a shame he’s so unfortunate-looking) garnered our sympathy as he told us how he was there for a singles’ event that was held downstairs. A very attractive bald guy took our picture, which was posted to our mommy group Facebook page.
I found it difficult, though, to engage any of these men in conversation. I felt old, unattractive and frumpy. The outfit that I thought was so cool for my daytime tasks – corduroy jeggings and a flowy sweater – was hot and uncomfortable in the crowded bar. It had been so long since I had been in that kind of environment, and although I used to be a fairly successful flirter, I was definitely off my game – not that I wanted to flirt, however harmlessly, anyway.
It just seemed hard to figure out how to “be” in this environment in our new roles as moms. I didn’t want to talk to guys. But I wanted to talk with the other women about something else besides our kids.
The most awkward moments occurred when the guys would ask, “So what do you do?” How to answer that? We sheepishly avoided the answer, or mumbled, “I’m a stay at home mom.” To be fair, the guys took it pretty well, and didn’t immediately flee. Maybe they were actually intrigued. A hip Asian dude, upon hearing we were moms and deciding that he was down with that, pulled out his phone to show us a picture of his own mother. “She’s a total MILF!” he told us.
Eventually it was time to leave. We called for our ride, and as I put on my coat I wondered if I had wanted to flirt, did I still “have it”? I wasn’t sure if I either looked or felt the part; and I was oddly scared of rejection. Coming back to a bar was like looking back on my pre-baby, pre-husband life. I didn’t miss it, but I did miss being young.
As my sister and I walked outside to catch our ride, one of the guys we had talked to shouted to us in a congratulatory manner, “Moms!” He held up his cigarette in solidarity. We laughed and got in the car.
Today is my birthday. Maybe it’s just because I’m getting older, but it doesn’t really mean that much to me anymore. My birth and the circumstances of my life, which we are supposed to be celebrating today, don’t seem to matter a whole lot now that I’m a mom. All of that – the day I was born, the celebration of my life – pale in comparison to the day my son was born. Every day I celebrate his life. Mine takes a backseat. And I’m OK with that.
But what does bug me is the sense that I’ve passed the prime of my life. I know I have my son’s whole life to look forward to, but because I’m an older mom I feel like I’m behind, and I can never catch up because that’s the way time works – it doesn’t stop and wait for you.
I spent six years trying to have my son, so I’m six years older than most of the moms I know. I used to feel like I had a jump start on life because I was the youngest kid in my class – I started college at 17 and graduated at 21. So I had a good six months or almost a year on most of my friends. I got married at 30 – not young, but not old either – so I was still “on track” for the timeline in my head. But then my thirties went by in whirl of infertility treatments, and I didn’t have a baby until 38. And here I am at 39.
I often do the math: How old will I be when LM is out of the house? How old will I be when he is the age I am now? I worry that the poor kid will have ailing parents before he is even middle-aged. Which is crazy when I realize that my own mother, at 66, still has her father around. I could be gone by the time LM is 40.
Speaking of my mother, this is the conversation I had with her the other day on the topic of my turning 39:
“Thirty-nine is old,” I said.
“Not to me,” she said.
“In one year I’ll be 40. Forty is middle-aged.”
“I think nowadays 50 is more middle-aged.”
“Only if you live to be 100.”
“Your grandfather is 93.”
OK, fair point – but my grandfather is an anomaly. He lives independently in Florida, walks five miles on the beach every day, and takes no medication. He’s amazing. But it’s unrealistic to expect to live that long.
But I think my mom does, in fact, expect to live that long. She is a very young 66. She’s thinner than I am, very stylish, and looks probably at least 15 years younger than she is. Even so, I’m still worried about getting older not just for myself but for my parents, too. I want them to have time with their grandchildren. Selfishly, I want to enjoy life without having to deal with something sad like illness or death – I had six years of sadness with infertility and loss, and that was quite enough, at least for the time being.
My sweet spot, age-wise, was probably around 28. I was grown-up but my parents were still young, my career was going places, and I had a fiance, a cool apartment in Hoboken, and lots of friends. Life was good.
I should think of my life now that way as well. I have a beautiful son, lots of new mom friends, and a great family. But my pessimism sneaks in, and I feel like somehow I’m living on borrowed time, waiting for the next major change in life (and not for the better) to occur. I think my past has made me fearful of the future.
Instead, I really should just be living for the present. That’s all any of us really have. No one knows what is going to happen, and you can’t live your life on a preconceived timeline. So, I’m going to try to shake it off and count my blessings as they exist in this present moment.
My husband and I don’t usually fight. Sometimes I think this is because he doesn’t like confrontation and thus keeps things a bit pent up. Then when we do fight, it all comes spilling out like a volcano.
That’s kind of what happened this weekend.
We both have had the cold that won’t end for weeks. Plus, I felt worn down from taking care of LM 24/7, and my husband (should I call him Foggy Daddy? FD. That’s a good nickname) from doing everything else. I think I must be the worst housewife in the world, because I can’t seem to do anything else when I’m taking care of LM – I can’t cook or clean with him underfoot. I’ve gone to the grocery store with him a couple of times, but LM’s limited attention span means that he starts trying to climb out of his seat while I’m only halfway through my list. So it just seems easier for one of us to go on the weekend while the other (usually me) stays home with him.
Given all this, you might think (and you’d be right) that my husband is a saint. He comes home from work and cooks while I keep LM out of the kitchen. I put LM to bed every night while FD cleans up. We are both “working” almost constantly; but the problem is that I feel like he thinks taking care of LM is “easier.” I mean, in some ways it is. I’m not expending as much mental energy, and yes, much of putting LM to bed or down for a nap consists of me nursing or rocking him, often while my eyes or shut. I have been known to fall asleep on the couch with him.
At the same time, in many ways it is not easy taking care of a 14-month-old. Keeping him fed, clean and happy is a big responsibility. I have to come up with activities that keep him socialized, entertained and learning. I’m raising our son. I think for the most part FD knows this, but I sometimes wonder if he resents it.
Plus, I am trying to work in time to blog and to freelance, which I feel that FD thinks is an indulgence because it doesn’t make much money. As if it’s not a job, but just writing for fun.
Things came to a head on Saturday morning. I was so tired from being sick that I was having a hard time waking up, so FD took LM downstairs while I slept…for three more hours. I am not a morning person, and never have been. I also seem to require a lot of sleep. FD is a morning person, and even on the weekends hardly ever sleeps past eight. He generally only gets six hours of shut-eye no matter what. So I didn’t think his getting up with LM was a big deal. Plus, wouldn’t he want to spend some time with his son?
To be fair, though, this is not the first time FD has let me sleep in. Most weekends this is the case. (I know, he’s a saint, right?) But I need the break from LM.
After I came downstairs, I got on the laptop and started working on our Christmas card. FD got annoyed because he wanted me to take over watching LM. This annoyed me right back because as I saw it, the Christmas card is something that needs to get done, while FD playing a game on his iPad is not. This escalated into who does more around the house, with FD arguing that he “works,” which sets me off because that implies that I don’t. I also became upset because I felt that FD doesn’t care if we send out a Christmas card, or do fun activities on the weekend, or do anything that may not be totally necessary but would be nice as a family. If it was up to him, we’d never leave the house.
It ended with us shouting at each other in front of LM and me crying. LM seemed unfazed, but the time will come (and soon) that he’ll be able to understand us. Were we really arguing who had to take care of our child? How horrible is that? You’d think we would cherish him enough to be arguing over who gets to spend the most time with him!
FD took off to do the aforementioned grocery shopping. After he got home he apologized, as did I. One other good thing about FD – he doesn’t hold a grudge. We generally make up after our fights. But, sometimes I wonder if we truly solve the problem. Fighting over the division of responsibility is common; but I didn’t expect it to happen when one parent is staying home. Now that I’m experiencing it, I’ve discovered that it is hard for two parents to raise kids, whether they work outside the home or not, without the kind of “village” atmosphere that exists in other cultures. And honestly, I have no idea how those fifties housewives managed to keep their house so clean.
On Sunday I got up with LM and let my husband stay in bed. He didn’t get up until well after eight, so maybe he did need the sleep after all.
Do you have arguments with your partner about division of labor or taking care of the kids? How do you resolve it?
Now that I’ve been a “mommy blogger” (can’t decide whether I find that term offensive or not) for over a month I’m finding out that it’s actually quite difficult to blog and take care of a baby. As I type now my son is napping on me – I tried to bring him upstairs but he started to wake up and search around for my nipple, so I put him back on the boob. I’m now typing with my arm awkwardly above his head. It’s not comfortable, and it doesn’t help that the space bar on my stupid computer sticks so I keep having to backspace to fix words running together.
People often ask me when I find time to blog. Nap time is pretty much the only time, unless a grandparent comes down to watch LM. And when I write during nap time, or even when someone is here to watch him for a short period, it always feels like a race against the clock. How much can I get done before he needs me again? How fast can I type? How long can I make this blog? And forget about making sure it’s any good. When I read my blog posts over later I feel like they read as stream of consciousness ramblings rather then well-thought out essays.
And then I read other mommy blogs and can’t help but feel inferior. I find everyone else’s funnier, more insightful, more polished than mine. I don’t know if that’s because I can’t be objective about my own work or because my blog does, in fact, suck.
There’s also the issue of the other freelancing work I’m trying to do. I have one regular gig that pays, although it’s not exactly something that’s going to be moving my journalism career forward. Then there is blogging for The Huffington Post, which is awesome although it doesn’t pay. Then there is trying to get published on a myriad of other sites, which often involves a lot of networking and on spec work. I like writing for the sake of writing, but it’s frustrating when I feel like I can never catch a break. I got a personal email from an editor at The New York Times who liked my “Lost Pregnancy” story and apologized because she already had a piece to run for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. So if I had sent it in earlier I would have had a story in The New York effing Times? What a missed opportunity.
So this blog sometimes ends up taking a back seat to other pursuits. It’s hard to come up with things to write about every other day or so, and actually craft a good piece of writing. I try to read everything I can on every popular parenting site, and it’s exhausting. There is so much chatter it’s really hard to cut through it all and actually say something new and different. My foggy brain tries and tries, and I do feel like I have a unique perspective because of everything I’ve gone through, but I feel like I just keep coming up short. Am I being too hard on myself?
My mind makes lists and lists of things I want to do, but I have such limited time that I can’t seem to make a dent in it. Activities that are even supposed to be downtime, like looking through catalogs or watching TV, turn into chores: Look at that giant pile of catalogs on the coffee table! We’re up to 90 percent full on our DVR!
I know this is what the internet likes to call a “first-world problem.” I know that I’m lucky to be home taking care of my son. But the adult part of my brain wants to work, wants to accomplish something for myself. No, I don’t want to go to work in office. No, I don’t want to put my son in day care. But I would like a block of uninterrupted time for writing and polishing and networking and maybe one day publishing something of value.
So please continue to check my blog. I will do my best to keep the posts coming, but cut me a little slack – after all half the time I’m writing with a kid attached to my boob. Please comment or share my stuff if you like it. And if you’re a fellow mommy blogger, please tell me I’m not alone in feeling this way.
Thanks for reading!
Yesterday while talking with two fellow moms and dog-lovers, we realized a simply truth: Our babies are like dogs! Here’s why:
1. I teach my baby basic commands like “come”and “leave it.” He doesn’t always respond to them, but I’m still in the training process.
2. He has chew toys. I think they’re actually called “teething toys,” but come on, doesn’t Sophie the Giraffe look like something a dog would have a great time gnawing on?
3. When he crawls he looks like a dog. Actually we joke that he really looks like a Komodo dragon, but he also bears a resemblance to a trotting puppy. Especially when I stand next to him, tap my leg and say, “Come on, boy!”
4. He barks to tell me he needs something. No really, sometimes he sounds like he’s barking. He can’t use words yet, so it’s the only way he can communicate. By the way, did you know that dogs can understand as many words as a toddler?
5. I sometimes call his baby cookies “treats.” He carries those things around for hours – well, 15 minutes at least. You know what would be awesome? To have
chew teething toys that you could put the treat inside of to make babies work to get it out, like those Kong things for dogs. I bet that would keep him occupied for hours!
6. He’s not housebroken. Come on, you knew this one was coming. And this might be TMI, but I think cleaning up puppy poop is less gross because you don’t have to wipe their butt.
7. I take him on walks. The people I see regularly walking around the neighborhood are people with babies and people with dogs. Coincidence? I think not. Although the babies are in strollers and the dogs walk on their own (actually, I have seen dogs in strollers too). I also take my son to the
dog park to get more exercise.
8. He plays fetch. It’s actually a combo of catch and fetch: I throw the ball, but sometimes it just bounces off him and then he chases after it.
9. I plan on using a leash. My baby isn’t walking yet, but I am considering one of those backpack tethers for crowded or dangerous places, like Disneyworld or parking lots. It just makes sense!
10. He’s as snuggable as a puppy. I fondly remember cuddling up with my dog, feeling her warm, soft body next to mine. It was so sweet. I feel the same thing, only better, with my baby.
Do you think babies are like dogs? Or do they resemble any other animal?
The newest mommy war trend is being so over mommy wars. A group of moms in Connecticut even started a campaign to end judgment among moms, and a photo shoot of them holding up encouraging signs like, “The mom in me honors the mom in you” went viral. It’s a great ideal. It’s very PC, very puppies and rainbows. But is it realistic?
I try not to be judgmental of others’ parenting. It’s not my business, and I’m generally pretty good at keeping my mouth shut. No one wants unsolicited advice, and I respect that. But even if we don’t voice them, we all have our own opinions.
It’s kind of like politics. It’s difficult to talk about politics with people you’re close with but yet who have radically different views. Discussions like that often end with everyone taking it personally, because how could you not? It’s hard to separate your political opinions from your sense of self; they are part of who you are. So how can someone else who you in every other way respect and love have such fundamentally different values?
It’s easier just not to talk about it in the first place.
But if we don’t feel free to discuss our views and opinions, where does that leave us? I think in some form, discussions about parenting styles and what’s best for children are healthy. We could just leave it to the experts, but we are the moms on the front lines. If anyone should be an “expert” in the real-life practically and logistics of parenting, it’s us.
And even when the experts do weigh in, what then? Debates still rage over whether or not crib bumpers should be used, even though the experts have clearly said no to them. Does that mean those on the “no bumpers” side are “right”?
One night while nursing LM at 4 am I was watching reruns of the sitcom Yes, Dear on Nick at Nite. The main female characters are two sisters with very different parenting styles.
The laid-back mom says, “You always think your way is the best way.”
“Well, yes,” the uptight mom replies. “That’s why I chose it to be my way.”
And therein lies the crux of the mommy war problem: We try so hard to do what’s right for our kids that it bothers us when we see another mom doing it differently. It either means that A) Their kid is not reaping the benefits of the “best way” or that B) Our way might not actually be the “best way.”
If we were fully confident in our parenting choices, maybe it wouldn’t bother us to see another mom make different ones. I often wonder if I’m doing it right, if the choices I made, despite all my research, are the “best.”
On the other hand, I admit to giving the side-eye or secretly judging (even if I don’t say anything) choices other moms make, because some of my choices I do feel confident in. I’ve been guilty of thinking that other kids are not benefitting from the “best way.” I try to remember, though, that it’s not my kid, and therefore not my business.
But, I also want to be able to celebrate my victories. I overcame a lot of obstacles to breastfeeding. When I tell people about that, though, I worry it’s going to offend those who’ve encountered obstacles and instead chose to wean. Does my success imply their failure? I try not to make it sound that way, and instead stress that I understand how hard it is because I was this close to giving up. But does that just make them think, “What are you saying, that you’re better than us because you didn’t give up and we did?” So I find myself only talking about it with other like-minded breastfeeding moms.
The PC solution to the mommy wars is, “Everyone has to make the decision that’s right for their family.” I do practice this by trying hard not to say something that will offend others. I admit that’s harder since I’ve started a blog, a place where I want to share my opinions unfiltered. I don’t have the answers on how to truly end the mommy wars because I believe that in many ways, debate is just human nature.
What is your take on the mommy wars – are they played out or just a part of life as a mom?
My son is already into devices. He knows when I’m looking at the iPad, or our phones, or the computer. He’s utterly fascinated with them. And while I have heard some people say they want their kids to use technology early so they won’t be “behind,” my mommy instinct says to keep them away. Not sure why – screens are bad and cause ADD? No TV before two? – but in any case, I seem to have failed to do that. I think that’s because I am fascinated by them too…or dare I say addicted? And I’m worried it’s making me a distracted parent.
When I’m playing with LM, or watching him play, I feel the constant urge to be “doing” something. Apparently playing with my child is not enough. My mind starts wandering. It’s been an hour since I looked at Facebook. Maybe I should see how the site stats on my blog are doing. I should definitely check email to make sure my editor isn’t trying to get ahold of me. So I casually pull out the phone…maybe LM won’t notice. I prop it on my leg, hidden from his view. But somehow he knows. It’s like he can sense it. So he stops what he’s doing and comes to me. He stares at the phone and smiles. He wants it. So I reluctantly put it away.
It’s not just technology’s fault. Technology has just made it easier. My mind is really too blame. I’m constantly making mental lists of things I need or want to do. I find myself biding my time until LM takes a nap, when really, shouldn’t I be enjoying the time I have with him, focusing on him, not waiting until he conks out to feel like I’m living my life? Stop thinking, I tell myself. Stop trying to multitask. Be mindful. Be present. He is only going to be a baby for a very short time.
But it can be isolating being a stay-at-home mom, so another aspect of distracting parenting for me is to feel connected. Hence the need to check social media a million times a day. I connect with a lot of moms in the Facebook groups I’m a part of, and sometimes I think they help me keep my sanity. We discuss our kids, things going on in the world, books, movies, you know, adult topics that I don’t get to talk about all day with a one-year-old. Maybe I just get a little, well, bored sometimes.
I hate that I missed his first year in a mommy fog of sleep deprivation. So why I can’t I just pay attention to him – real, undivided attention? If I don’t, I’m going to miss his second year too. And eventually, he may pick up on my multitasking mindset and think he’s not enough. And yet sometimes I think that what I’m doing isn’t enough, that I need to worry about advancing my freelance career, or writing this blog, or paying bills, or cleaning the house. If I don’t get those things done in a day, I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything…except raising our son. And shouldn’t that be the most important task of all?
Do you admit to distracting parenting too? How do you try to avoid it?
The other day I took LM for a walk around a lake near our house. It was just about a perfect fall day, warm and breezy with the sun sparkling off the water. I had one of those surreal moments when I asked myself, “Is this really my life?” For so many years I wasn’t sure if I would ever be a mom, and now here I was, not only a mom but a mom who is able to stay home with her son and walk him around a perfect lake on a perfect fall day.
Across from the lake is a cemetery, and as I walked by a funeral procession drove in. When I passed around a second time, the mourners were gathered around the coffin, and I wondered if it was somehow a bad omen to see such a sight on this otherwise perfect day. I wondered who the dead person was. Maybe, I reasoned, this is one of those “happy funerals” in which the person is old and has lived a long and fulfilled life, and his funeral becomes sort of a family reunion, and all his relatives end up talking and laughing and it’s actually nice to see everyone again. Maybe this funeral wasn’t a bad omen at all, but a reminder that life goes on, or that there’s a circle of life, or something kind of corny like that. But corny or not, it’s true. And now that I am a mother, I’ve feel like I am a part of it.
Ever since I had LM, these surreal moments, which I’m not sure I would have if I hadn’t had trouble getting pregnant, because then this would just seem to be a normal part of life – you have a baby and then you walk him around a park – creep up on me, and I’m filled with a sense of peace and wonder at the simple things in life, like sun sparkling off water on a perfect fall day.