When I was 16, I looked 12, and worried parents often scowled at me as I kissed my boyfriend behind the bleachers. When I was 21, I looked 17 and was disturbingly appealing to the frat boys. When I was 24 I still looked 17 and was carded for wine, which my educated palate finally preferred over cheap beer and Jello shots. When I was 26, old women glared at the ring on my left hand and asked how someone so young could possibly be married.
Now at 27, the come-ons from frat boys are fewer and further between, and once in a while a bartender will forgo the identification and serve my drink without the third degree. Then again, I suppose it’s more likely that I’m of age when I order a Scotch on the rocks with a splash of water instead of jungle juice or a purple hooter.
I have long hoped to look my age. I hate sitting in meetings at work and feeling like every 45-year-old eye is analyzing my choice of suit and thinking that my every word should be cushioned by “yeah, dude!”
Whether others believe I’m 27 or not, I haven’t seen a 27-year-old in the mirror until today. A woman stared back at me as I examined the razor-thin lines at the corners of my eyes. The woman slathered moisturizing cream on her face and tsked the talk show host who allowed a guest to badmouth the audience. She had the nerve to complain about the rowdy neighbors. She tried on a bikini and wished that clothing companies used just a tad bit more fabric. She started a sentence with, “When I was your age…”
When I did I become old? When did staying home on a Friday night sound like a wonderful idea and a loud party sound like hell on earth? Who is this old lady looking back at me in the mirror?
Strangely, that old woman in the mirror looks like my mother.
My mother has always been beautiful to me, and I do hope that’s her I see in the mirror. I remember reclining against her in church, listening to the hymns echo in her chest, vibrate in her throat and ring from her mouth. I remember the hymns as the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard because my mother was the most beautiful woman to sing them. I remember her strong hands clapping to the time of the music, and thinking that her short, torn nails symbolized strength while her tanned skin symbolized endurance. They told the tales of Saturday afternoons spent in the garden and Monday mornings spent clothing my sisters and me.
The simple golden band on her left hand seemed to exude deep riches that even the wealthiest miner would envy. The sparkle in her blue eyes told of a light-hearted wisdom she’d earned from years of living on little and nobly earning every penny she spent. She could make a trip to McDonald’s feel like a royal meal and an afternoon at Home Depot feel like a vacation.
She used to leave the bathroom door open as she prepared for church on Sundays. Her fair, taut skin hardly needed the makeup that she wore only to church. Her smooth skin still looks like she’s never spent a day in the sun and belies the years of hard work she has endured. I hope my skin looks like hers.
I hope my future children will sit on my lap and listen to the music echo from my soul. I hope my children will try to sneak cookies as I pull them from the oven and will learn how to bake a cake by helping me measure the flour. I hope they will bounce on their grandmother’s lap and hold onto her strong, tan hands, and I hope they will think of my hands and recognize the lines at my eyes as beautiful like their grandmother’s. I hope they will see their grandmother, because today I saw my mom in the mirror, and that’s the best sight I’ve seen in a very long time.
Paul and the DJ talked on and on about how you had to live in that era to appreciate the music and the cars. I’m so tired of hearing that. I’m so tired of hearing that today’s music is all crap and no one born after 1950 has any manners, taste or morals.
I was born in 1978 but raised on Nick at Nite and the old Disney Channel classics. At one time I knew the original Mousketeers’ names and longed to have jet-black hair like Annette Funicello or be as cool as Gidget. I had a crush on Ricky Nelson in his “Ozzy and Harriet” days, before I knew he was a famous singer who died before I even “discovered” him. I still cry when I hear “Last Kiss” (no, not the Pearl Jam remake) and love to rock out to “Stagger Lee.”
Thanks to my parents, I get nostalgic when I see reruns of “The Patty Duke Show” (I prefered Patty over Cathy — how could you not like a girl when “a hot dog makes her lose control”?), and I laugh when the Beave gets hollered at. Perhaps my parents should have been worried when I thought Eddie Haskell was the cute one.
I still laugh out loud during the episode of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” when the clown dies. (What was his name? “A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.” Classic.) I don’t know if the episode is really that funny, or if I like it so much because it’s my dad’s favorite episode, and when I watch it I can still hear him chuckling, his chuckles erupting into hearty belly laughs as Mary first laughs, then bursts into tears at the funeral.
Even though I didn’t live in the 1950s and ’60s, I miss those days. I miss the TV families from “Father Knows Best” and “Donna Reed.” I miss the innocence of riding bikes through the neighborhood while the mean ol’ man down the block yells at the kids to stay out of his yard, a la “Dennis the Menace.” Living in 2006, I lock my doors when I’m home alone during the day and cringe when I see a child playing alone in a front yard. Where are his parents? What kind of trouble is he going to get into?
Maybe it’s not the TV life I miss, but the youth that no one can ever reclaim. I will never be 10 years old again, jitterbugging with my dad in the living room and rolling my eyes when he cranks up “At the Hop” on his old record player. Then again, according to our local radio DJ, I’m lucky in this day and age to know what a record player is. I’ll probably never spend a whole Saturday watching Westerns with my mom while folding laundrdy and cleaning the bathrooms during the commercial breaks. My mom understands how important “Wagon Train,” “Gunsmoke” and “Bonanza” are to a child’s development! I’ll never climb the old cherry-plum tree with my Barbies in tow to build them a tree house and get lost in my imagination for the rest of the afternoon. Long gone are the days of rollerskating around the block and collapsing on the lawn and watching the clouds change shapes. I’ll no longer tag along with my sisters to the corner grocery store where we would blow our allowance on Now & Laters and Nerds. I still don’t know why my mom let us eat that much candy, but now I don’t really eat much candy, so maybe she knew what she was doing.
I guess missing the past is part of how we enjoy the future. We remember what was and try to create it for your children. We try to reclaim our youth, if only vicariously through future generations. This time it will be me cranking up the volume on the CD player (sadly, we don’t even own a record player) while my kids roll their eyes and beg to play outside instead of jitterbug with me to “Blue Suede Shoes.” I’ll be the one showing them the humor in “I Love Lucy” (although if they can’t see the humor of trying to say Vitameatavegamin while getting drunk, well, there may be no hope). I’ll throw in my own generation’s history and trivia as well, but I hope my children and I never lose an affection for black-and-white TV and sappy love songs recorded on a scratchy 45.
I discovered a fun trick last week — I can squirt milk. The first time it happened was a bit of a surprise, definitely not what I expected when Emma pulled away to catch her breath while nursing. The poor kid got squirted in the face while I frantically grabbed a burp rag and tried to stop the flow. The next several days, I strategically placed a towel under Emma when she nursed to sop up the excess milk. Then I tried playing around with my new talent, directing the stream at various targets and pushing harder to achieve maximum distance and velocity. Hey, don’t judge. When you’re sitting in a rocking chair with a baby latched to your chest, you’ll find strange ways to entertain yourself too. I can’t control the stream, and Emma still gets a face full of milk when she pulls away too early, but I have figured out how to quickly grab a towel and divert the spray before she gets a full-on shower.
Tonight I decided I need to stop wasting all that precious life-juice (ok, so maybe that’s a bit lofty of a title, but this is my blog, I can call it what I want). I pulled out the breast pump my friend Katie gave me (thank you, thank you, thank you!) and dubiously read the directions. I’ve heard that manual pumps aren’t very helpful — they take too long to get a worthwhile amount of milk and they’re a pain (literally!) to use. I’ve also heard that electric pumps, which retail for about $300, are the only way to go. Not wanting to fork over $300 before giving it the old college try, I thought I’d hook myself up to the pump and see what it can do.
This pump is the coolest thing ever! It didn’t take much effort to get the ol’ milk flowing and after just a few minutes the bottle was nearly full! Apparently I’m not one of the unlucky women whose breasts don’t cooperate with pumps. Oh no. My boobs work overtime at the slightest encouragement! If I were a cow I’d bring top dollar at the dairy farm!
This opens a whole new world to me! I no longer have to worry about being in a nursing-friendly location every two hours when Emma decides it’s time to eat. I can leave her with Sean and a few bags of stored milk and he can take care of her for the day. I can make him get up at 2 a.m.! Oh, the possibilities are endless! I have a hair appointment in a few weeks and now I don’t have to worry that it’ll take too long and that Emma is starving at home while I’m waiting for the dye to set! I’m so excited!
I’m planning on breastfeeding Emma for at least nine months. That’s a long time to be tethered to a baby via the nipple. Being available to her whenever she gets hungry is a big responsibility and a big time commitment. It’s nice to know I can take a break from time to time and let Sean take over feeding duty. It’s also nice to know we won’t have to resort to formula when I go back to work.
It’s been fun to reflect on how my body and my mind have changed — and continue to change — since getting pregnant. Now I can add my boobs to the list of things that have transformed during this strange stage of my life. They’re no longer “extra” body parts mostly appreciated by men and bra manufacturers. They’re now functional — they sustain the most important thing in my life, my child, and I’m proud of the copious milk they produce.
I’ve always fought that 1950s martyred housewife mentality. This is the 21st century! I’m an educated, independent woman who is married to an equally independent man who can make his own damn dinner if I’m too tired or just don’t feel like it. Since when did saying “I do” become a contract to play maid as well as wife? But I find myself feeling like a failure if I’m not the best wife, best maid, best cook, best mom, best…everything!
So my split personalities are dueling, and I’m not sure who will win, or who I want to win. While I want to proudly boast that Donna Reed is dead, I also want to be able to “do it all” — have a clean house, a happy baby and a stocked fridge. Oh yeah, and somewhere among all those achievements I’ll also be clean and happy… and lose 15 pounds, catch up on some light reading and watch the news every night so I can carry on an adult conversation the next time I host a fabulous dinner party.
But I’m finding out that those goals come with a lot of guilt. No wonder those 1950s wonder women started martini hour at 3 p.m. I feel guilty when the day flies by and I have nothing to show for it. I’m caught up on who’s cheating and who’s on the verge of death on “Days of our Lives,” but I haven’t opened a book in months. That’s another car on the guilt train. I’ve managed to keep the kitchen tidy, but I haven’t touched the mop, and don’t look too closely at the haphazard cupboards. Major guilt trip when my husband comes home and makes dinner for both of us in a dirty kitchen. What kind of wife allows that?
New moms are supposed to question their mothering abilities. Is it bad that taking care of Emma is the last of my concerns? I’m more worried about failing as a “good wife” than being a good mom. And admitting that makes me feel like a failure as a woman. That alone makes martini hour sound awfully appealing!
Then all hell broke loose.
Sean stepped out of the shower and was about to get dressed when I heard him yell, “Jack has a mouse!” Sean ran — buck naked! — into the hallway while Rusty galloped after him to see what all the excitement was about. Loki and Sami hunkered down while Jack toyed with his prey in the corner. Apparently a giant naked man and a wild-eyed dog lumbering toward him were enough to scare Jack off the mouse, and all three cats scattered down the hallway.
Sean yelled at me to control Rusty and get him a flashlight and a plastic bag so he could scoop the mouse up. I yelled at Sean to stop yelling because he’ll wake Emma up. Rusty barked at me for yelling at Sean. The cats were meowing and the poor brown mouse was huddled in a corner possibly more scared of the noise than his imminent death.
I suppose a hunter is always a hunter, whether he’s in the field or crouched over a mouse in his house. Sean turned into a naked, domesticated Rambo, stalking his prey. He scared the mouse out of the corner, only to drive him into the water-heater closet. He cursed our lack of pellet gun (the weapon of choice when hunting a mouse) and said he had no choice, he’d have to spear the little fella. At this point, I forgot about our dear sleeping daughter and squealed at the idea of spearing an animal in the house. Besides, this is Dayton, not the Amazon, and we don’t have spears. In suburbia, a barbecue skewer is as close to a spear as we get, and that’s just what Sean used…
Don’t worry, he didn’t kill the mouse. Amid colorful language that I hope our daughter was still too asleep to hear, Sean The Hunter jabbed the skewer at the mouse over and over again, somehow missing every time. To Sean’s credit, the mouse was in the back of the closet behind the water heater.
Then Sean had the brilliant idea to let the “real” mouse hunter earn his keep; he shoved Jack into the closet to finish the job he started. I have to admire Sean’s courage — I wouldn’t get near Jack’s claws with no clothes on!
I was still holding Rusty and yelling at Sean that his idea sucks and would he please keep it down because Emma is sleeping. (Have you caught onto my logic yet? MY yelling won’t wake her up, just his.)
Finally Sean came to the conclusion that hunting the mouse was a lost cause, and I think maybe he was getting cold too. So we left the closet door open, hoping the cats would take over once we humans got out of the picture. Sure enough, we woke to a dead mouse in the hallway this morning.
Oh, a bonus for all you slapstick fans: As I was about to get into bed, Sean walked through the door and threw the wadded-up plastic bag in my face. Thinking it was the mouse, I screamed and fell over backward, barely catching myself before ending up on the floor. Sean went to bed giggling like a little girl, and I’m sure he had sweet dreams of me jumping out of my skin. That, my friends, is true love.
