I've had mommy guilt since the day Matt was born. It started with the fact that he spent his first 10 days of life in the NICU, often without me (doctor's orders), as I recovered from bed rest. How weird is it that total strangers are caring for your little one in some far-off hospital while you're at home, lying down, watching NYPD Blue? Part of me was relieved that I had some sort of grace period--now that my guy was here and healthy--in which to gain back my strength (four months of living horizontally makes a body pretty wobbly) and maybe squirrel away some sleep before I was the main provider of everything this child might need, including midnight feedings.
When he got home, the guilt seemed to weave its way through many areas of my parenting. After much angst, and despite the LaLeche proponents of the world screaming "breast milk is best," I waved the white flag and gave up on breastfeeding three weeks into it. My little preemie just didn't seem to have the hang of it and I was obsessed over how much nourishment he was actually getting. The weight of the world (at least most of it) dropped off my shoulders when the wonderful, straight-to-the-point, no-nonsense Nurse Maureen at Matt's pediatrician's office looked at me during a well-visit and said (in her now-familiar sarcastic tone), "Contrary to popular belief, your child will survive and thrive if you formula-feed him." I so appreciated that candor, and went straight to the store on our way home to pick up some Good Start.
Of course, as soon as I closed the book on that issue, another one surfaced. The next guilt party arose when I met with a new moms group for the first time. Matt was probably about seven months old and was a wonderful baby. He was rarely sick, no colic (no major issues, in fact, beyond spitting up), but boy, the kid just would not sleep through the night. Sadly for him, he was born to a mother who needs about eight hours to feel her Doris Day-best. I was exhausted and a bit cranky. I'll never forget when one of those perky "my-baby-started-sleeping-through-the-night-at-two-months" moms approached me at this meet-and-greet, and put the question before me: "Isn't this just the most fabulous and beautiful thing you've ever done?!" I looked at her like she was from another planet. At that point I thought she was either high on Red Bull or just someone I could never relate to. And it got worse. If she had just once during our conversation said something with a note of the exasperation I was feeling, like "Ugh, my boobs hurt" or "I just need a minute to myself!" or even "I don't know what the hell I'm doing!!!" I would've forgiven her her overwhelming enthusiasm, but as it was, I never returned to that group of Stepford Mommies. And of course, the fact that I wanted to slap her silly made me feel guilty. Why didn't I feel that way?
That was over three years ago, and my miscalculations haven't stopped. I've been fumbling around this thing called motherhood since Day 1 on the job, trying to figure out which philosophies I agree with and which I don't. According to the books, I make plenty of parenting mistakes. Matt goes to bed too late. 8 pm is as early as we can get him there, because dad needs a little father-son time after he gets home. I let him watch too much TV. He makes his pointer-finger-and-thumb into a play gun and I don't freak out. He's heard Lady Gaga, though I have (I think) explained my way out of some questionable lyrics. And I yell. I'm pretty sure I'm the reincarnation of a 1950's mom, whose parenting style is more let-the-kids-play-while-I-cook-and-clean-and-talk-to-my-girlfriends than let's-make-robots-out-of-toilet-paper-rolls-together. If I liked martinis, I just might have one every now and then (as long as I wasn't driving to a play date, of course), and yes, I enjoy wearing kitschy aprons while cooking. If my own mom had written a book on child-rearing, she'd probably say I'm right on target. My mom didn't though, and all the info coming at me from today's parenting magazines and the Mommy Gurus is that all of the above is inappropriate. In the past, that made me feel rather uneasy.
I'm tired of feeling guilty, though, and I'm turning over a new leaf. As someone once told me, guilt is a wasted emotion, so as I embark on my 40th year on the planet, and my fourth year as President and CEO of Matt, Inc., I'm embracing a new philosophy. Whether I sit on the floor and play with him for hours on end, or enjoy a mere 30 minutes of mom-and-Matt time before I delve back into other things--things I perhaps enjoy more than lining up Thomas trains for a journey through Sodor--I will not regret how I raise my son. I will love him with my entire being (easy!), I will continue to smother him in hugs and kisses on a daily basis, I will do his "Frankenstein" dance whenever he asks me too, and I will nurture him in my own way. And I will without a doubt go a little easier on myself and embrace the fact that I am a good mom. After all, I love my son, and at the very least, I'm a heck of a lot better than Betty Draper.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
It's Pumpkin Bread Time!
The actual name of this recipe is "Cranberry-Pumpkin Bread with Flaxseed," but I call it Pumpkin-Chocolate Chip Bread because it's the 3/4 cup of chocolate chips I substitute for the cranberries that seems to lure Matthew in. It's absolutely delicious and so moist; the only real problem with this bread is the fact that I seem to eat just a little more of it than the boy does. Not because he loves it any less than I do, but because I seem to "forget" to offer it. (Is that wrong?) It's perfectly yummy for an after-lunch snack, and it's packed with healthy stuff, so there's no guilt involved. From The New American Plate Cookbook.
Canola oil spray
1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup ground flaxseed
2/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup canned pumpkin
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup apple juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup dried cranberries (you could also use 3/4 cup chocolate chips)
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly coat an 8x4-inch loaf pan with canola oil spray and set it aside. In a large bowl, combine the whole wheat pastry flour, all-purpose flour, flaxseed, sugar, baking soda, and salt, and set aside. In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs. Whisk in the pumpkin, canola oil, applesauce, apple juice, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg. Stir in the dried cranberries. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, mixing until all the dry ingredients are fully incorporated into the batter. Do not beat or overmix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until a wooden toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Remove the bread from the pan and continue cooling on the rack.
Canola oil spray
1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup ground flaxseed
2/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup canned pumpkin
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup apple juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup dried cranberries (you could also use 3/4 cup chocolate chips)
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly coat an 8x4-inch loaf pan with canola oil spray and set it aside. In a large bowl, combine the whole wheat pastry flour, all-purpose flour, flaxseed, sugar, baking soda, and salt, and set aside. In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs. Whisk in the pumpkin, canola oil, applesauce, apple juice, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg. Stir in the dried cranberries. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, mixing until all the dry ingredients are fully incorporated into the batter. Do not beat or overmix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until a wooden toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Remove the bread from the pan and continue cooling on the rack.
What to Do, What to Do...
It's 6:47 in the morning, and I'm actually giddy. Woke up 45 minutes ago with the excitement of a 4-year-old on Christmas Day. The air outside is crisp, and a wee bit of sun is just about to peak over my neighbor's stone wall with the promise of something truly special happening within the next few hours. I have been waiting for this day since oh, just about the end of May. Uh-huh: you guessed it. It's Matt's first day back at school!
Know what this means?! Loosely translated, it means that starting today, I will have three straight hours to myself every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Three hours during which Miss Michelle and Miss Caren, Matt's preschool teachers, will work their magic on my child, saying cute things like "1-2-3, Eyes on Me" and "indoor voice." And unlike when I try my hand at this at home, Matt will turn to them with doe eyes and an ever-so-slight angelic smile and obey. Without complaint. Or whining. Those are powerful women.
Of course, this also means that I'll be at home, and I'll be wondering what the heck I'm to do with myself. For someone who CONSTANTLY has a running list in her head of tasks that must be completed, you'd think I'd have no problem strategizing and making some serious, productive use of my time. For Pete's sake, when Matt's in my care I develop a nervous eye-twitch thinking of all the things I should be doing when we're making chalk portraits on the patio, but somehow, that long, long list disappears when I return home after drop off, open the door, and put the keys on the table. The possibilities become endless. I could run through three loads of laundry (well, maybe two) from wash and dry to fold. I could dust every corner of this house so my husband will stop writing his name in the film on the TV. I could pre-order my Christmas cards. Yes, I could, but I do not.
What I do do is sit with coffee in hand and contemplate the universe, or at least my little portion of it. I dream of tearing through Matt's bedroom and his playroom, weeding out all those little nothing toys that seem to pop out of nowhere and multiply (yes, I take full responsibility for the McDonald's ones). I fantasize about emptying closets that have become the resting places for all the dearly departed junk we've collected over the past few seasons. I envision myself picking out the perfect wall color and possibly painting the kitchen and maybe even the family room, or at the very least taking a Magic Eraser to the walls and ridding myself of some scuff marks. And I delude myself into thinking that this is the year I'll turn my home into an age-appropriate, Martha Stewart-like haunted house (Matt would love that) in preparation for a spooktacular October, complete with cling-on window showcases of bats, leafless trees, and crows (that's my plan every fall...it never happens).
My daydreaming takes me from one thought to another and back again. I punctuate it here and there with making a bed, or folding a few little pairs of pants from the one load I did throw in, and checking the pantry for what I might need for dinner. Before I know it, a few hours have passed. I've now reached the bottom of my cup of joe, and while taking that last sip of a drink that's now cold, I wonder how my little guy's doing. I picture seeing that cute face as I round the corner to his classroom in just an hour or so, and the countdown to his return begins. I'm saving productivity for another morning. This one was just about dreaming.
Know what this means?! Loosely translated, it means that starting today, I will have three straight hours to myself every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Three hours during which Miss Michelle and Miss Caren, Matt's preschool teachers, will work their magic on my child, saying cute things like "1-2-3, Eyes on Me" and "indoor voice." And unlike when I try my hand at this at home, Matt will turn to them with doe eyes and an ever-so-slight angelic smile and obey. Without complaint. Or whining. Those are powerful women.
Of course, this also means that I'll be at home, and I'll be wondering what the heck I'm to do with myself. For someone who CONSTANTLY has a running list in her head of tasks that must be completed, you'd think I'd have no problem strategizing and making some serious, productive use of my time. For Pete's sake, when Matt's in my care I develop a nervous eye-twitch thinking of all the things I should be doing when we're making chalk portraits on the patio, but somehow, that long, long list disappears when I return home after drop off, open the door, and put the keys on the table. The possibilities become endless. I could run through three loads of laundry (well, maybe two) from wash and dry to fold. I could dust every corner of this house so my husband will stop writing his name in the film on the TV. I could pre-order my Christmas cards. Yes, I could, but I do not.
What I do do is sit with coffee in hand and contemplate the universe, or at least my little portion of it. I dream of tearing through Matt's bedroom and his playroom, weeding out all those little nothing toys that seem to pop out of nowhere and multiply (yes, I take full responsibility for the McDonald's ones). I fantasize about emptying closets that have become the resting places for all the dearly departed junk we've collected over the past few seasons. I envision myself picking out the perfect wall color and possibly painting the kitchen and maybe even the family room, or at the very least taking a Magic Eraser to the walls and ridding myself of some scuff marks. And I delude myself into thinking that this is the year I'll turn my home into an age-appropriate, Martha Stewart-like haunted house (Matt would love that) in preparation for a spooktacular October, complete with cling-on window showcases of bats, leafless trees, and crows (that's my plan every fall...it never happens).
My daydreaming takes me from one thought to another and back again. I punctuate it here and there with making a bed, or folding a few little pairs of pants from the one load I did throw in, and checking the pantry for what I might need for dinner. Before I know it, a few hours have passed. I've now reached the bottom of my cup of joe, and while taking that last sip of a drink that's now cold, I wonder how my little guy's doing. I picture seeing that cute face as I round the corner to his classroom in just an hour or so, and the countdown to his return begins. I'm saving productivity for another morning. This one was just about dreaming.
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