Author: Sheila Quirke

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My kid loves my poop.

Parenting is a humbling enterprise. Daily you get reminders of what you’re bad at, where you fail, what your limitations are, and, if you parent with someone, what your spouse or co-parent does better than you.

Then there are the reminders from your kids that their whole lives depend on you. You. Wow. If that doesn’t humble you, you must be Dexter, but worse, as Dexter is the sociopath with a heart. Worse than Dexter is really bad.

This morning I got one of those humbling reminders of what a child’s love means. How complete it is. How total and absolute is their love for you. This morning I realized that Mary Tyler Son loves my poop. That’s right, my poop. My son loves my poop. He is as interested and enamored of my poop as I am of his. If that is not the height of love, I don’t know what is.

When I go to the bathroom, he wants to go with me. He is interested in what I need to void at the moment – – is it solid or liquid? He cares and wants to know. He asks if I want privacy and seems to understand that if I do, it must be two. Number two, that is.

I mean who else loves my poop? Not me. Certainly not my husband. Most of my friends don’t give a fig about my poop. Sheesh, some friends. My sisters or my brother? My poop isn’t even on their radar. My colleagues? Those bitches couldn’t care less. But Mary Tyler Son? Mary Tyler Son loves my poop. He asks about it, he likes to see it, he even contemplates it.

I kid, yes, I know, but honestly, realizing this morning that Mary Tyler Son had a relationship with my poop, that he thinks about it, and likes to be present for its launch, was a wake up call. This boy loves me. He loves his Mama. He won’t always care about my poop, but right now he does. How sweet is that?

Childhood is fleeting. I know that more than most. Right now I am in love with a boy who loves my poop. I am happy. I heart his poop, too.

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Got Milk?

We are smack dab in the middle of World Breastfeeding Week.  I only know this because a fellow mommy blogger friend (Little Kids, Big City) wrote about it this morning.  You can read her words here.  I liked learning about her experiences.  It reminded me of some of my own nursing days and made me feel all warm and cozy.  Sigh.

I loved breastfeeding, which was kind of shocking to me as I was one of the least maternal moms I know.  Seriously.  I was bargaining with Mr. Mary Tyler Mom on my thirty-fifth birthday for a few more months before trying to make our first baby.  I am what you call a late bloomer.  When my second arrived we were living in Cancerville, in that God-forsaken subdivision known as Relapse Valley, and I somehow managed to breastfeed Mary Tyler Son, too, until my milk ran out just days after Donna died.  He was almost ten months old at the time, so I was okay with that. 

Obsessing about breastfeeding was a luxury/burden I simply did not have:  with my first I was too sad, grieving my Mom who had just died.  With my second, I was too terrified, just trying to make it through my days.  I also grew up Catholic, so you knows I have some issues about exposing my breasts.  My point is that for me, it wasn’t a political thing, my breastfeeding.  It was a sweet, amazing, tender transaction between me and my kids.  It was an opportunity and privilege to show my kids I love them in the most personal, intimate kind of way. 

Not all moms have that opportunity.  Some moms adopt their kids.  Some moms have medical issues.  Some moms try and try and try and try until blood pours from their nipples instead of milk.  Some moms are so depressed they can’t get out of bed, let alone nurse their baby.  Some moms are with men that don’t want them to breastfeed.  Some moms return to work just weeks after their babies are born and work in places that don’t take kindly to several times a day pumping breaks.  Some moms are ready, willing and able, but baby has different ideas and never takes to it.  Some moms just don’t want to. 

Is breastfeeding scientifically proven to be the best nutrition for an infant?  Yep, without question.  But you know what?  Things don’t always work out for the best.  We can plan and try and struggle, but not all of us are able to breastfeed.  We can judge and pontificate and feel superior, but that’s not very nice.  The thing is, when a new mom pulls out a bottle and formula to feed her baby, people notice.  Eyebrows are raised.  Just like when a new mom pulls out her breast to feed her baby.  People notice, different eyebrows are raised.  It sucks.  No matter what a new mom does, what choice she makes or what option is thrust upon her, she is judged. 

So, today, Wednesday of World Breastfeeding Week, I want to hand it to the gals who feed their babes from their breasts.  Lordy, that’s a commitment and it’s amazing.  But I also want to hand it to the gals who can’t or don’t breastfeed.  Here’s to you, too.  We are all trying, none of us get it right, but we keep trying.

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Don’t Hate Me Because I Have a Cleaning Lady.

It’s true, my clean little secret, if you will.  My name is Mary Tyler Mom and I have a cleaning lady.  “Hi, Mary Tyler Mom!” 

I blame my mother-in-law.  This dear lady, on the day of my mother’s funeral, gifted me six months of bi-weekly cleaning services.  I was five months pregnant and tired after helping care for my Mom for eleven months after an undiagnosed brain tumor bled out while she was playing a slot machine and paralyzed her before killing her.  The dust bunnies in my home were the size of caribou after that year.  Dust caribou are not so cute. 

I used to marvel at the middle-aged gals I worked with who talked about their cleaning ladies.  She does this, but she doesn’t do that . . . La.  Di.  Da.  Truth be told, it kind of made me sick.  They lived in a different world than I did, and apparently one that was much cleaner.  But then one day a gal spoke up and talked about her first cleaning lady.  She hired her when she was a single mom after her divorce.  Working full-time and living alone with her young daughter, she realized she was spending valuable family time cleaning.  She caught herself weekend after weekend cleaning rather than playing, cleaning rather than spending time with her girl.  She threw out her mops, called a cleaning service, and has outsourced the family dirt ever since.

I thought of that gal when the cleaning service gift was offered.  I was so bone tired from pregnancy and caregiving and grief that I embraced the life of one with a cleaning service.  I pretended to be a lady of leisure.  Who am I kidding?  It was easy.  When I went back to work after maternity leave and the gift ran out, we found a way to work it into the budget.  An unexpected expense, to be sure, but so damn worth it. 

I mean if someone had told me when I was a girl that I would marry for love, make babies, work a meaningful career, and have a cleaning lady, my eight year old self would have some pretty fancy ideas of what kind of life I had created.  My forty-one year old self knows I’m just living the best I can.  You make choices, you make sacrifices, good things happen, bad things happen, horrific things happen.  We all just do the best we can.

So, yeah, I have a cleaning service that comes once a month.  I don’t talk about it a lot, but when asked, I answer honestly.  We pay $110/month for two gals to come once every four weeks to clean every room in our home.  They change the sheets, but don’t launder them.  They clean the outside of the fridge, but not the mess on the inside.  My windows are filthy, ’cause they don’t do them and neither do I, but my baseboards shine.  And, yes, it is sometimes a pain in the ass when “cleaning day” arrives and I have to clear all the surfaces of folded laundry, or the bills I meant to pay, but haven’t yet, or empty the dish rack cause I don’t want anything broken, but I know not to yammer on about it.  I know we are some lucky freaking ducks to have the $ to pay someone else to clean our dirt.  That, I get. 

What I also get is that for me a messy house is a “hell to the no.”  I can’t stand dust caribou, and I love when my husband cooks, but hate cleaning up the mess he makes.  I mean geez, how hard is it to wipe the damn stove top down?  For some of us, too hard.  So to preserve our marriage and to keep me from harping and acting all the martyr, which I am entirely capable of, we choose to have help.  We outsource our dirt. 

If you promise not to hate me for having a cleaning service, I promise not to act all Gwyneth and pretend my home always looks the way it does on cleaning day.  I promise to keep it real and acknowledge I need help and choose to pay for it.  I promise to acknowledge not all can afford it, but I wish they could.  I promise that if you take a look at your own budget, you, too, might be able to afford it with a little less cable or a little less latte.  I promise life is just a little bit better with a clean home.  Deal?