Is it just me, or does North America feel a bit, um, hotter these days? With this week’s election of Justin Trudeau as Canada’s new prime minister, the leaders of the free world that happen to reside in North America make my heart beat just a little faster. Not to be crass, but damn, they are some fine looking politicians.
Exhibit A:
Justin Trudeau, Barack Obama, and Enrique Pena Nieto — North America represents, my friends.
As the busy mother of two young sons, I work from home and have taken to soft pants more days than I care to admit. Most of my verbal interactions are with children under age six or the occasional cashier. Long story short, my best flirting days are probably behind me.
But just because I am firmly entrenched in middle adulthood does not make me blind. Or impervious to the charms of handsome, powerful men that just happen to lead the nations of Canada, America, and Mexico. We’re talking some heavy political slam, bam, thank you, ma’am here.
I mean, come on. If there was a Tiger Beat magazine equivalent for middle aged liberal moms, these three would be fighting for both cover and centerfold space. Swoon with a capital “S,” my friends.
Sigh. Yes, I can be a political wonk. Smart men are my jam. Smart men with charisma and power? Yes, please. Barack Obama, Enrique Pena Nieto, and Trudeau all fit that bill. Politics aside, we can agree that these are three exceptionally attractive cool cats, right? Cool cats that just happen, ahem, to lead their North American countries.
I have to laugh because just a week or so ago I got invited to go to a Chippendale’s performance with some other bloggers. Um, no. I politely declined, truthfully admitting that huge, muscular Hulk like men did nothing for me. Nada. Not a thing.
And then, today, when I put two and two together and realized that this trifecta of manly perfection was leading both the country I live in, then the countries directly north and south of me, well, now that held my interest. I am fairly certain that if these three gents were doing a one night appearance at Chippendale’s, I might not be so quick to decline.
Yes, gentlemen, talk politics to me. I’m listening.
Pffft. Unsolicited advice — just what every new mom needs, am I right? As if the poor gal isn’t the target of mountains of the stuff every. single. day (which is, in itself, a beautiful metaphor for the laundry that comes with motherhood). My absolute favorite piece of advice I got as I neared motherhood myself came from a woman who happened to work at the same place I did. She told me, with certain authority, that as soon as my baby was born, I would want to place a hard boiled egg in a baby sock and nail it above the baby’s nursery door. This would prevent teething pain.
Of course it would.
Like I said, pffft.
The advice I am providing you, though, is different. Of course. My advice is golden, sure to calm, soothe, reassure, and provide confidence in this new role of a lifetime. This advice is hard earned wisdom, yo, from someone who’s been at this thing since 2005 and whose motherhood carries several different descriptors to qualify it — grieving mom, biological mom, adoptive mom. I dare say those things have earned me some serious mama street cred.
In the early hours of my labor with Donna. We went to the local mall as it was cool. I kept making Mary Tyler Dad take these photos of me with prophetic messages at Kohl’s. Sort of breaks my heart when I look at them now, but that’s motherhood for you.
Humor aside, I have learned a thing or two along the way with my own personal motherhood trials and triumphs. I’ve also learned that giving advice has to be done with a grain of salt, as most of us don’t heed the advice we get — even the advice we seek out. Given that what I offer you is unsolicited, well, I get that most new moms will have to come to this wisdom on their own. That’s cool. You’re missing out, but that’s cool.
Ha! On to the advice . . .
You don’t need that thingamajig. Seriously. You don’t. Whatever you see on the end caps at Buy Buy Baby (the most egregiously named retailer in the history of retailers), ignore it. Step away, new mom. That shit is nonsense. Wipe warmers? NO. Individual plastic bags to encase a poopy diaper like the most unfortunate sausage ever? NO. A bottle cover shaped like a stuffed elephant/giraffe/monkey for $19.99? HELL NO. Your baby might have been born yesterday, but you weren’t. Think about what your grandmother used to raise your mom. Buy that. You’re done and would have saved yourself a ton of money that you can put towards diapers and bibs, of which you will use way more than you could have ever possibly imagined.
Put the book and keyboard down. I have never ever read a parenting book. Sure, I own a few, and even use them on occasion, just as I do a very few parenting websites, but overall I find that outlets for baby information tend to breed hysteria and insecurity. They are full of mysterious letters, acronyms, and abbreviations that clearly mean something to the regular consumers, but for us mere mortals, they are confusing and lead to a state of feeling out of the loop and dumb where our own baby is concerned. Ask a trusted source instead — your own mom, a sister, close friend, trusted neighbor. Ask a person whose parenting you admire and, if you need to, put that person on speed dial until you get your feet wet enough to start trusting your own instincts.
Some days will be overwhelming in a really bad way. I guarantee that at some point you will be lying on a heap in the middle of your kitchen or bathroom, rocking your baby, covered in pee or poop or vomit, unshowered, wearing maternity clothing whose expiration date was 8-14 months ago, feeling about just as bad as you can ever remember feeling, but you will be holding a little one, too, who will most likely be wailing to add to the atmosphere. It’s okay. It will all be okay. This too shall pass. I promise.
Some days will be overwhelming in a really great way. You cannot imagine the joy and love and wonder that will be heading your way, the magnitude of which you yourself have not known since your own childhood. There are days ahead that will be etched in your memory forever. Days so profound and perfect they will bring you comfort in your old age while you rock back and forth waiting for that baby, now grown and off in the world, to come visit you. Your heart will burst at the smiles you will receive, the spontaneous sticky hugs, the homemade cards, the pride felt at watching this beautiful creature you tend to every day fly like a bird.
Build a village. This parenting thing is hard. You will need help. I don’t care how Type A, organized, or overachieving you may be, you will still need help. Find that help. For some, that will be grandparents. For others, friends. Nannies and babysitters are part of this formula, too. Be creative. I have a mix of friends, neighbors, and school support. Know that your village will evolve, too. Each of my three children has benefited from a series of people outside our immediate family that helped in their day-to-day care when needed. I am still working on a solution for my youngest at eight months, so know that it takes time and effort, too, this building of villages. The flip side of this, too, is making yourself available to be a part of another mom’s village.
You will make mistakes. This has to be understood. You are not perfect. Do not expect motherhood to be different than any other venture you have set out on. Our kiddos are resilient. They actually improve with our mistakes, I am convinced, as long as those mistakes are not the same ones over and over. And when you make a mistake, own it, learn from it, integrate it. Then, by all means, move the hell on. Guilt is no one’s friend, especially to the new mother.
Stop comparing yourself and your child to those around you. Yeah, this is not good. And with this social media, Pinterest world we live in now, comparing ourselves has become something of a blood sport in motherhood. You don’t have to engage in that shit. You really don’t. If Jenny puts a photo of homemade cupcakes in her newsfeed, give Jenny a cheer, but don’t you dare for even one moment think that Jenny’s cupcakes have any bearing on your life in any way, shape or form. Truth.
Control is an illusion. With my first child, I breastfed and made my own baby food using organic produce. She was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died. We do the best we can, but in no way are we in complete control of what happens to our children. And rather than that putting you in a place of fear, I hope it liberates you. Life happens, but only if you live it.
You have a strength that you never thought possible. You are a mother now, dammit. I can hear your ROAR from here, and I’m all the way in Chicago! This mothering thing will challenge you like nothing else you have encountered. You possess a strength and core of steel that you never realized because you never needed it before these moments. Use that strength, trust that strength, and never, ever abuse that strength. Our babies rely on us for everything. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. That is some powerful stuff, there, mama. You got this.
So there it is, my unsolicited advice to new mothers! Is it everything you thought it would be? Better? If so, spread the word and share it with the new moms in your life. They won’t heed the advice, but chances are they will resent you for sending it to them, so there’s that. Ha!
Got milk?
If you want more of this, I have invited all of ChicagoNow bloggers to do as I have done here today and write a letter to a new mom. You know there are some words of wisdom to be found in this experiment. You can find all the posts catalogued here.
You can not erase what you are about to read about me, so if you have an image of Mary Tyler Mom that you wish to protect, then step away from the screen right now. Seriously, I’ll wait. Power that sucker off, cause what I’m about to reveal ain’t pretty.
Okay . . . if you’re still here, you must be a die hard fan, stronger than the leading brand of paper towels, or both. I love you.
This workshop happens every other year (hence the bi-annual) and offers sessions for humor and human interest writers. There is also a competition that you can submit your own writing to to be considered as funny, charming, and gifted as Ms. Bombeck. I had enough hubris in 2012 to do just that, thinking I had a real shot. Ha! (Can you hear the sad trombones playing?)
Erma Bombeck was so freaking ahead of her time. She is the patron saint of all mom bloggers. Or should be. My Mom, who had a dark and quietly disturbed, though well hidden, sense of humor, loved her. I do, too.
But enough about Erma. This post is about me.
I was already jealous that two friends were going and didn’t think to invite me along (it’s the Midwest, bitches — I totally would have happily been your third wheel and bought you pinot grigio and Modelo), when Rach Riot tells me that Phil Donahue is scheduled as the keynote speaker.
Swoon. Phil Donahue. Just look at that microphone, those glasses, that shock of thick, white hair. I can practically see the values oozing out of him.
PHIL FREAKING DONAHUE.
I love Phil Donahue. I have loved Phil Donahue for as long as I can remember. In the 8th grade, we needed to submit a book report from an autobiography. Most of my classmates were doing sports stars or Anne Frank. I was the dork who wrote about Phil Donahue. His autobiography had come out in 1981 and I gobbled it up as a sixth grader. Serious dork, I tell you.
Phil was one of my first crushes. He’s handsome in that Midwestern Irish sort of way. He’s smart as hell. And let’s just say that our politics overlap a wee bit. Yes, my grade school classmates will gladly confirm that I had politics as a sixth grader. Sigh. Proud dork here.
There’s not too many young girls who crush out on liberal talk show hosts. I was one of them. An odd duck always and forever. And to think I didn’t run with the popular crowd . . .
Crushes are a wonderful thing, aren’t they? I think we can all agree on that. They make you all tingly inside and are good for the soul. Even as a happily married adult, I recommend them. The trick, my friends, is just not to make your crushes too accessible.
Like, it’s a bad thing if you are married and heavily crushing on the dude in the cubicle next to yours. Not cool. That’s way too dangerous. Just put that shit away, my friend. Don’t go there.
The trick to a healthy adult crush is its inaccessibility. The more out of reach the better.
Given my long and proud history of odd crushes, there was an adult crush I had a few years ago that got me in some hot water. It was often the topic of cocktails parties, once I was outed by my husband. The jerk.
In the early 2000s, Mary Tyler Dad and I loved to entertain. We were young, married, child free. This was before cancer had its way with us. I cooked up this idea for what I sweetly referred to as our “Sexy Party.” Doesn’t it sound naughty? It wasn’t. It was just your run o’ the mill dinner party, but we kept the invitation list small and restricted to our friends we thought qualified as sexy. There was a written invitation that encouraged guests to dress in whatever helped them feel sexy. I am certain we served what we felt was a sexy menu. Passion fruit martini, anyone?
You get the drift.
Well the party was a complete and utter success. Everyone was getting along (when hosting a dinner party, always invite folks who don’t know one another well — it adds to conversation), the food was delicious, and I was delightfully buzzed, as were most of our guests. Plus, I was looking good. I remember exactly what I wore to our Sexy Party. Tuxedo pants, black strappy heels, and a backless top. I’m not gonna lie, I looked hot.
But enough about me.
Oh wait, this whole post is about ME. More me!
At some point at the table, after dinner, I think, and before dessert, us Sexy Party guests started talking about crushes. There was a lot of chit chat about the usual suspects — Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Julia Roberts, Halle Berry. Yawn.
Then, Mary Tyler Dad teased our guests with the fact that I had a secret crush. WHO?, everyone demanded. NO!, I replied, not gonna happen. You see, this particular crush was not politically correct in any way, shape, or form. But Mary Tyler Dad, well, he couldn’t stop himself. He let it slip, I think intentionally. I’m still mad at him.
Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense under both Presidents Gerald Ford and George W. Bush.
Hi, my name is Mary Tyler Mom and I had a crush on Donald Rumsfeld. HI, MARY TYLER MOM!. Sigh.
Donald Rumsfeld, neocon extraordinare, one of the masterminds of the Iraq War, famous for his “It is what it is” speech. Yeah, it was like a lead bomb, pun completely intended, had fallen over our Sexy Party. Some friends still look at me differently.
I might hold my head in shame over this particular crush, but you have to admit, he is a pretty spiffy looking man, right? And power is always attractive, right? Right?
No? Oh well. What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. Apparently, my heart wants older, white haired, powerful political beasts — either end of the spectrum.
Never be ashamed of your crushes, I tell you. Never!
Now, before I die of embarrassment, please tell me your odd crush. GO!
Mary Tyler Mom 