cleaning up and out.

My parents called us yesterday, asking us to assist in cleaning out the upstairs closet of their home. Cleaning anything at my parents' house can be a daunting task as there is always one child still living upstairs, lounging in the loft, their former apartment decor tossed about as the 3 Labradors growl at the cat that is now occupying what was supposed to be a guest room. This did not scare me.

Mike and I got up this morning, knowing I had to be into work after noon, and headed to the lake house. He wanted to know how long it was going to take and I assured him we would get it done in a flash and then spend the rest of the time drinking mimosas or sitting by the fire or better yet, both. I figured I would grab a yearbook or two, throw out some old pictures of people I didn't even know anymore and be on my way. What I failed to realize is that going through your old crap not only takes time, it takes emotional stamina, both from you and the ones who are brave enough to offer help.

I don't know what the proper responses should have been, but I wanted more than, "cool" when I showed off the ceramic tribal mask I had been saving from 2nd grade, made by none other than yours truly. "What are you going to do with this? Hang it up?" Mike laughed. I thought about it for a second before placing the mask in the trash pile. He was right. What would I do with it? We sorted through a few more books and papers, keeping my report cards in a folder (for proof that Mommy was a good student) and tossed my oragamied love notes from my first boyfriend and Sega Genesis partner, John (no one should ever read a 6th grade-me dropping the L-bomb in bad cursive ever again). We were making some real progress and Mike seemed to be on a helpful roll. It was nice to have some assistance in validating my cleansing decisions. Next item up for question was my denim cassette tape holder I got for my 7th birthday.

Mike opened it up and read through a few tapes: Amy Grant, Jimi Hendrix, Green Day, Mariah Carey, Operation Ivy, MC Hammer.... He then put it in the Goodwill pile, looking up to me, making sure not to offend. I nodded and continued to sort. The stone-washed zippered Voyager, with an adjustable shoulder strap didn't make it more than 30 seconds in that to-go pile before I pulled it out and put it next to my High School diploma. And while I was at it, the tribal mask was coming back too. I suddenly felt violated. "Why are you trying to make me throw away all of my stuff?!" Of course he wasn't, and of course he was only trying to help, but what we both failed to realize is that your own junk is hard to let go of, especially if it was not formerly junk to you. Living in our apartment has brought on a new need to purge, but I was not ready to give up a lot of this stuff, even if it meant it would sit in boxes until the next time we decided to "clean out".

Perhaps the act should be renamed to include the drawn out hours of nostalgic reliving that accompany the cleaning. "Remembering Your Rubbish," "Having Jollies with Your Junk," "No Loss while you Toss?" Ugh who knows. All I do know is that the next place we live better have an attic because there is no way I am willing to part with my Beatrix Potter bunny until I feel sure about it, even if she does sit in a wad of tissue paper underneath my Glamour Shots from 1994.

penn.

After months of baby blogging, I had baby. After baby, I could not bring myself to sit down and write the long-awaited, in my mind at least, postpartum entry. Though it has not been confirmed if anyone would even be looking to read one, no written sentiment, nor medium with which to express, suited. How would I possibly spout out some endearing new discovery on motherhood that compared to my prenatal revelations of grandeur (cloth diapering)? My voice had surely changed since the days of clicking select all and spreading my hopes to anyone who would read.

My cousin, full term at her baby shower, was entering the late stage of pregnancy that challenges a woman's acquired ability to accept comments regarding her body, personal life and too often - vagina. These final weeks, when we are so swollen and sick of talking about the baby or when s/he's due - sick of talking about the nursery, the drugs, our breasts and feeding with them. We are absolutely sick of talking about anything really, much less the cause of discomfort which may just stay inside of us forever. I knew my cousin had reached this point when she said, If one more woman comes up to me and tells me how much I am going to love my baby the moment I meet her, I'm going to puke. I agreed too loudly, causing some heads to turn. She was annoyed that someone was questioning her ability to love and I was annoyed because all I could think about was that I still had stitches in my lady parts and it had been 8 weeks already. Was something wrong with me because I was not jumping up and down while crying happy tears and rejoicing that he was finally here? Why couldn't I think of anything but how horrible I was feeling? The ramp up to Penn's birth was so focused. It seemed as though the validity of my entire life depended upon the glorious moment in which he entered the world. No one cared who I was before squeezing the little guy out - I was now Penn's mother. I was Penn's mother and I was floating outside of my torn body watching it all happen, rather than having the hours of pookietime baby bliss I had anticipated. What the hell was I feeling and why wasn't it exactly as all these women had described? I now know they were in a different place. They were sleeping and their bodies in one piece - no trouble walking, no spontaneous crying and definitely no bleeding nipples. By some evolutionary magic, they had forgotten the birth completely! From that moment on, I vowed to tell my new-mother friends the whole truth before I was blinded by a full night's sleep, giggles and clapping baby hands. This mission may seem threatening and distasteful, but I only had the Mommies' best interest in mind. Shouldn't someone?

Before you deem me an unfit mother who doesn't love her son, let me explain all of the forceful feelings (and hormones) that were flowing through my body. It was like PMS and fight-or-flight had an all-night booze-induced rendezvous and I was feeling the hangover while simultaneously being drugged with love potion. I was nuts about him, overprotective and pretty much insane. I would imagine people climbing through the window and plot how I was going to murder them before they could get near him. I was obsessed with kissing his face while still worrying that I wasn't being affectionate enough, that somehow, he would grow up emotionally void, his brain unable to flourish, his cortex stunted. I was annoyed that his diaper needed to be changed so often, yet I would often pull off dry diapers because I was so worried about him contracting an infant urinary tract infection that would ruin his boy-parts for life. I had never loved something so much in my life, while simultaneously becoming miserable and pretty much on the road to whacko. My days were a blur of absolute joy and utter despair. Worse than this blur was the fear that it would never end. Had anyone told me that this was going to be the scariest couple months of my life? Maybe someone hinted to a sleepless night or labor pains, but jeeze, I was 8 weeks out and still hadn't slept more than 4 hours, not to mention the feeling that my body could fall out from between my legs at any moment. Do women feel that their abilities as a mother are best exhibited by pretending that it's a piece of cake or was I just bad at it? Not even the maddening love of my baby boy could save me from this rut. I had it bad and all I could do was hate myself for not feeling back to normal right away - after all, women give birth in huts and dirt and in fields while working. Why couldn't I just get it together and quit being such a whiney bitch?!

Throughout my experience, I shared the photos and told the baby's firsts, dumping my joy onto anyone who would listen. Was I lying to them by only sharing the good parts? Depends on the audience I guess, considering I felt slighted by the half complete tales from other women, none of which included the setbacks. During the joys and milestones, my vow stayed alive, although thankfully, I began to emerge out of the scaries. The easier mommy hood got, the more I remembered how much it sucked in the first few weeks and my plan stood firm to share this terror with the first pregnant friend I came in contact with, only to find myself speechless when one little round lady came waddling up to me. I didn't want to scare her. So as of today I am stuck with the dilemma of to tell or not to tell on a case by case basis. I’m also left wondering if someone did tell me. Did I choose to ignore them while basking in the daydreams of a cryless baby who lounged on my chest all day as I caught up on my Madmen episodes? I remember the tales of the pain (which wasn’t so bad) and the warnings of what might end up on the table when you attempt to push the baby out (it’s amazing how little you care about poo at the time), but had anyone ever really sat me down and said, Listen Honey, this is about to be some scary shit, but YOU WILL BE OKAY?
 

Recently, another friend of mine came limping up, baby in hand, wanting to know when the hell she would feel like herself again. I thought about my current dilemma and decided that I cared enough about her to say - absolutely never. You won't be able to go inside the 7-11 when you're getting gas, and grocery shopping is kind of a joke (until baby likes cheerios), forget sleeping and YES you will feel like you have an anvil between your legs for 8 weeks blah blah blah... but in about 9 months, when you finally get the hang of it, you will feel like the old you was a whiney little bitch and everything will be more wonderful than you ever expected. Just as long as she knows there isn’t something wrong with her for feeling like an absolute psycho in the beginning.