Daddy types

I want to be a man – but not any man, a stay-at-home dad.

You see them now and again in my liberal neighborhood, and they’re always so relaxed, rolling with their kids in the dirt at the playground; calmly reading a newspaper at the coffeehouse while the kid drives a hotwheel along the bench; looking relaxed and unfussed and handsome in their hipster trilbies or blue Oaklandish tees with an adorable toddler on their shoulders.

They seem so calm – maybe they didn’t remember extra clothes, a water bottle, the favorite stuffed bunny, but they don’t seem to care. They’re just taking the world as it goes.

It’s just that man thing, isn’t it? Less stuff to worry about so less worry. The optimism of the young, white, well-off bay area guy is justified, because things are pretty great for him. I just want to relax sometimes, not worry about all that household executive crap and just have some of the confidence of these men.

And then I pass a guy struggling to put his screaming baby in a backpack, looking harried and close to panic, obviously wishing with all his might that the mother would come and work that magic…

Then I pity them.

(T-shirt)

Speaking of parenting...

My Small Person is having so much fun in kindergarten. Every day is an adventure for her; new friends, activities, tasks, experiences. Unlike Mom, she relishes the new, the unexpected, exciting novelty of different people and places. I try not to telegraph my uneasiness too obviously to her. It's her life, she deserves the respect of making her own choices, decisions, and mistakes. Can she climb that tree? Run x distance away from me at the park? Pour her own juice? I don't know, and neither does she, but we will never find out if I always tell her no, or impose restrictive limits that equal "no" just the same.

Obviously, every circumstance has different variables to take into account. And, maybe not obviously if you don't know me, I would never jeopardize my child's safety. I'm observant, I pay attention, I do freak-out when she gets too close to the street and hover like the best helicopter parent around the pool. The point is, to rein her in too much is to do a disservice to her development as a person.

For example (and what precipitated this topic), there is a fun task each child in her class gets to do, turn by turn. They get to bring home the class plushie animal, with journal, to enjoy cosily, privately. The journal is to record whatever the family would like about the day's activities with the rabbit. We were all introduced to rabbit and journal during orientation, when the teacher explained that the kids could draw a picture, or write something, or, perhaps, have a parent write for them. I know, it's kindergarten, not a lot of writing happening yet, although most kids in the class can write their own names. Today was Small Person's turn! Hooray! But, I was a little surprised when I opened the journal to find tidy, detailed, essays in grown-up handwriting, with nary a drawing or childish scrawl in sight. Why? Too messy? Too childish? I felt confused, and, I admit, judgmental. Why wouldn't these parents "let" their kids draw in the book? Are these folks going to be typing their term papers later? 

Yes, I'm paranoid. And reactionary. And, what else? A crazy hippie permissive attachment parent? Yep, that too. The point is, which is more important; neatness, or creativity? Her ability to follow directions, or her ability to think for herself? Self-esteem, or self-abasement? Okay, maybe that last one was a little harsh. It's late, I have issues of my own. I'll reserve further judgment until Back-to-School Night on Thursday. I'll keep you posted.

I don't like the way you parent

The other day I saw some bad parenting. Nothing horrible – no slap or vicious words. It’s just I was talking to this woman and every word that came out of her mouth was the antithesis of the kind of parenting I value.

This is America – so it’s none of my business what you do and how you live your life, unless you back your car into my house or something. Right?

Only when it’s about babies, it’s hard for me not to – at least – trash talk her in my mind. Some kin of maternal protectiveness, I suppose, makes it difficult not to hate someone that is damaging a child in some way, whether it’s their health or creative development or mental stability or whatever.

And I think that the fact I don’t engage people like that mother (constructively) probably means I don’t have the guts.

Happy Labor Day

It’s Labor Day, and what better time to wish a successful labor to all those mamas out there waiting to give birth.

Bliss: or Why Men Don't Like Babies

I’m a junkie. What I’m on is legal, free and involves no needles, but at this point it definitely controls my life.

I’m talking about oxytocin. That’s a hormone released during labor and breast-feeding, and also apparently during canoodling. Men can make it, too, but they – obviously – don’t do it as much. According to Wikipedia, the effects of oxytocin gushing around your brain include making virgin sheep like lambs and making me forget things, and also it’s just like taking ecstasy.

What it feels like is Bliss.

When my daughter was born, I entered a world of oxytocin highs that can only be described as Bliss. For the first few weeks I was on Bliss all the time – all I needed to do was touch her, look at her, smell her, and I was off on another high.

Three years later, it’s not as intense, but it’s still going on (cuddling up to a sleeping toddler gives me quite a shot of Bliss).

A crack addict once told me that he was always looking for a repeat of the first high. You smoke again and again, and it is never the way it was, but you can never stop trying.

That’s the way I am with Bliss. Hand me a squishy little baby and something in my brain starts whispering relentlessly: have another one. More Bliss!

So I’m just a slave to my hormones.

This freaks out my husband, K. Where once there was a fairly rational and intelligent person, now there’s this raving Bliss addict who doesn’t care about any of the rational reasons, pro or con, to have another child (his are mostly con: the money we don’t have, the time we don’t have, the one bedroom apartment we live it, etc.). All the Bliss-out addict wants is babies. More, more, more.

I know some women don’t get this high when their babies are born. I’m sure it’s just a brain chemistry thing, but I feel sorry for them like a proselytizer feels sorry for someone who hasn’t been saved.

It may be a drug, but if I’d never done it, I’d never have known Bliss.

Sweaty palms

So, I had a job interview today. No matter how many times I do it, I have to surreptitiously wipe my hand on my skirt before the obligatory handshake, and hope I don't sweat through my extra-strength deodorant plus dusting powder before we wrap it up. The fact that it was the hottest day of the year in these parts did nothing to help and everything to hinder the situation. I despair of ever becoming confident meeting and talking with new people. Especially people in (perceived) authority. This is me outgrowing the crippling shyness of my childhood.

Despite my jitters, I do give good interview and may, indeed, have caught this job. Another retail position for another "green" company that wants to prove itself in the eco market. At least it is a local shop with some pleasant-seeming people and lots of covetable products. (Would I get a discount? Whee! more stuff!) But... but, essentially another boring retail job. Don't get me wrong, it's been almost a year since I've had a job and I am broke beyond belief; I will jump to it if they want to hire me. My options are slim, and have been for awhile. If it hadn't been for my family and boyfriend this past year, this little mommy-and-daughter boat would have sunk.

It's not that I don't want to work, though I will freely admit to a lazy approach to career planning, which has not served me well. My bad; my fault. I'm (still) working on it. What I do want, however, is a job that is interesting, stimulating, pays a reasonable wage, and acknowledges that it is never going to be the primary priority of my life while my child is. Oh yeah, part-time. Is this a fantasy? Throw in a desire for a little healthcare benefit and it really is beyond reality.

So what are my options? Well, the sitting on my ass for a year experiment is officially a failure. All I did was exacerbate my worst habits and outgrow my clothes. Next plan: back to school. Since my girl is finally enrolled in our increasingly dodgy public school system and I do not have to pay for daycare, a part-time school/work/mom schedule is feasible. I am taking a writing class that is very occupation-focused, a change from the theoretical, liberal-arts-based education I know and love. It is another step in my ongoing search for a vocation I can love and live without sacrificing too much of the rest of me.

In the meantime, back to retail.