Sweet

I'm loathe to add my thoughts on Valentine's Day to the world according to bloggy moms, because a) there's no lack for posts on the subject and b) I really don't have much nice to say about the holiday.

But I promise to make my complaints short, as well as to deliver a happy ending. Indeed, I even give you permission to skip right to the end, if you want (as if you needed my permission anyway)…

George and I are 0 for 4 for gifts in recent history. Our anniversary, his birthday, Christmas and my birthday all came and went without a gift. While this state of affairs certainly isn't reflective of how much we love each other, the "too busy" excuse is getting rather old. But, alas, I doubt February 14th will prove any different. 

It isn't George's fault. I don't like Valentine's Day. The holiday makes me passive aggressive. Anytime someone gives me a command to be nice to another person, I want to do the exact opposite. And since George and I aren't into S&M, there's really no way for me to act out this impulse in a clean kind of way. 

Plus, there were the many years that I boycotted the holiday due to, well, due to being perpetually single and not having a choice in the matter. During these times, my in-a-perfectly-perfect marriage mother would send flowers to me. While nice, the subtext of this gesture was extreme pity for my situation. Each fragrant bloom seemed to scream out to me, "Oh, poor, lonely, pathetic you! Someday, you'll find a man!" I don't like a holiday that discriminates against people on such an arbitrary thing as relationship status.

But my aversion to the holiday doesn't mean I don't believe in the power of love and the beauty of relationships. So, without further ado…here's the happy ending (Wait, you didn't really skip to the end, did you? Go back! Read about ME, dammit!…oh, sorry…) 

My bloggy mom friend Kristi from Finding Ninee shared a Valentine's Day project that I think is awesome.

Cool drawing by Kristi Campbell

You can send a Valentine's Day card via snail mail or the internet to a couple with special needs, who is celebrating their four-month wedding anniversary! (collective "awww", everyone!) As a former special educator, I love hearing stories that break through stereotypes about people with disabilities.  Go to her blog, Finding Ninee, to find out more about the project. 

It's sweet. Kristi's sweet. Valentine's Day's sweet, right? So this ends my sweet addition to Valentine's Day. 

Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day to my one and only, dear and lovely husband, George!


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Are You There God? It's Me, Rachel

MEMORANDUM                                            PRIORITY: URGENT                                                                         

2/9/2013

To:  Powers that be

Fr:  Rachel Demas, The Tao of Poop

Re:  Toddler Tantrums

First, let me take a moment to thank you for the opportunity to engage in toddler tantrums at the tender age of 18 months old. While we thought our daughter was a bit young for such behavior, we remain optimistic that getting a jump on the situation now will serve as great preparation come the dreaded "terrible twos" stage. Actually, the terrible twos brings me to the central issue of this memo.

It was my impression that tantrums this frequent, illogical, random, protracted, unpredictable, overwhelming, and unmanageable should commence when my daughter reaches the age of two, preferably on her birthday and not a day sooner. To my knowledge, they are upon us now. The early onset of this situation has me shocked and confused, and brings me to a question and a request.

Question: Will my daughter's tantrums get worse when she turns two? Given our current circumstance, I don't see how this scenario is possible. I write seeking your reassurance that this fear is as irrational as my daughter's recent tantrums seem to me. Your reassurance in this matter will allow me to move forward knowing that, indeed, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Request: Because my daughter's tantrums began at 18 months old, I would beseech you to relieve us of their burden by the time my daughter is two and a half. I realize I'm probably not the first parent to solicit your intercession on his or her behalf, and have no other special circumstances to report, which would have given my case additional merit. Further, I am aware that, as a first-time parent, I may appear naive about some of the vicissitudes of a toddler's behavior. However, I merely ask that you see the logic in my math. If the terrible twos start six months early (as, indeed, they have for us), I believe they should end six months early as well.

Please find attached requisite form OP-160 for your review. In advance, I appreciate that you have taken this missive under advisement. Further, I realize that you must be extremely busy with other pressing issues from desperate parents like me, so I would like to thank you for your attention in this matter.

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Photo Source: John Fera, Wikipedia, license

A Tale of Two Spa Days

My blogger mom friend Deb from Urban Moo Cow wrote a post recently about getting a facial and leaving feeling old. It's not true; check out her profile picture. She looks fab. And she runs marathons, but I digress.

I told her she got snowed. I wasn't trying to be mean. I was commiserating. The same thing happened to me…

Behold two tales…one of a facial, the other a massage. Both stories commence in similar fashion: I relax into the hands of a trained professional, and my body releases some of the stress of the day. Forty minutes later, each spa day experience starts to go in a different direction…

My facial conversation:

"Your skin is very dehydrated," the lady aesthetician says.

"Yeah. I should drink more water," I say.

"That's probably what's causing your skin to be so dry…" she says. "And these dark circles around your eyes."

"Oh," I say, starting to feel like a slob, dummy and loser. I begin projecting all kinds of crap into the conversation. She's saying one thing, but here's what I hear:

"Lucky you came in in time, because there's still hope, but just barely. Aveda makes x, y and z that can help with your giant failure to take care of your skin," she says. "Along with this, this and this for the kitchen sink of facial issues you've created for yourself. Oh, and, if you want to stop looking old, here's the other magic elixir for all of those wrinkles and fine lines that are like crevices all over your face."

She brings out a large green jar with great ceremony. It seems surrounded by a glow with heavenly powers. I hear the skies part, along with a violin crescendo. I'm at a crossroads in life --  either buy it, or future generations of my family will suffer the consequences.

An hour later, I leave the store weighed down with a green bag and a heavy heart, plus a resolve to do better by my skin, my country and the world. I feel some sort of moral imperative to exfoliate more.

Contrast that to my massage conversation:

"You carry a lot of stress in your shoulders," the masseuse says.

"Yeah, I have a one year old. I had her when I was older. Some of my stress comes from feeling like I'm too old and tired to keep up with her," I explain.

"Your an older mom?" she says. "How old are you?"

"I'm 45," I say.

"No! Really?" she says. "Your skin looks amazing. I never would have guessed that age and I see lots of skin. What do you use on your skin?

"Coconut oil..." I say. "Like the kind you use to cook with. I know it sounds crazy, but it's cheap and I have really dry skin, so it works for me."

"Wow, I have dry skin too. I'll have to give that a try," she says.

Coo Coo over Coconut Oil

I leave here feeling light as a feather, exactly how I should feel after a massage (and a facial for that matter).

The difference in my two tales? The first woman probably did have a mandate from above -- her superiors. Instill fear in me, shill a bunch of products and add a hefty commission to her meager salary. The second didn't have anything to sell other than her lovely, magic fingers.

Of course, the masseuse was looking for a nice tip; it's possible that money was part of her agenda too. All I know is that I felt much better after the massage. The facial was a different story.

I haven't been back for a facial since. If I ever get another wild hair to go back to Aveda, I've left a green bottle of toner in my medicine cabinet as a cautionary tale.

I mean, come on, I fell for toner? Honestly, I really don't even know what toner is!


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Motherhood and The Blues

My husband and I had a bad fight. The kind of fight that sends you off limping and licking your wounds. The kind that makes you wonder whether the wounds are fatal to your relationship. They never are, but you wonder.

I just wrote a post about my tendency to push myself beyond my limits, which turns me into a little dictator and my family into my little minions.

The opposite is also true. I get mired down in the tar pits of inertia. Life's challenges set up camp in my head and I react by retreating. The sink full of dishes goes undone, emails remain unanswered, writing gets neglected. 

My heavy heart feels like a character defect, unworthy of my compassion. I am reminded just how flawed I am. 

Sometimes, I wish that I could be relieved of the responsibility of caring for my daughter...just for awhile.

It's a frightening thing to say. I feel more scared by my reaction to life's rough spots, since having Claire. I can only hope that by speaking of the less savory sides of myself, I can give them voice and let them go.

I desperately want to find a balance between so many things:

taking care of me and taking care of my daughter

showing my daughter that I am a flawed woman, while being a safe, constant presence in the world for her

teaching her that we are all complex and weak, while striving to be a good example of what's right about humanity as well. 

I tell myself that my daughter won't be deeply scarred by a sink full of dishes. I remind myself that I have chosen to let some things go, so that I can focus what little extra energy I have on her. I remember that I don't withhold any love and attention from her, when I feel this way. I know she's too young to know that there is a sink full of dishes anyway. God has given me time.

But what if I don't get my act together in time? All I can do is believe.

I don't aspire to be like Donna Reed. We will never be the Cosby's. I know that George and I are not going to stop fighting every now and then. I know that life is going to have its challenges.

That's all ok. But I want Claire to learn to be more resilient than me. Hell, I want me to be more resilient than me!

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Photo Source: Artemis-Twitches, Deviant Art.  License This photo has been altered and does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, its use, or this blog.

Mothering, Mussolini-Style

The Demas family had a bad morning getting out of the house the other day. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say I had a rough start. 

We were off to a family get-together and the stars were not aligning for a swift exit. Usually, my stellar time management skills make up for the added tasks that a baby implies. Bad circumstances along with poor strategic planning made this trip different. 

First, Claire would only go to mama. George and I usually attack getting ready by handing off our daughter to one another, like a baton in a relay race. On this day, Claire had other things in mind. As did the weather, which decided to change seasons overnight. Locating and ironing clothes for both Claire and me with said daughter on my hip is not in my repertoire. While working one-handed, I was reminded of a sick challenge devised for a competition reality show like Survivor (except that I had no chance of winning a million dollars for my efforts). 

What's more, I was shuttling between the bedroom and the kitchen to make the dish we needed to bring (nothing like waiting 'til the last minute).  In general, chopping, mixing, and stirring while a child hangs on my apron strings wears me out. Add a deadline to get out the door, and I feel I'm going to boil over like the pot on the stove. 

I know what you're thinking: "Couldn't the free-handed husband cook and/or clothe the child?" To this query, my martyr self replies, "No. He would have ruined it".

I was actually pulling off most of the shitshow. It’s part of an illness, actually -- trying to push myself beyond my own limits to see what I am capable of doing. I end up feeling sickly proud of myself. The flip-side of the coin is that I feel exhausted and resentful as well -- bad for me and bad for the people around me. I remind myself of Mussolini, keeping the trains running on time while losing track of humanity altogether. 

Babies have a way of finding your Achilles heel, though. My obsession with productivity can make me forget what’s really important -- being in the moment, enjoying my child and husband, respecting my own needs and those of the people around me. 

Sorry, Mr. Mussolini, we will just have to be late next time.

"Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful"

I was not, am not, nor will I ever be a South American beauty queen. My husband married me anyway. But a nagging question remains in the back of my head: Did he chose to marry me? Or was it because the South American beauty queen wouldn't give him the time of day?

I'm not willing to risk it to find out the answer. I'm sticking with the belief that he made the right choice rather than court that kind of temptation.

Of course, George tells me he picked me above all others. Of course, he's going to say that! He's smart enough to know what to say. And he probably actually believes that he actually had a shot with the South American beauty queen (insert eye roll here).

A woman sparked the rant above. Her name is Gabriella Gabriella*. I saw her on Facebook. You know, she's the one who's so beautiful you're compelled to say her name TWICE. When you click on her profile, you notice the name that's double the fun first. Next, you contemplate another set of twins -- two round, buoyant, FAKE boobs.

There she is in her cover photo taunting me…all twenty-something, tanned and bootylicious in her bikini like a Sports Illustrated model on some exotic beach somewhere with a trucker hat on instead of the requisite crown.

Gabriella Gabriella. She's the one Frank Evans* recommended to my husband as a BABYSITTER!

Did your jaw just drop like mine? Was your next thought, "Yeah, that's not happening"? Funny! So was mine!

Why in the world would I hire her? Would IBM hire someone if they presented themselves at the interview in their underwear? How about an applicant without a last name? I picture a giant, red, corporate rubber stamp on the front of that resume that reads "NO!" Can anyone give me a "MOM VETO"?

No! She's NOT babysitting my daughter. Her look screams that babysitting is a back-up plan on the road to larger pursuits.

Yet...my rush to judgment is not lost on me. Really, I'm not worried about my husband and Gabriella Gabriella. He and I love each other til death do us part. My judgment is because of her appearance, plain and simple. I admit it. Didn't I just write a post about wanting women to support one another more? I really had every intention of including women who've had boob jobs in my post!

I'm a hypocrite, guilty of reverse discrimination. Possibly, I'm passing on the best babysitter ever, because I'm not willing to give her a chance.

Luckily, I won't have to engage any deeper with my hypocrisy. Gabriella Gabriella is looking for a full-time nanny position. Not something we need here at Chez Demas. If we were looking for a nanny, though, I'd prefer to click on a picture more akin to Nanny McPhee than Giselle Bunchen.

In my superficial defense, I will leave you with this image to ponder:

*Names changed to protect the innocent

Photo Source: Khanh Hoa newspaper's reporter, Wikipedia

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Art Imitates Life

At 20 months old, Claire is a breastfed toddler. My goal is to continue breastfeeding until she's two. Once we reach that mark, I may reconsider and continue. Claire happens to be a child who loves to breastfeed. I don't have a problem obliging her something that seems relatively uncomplicated for me to do. 

But I'm not trying to make a political statement. Nor am I trying to tell others what to do either. I know many people find my choice offensive. After all, I wasn't living under a rock when the controversy surrounding the Time article on extended breastfeeding happened. Really, I'm not the type of person who openly courts conflict. It doesn't make me happy that people feel uncomfortable, embarrassed or offended by my decision. 

Lately, I've noticed more dirty looks from people when I breastfeed in public. What surprises me is that 100% of the looks come from women. And that they express their disapproval by staring long enough to make me want to shout, "Take a picture, why dontcha!"  Honestly, I do my best to be discreet (you see more boob on the red carpet, actually). I want to respect other people, but I don't deserve to feel ashamed either. 

When it all starts to get to me, I remember a time when I felt a calling from above. A higher power touched me on the shoulder. The Virgin Mary seemed on my side.

This summer, I was walking in a Northern Renaissance gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. I looked around and counted. Ten out of 30 paintings showed the baby Jesus breastfeeding. And we're not talking "away in the manger" baby Jesus. Many of the images were of a big, tall, cherubic baby Jesus, who had clearly mastered the skill of walking. In some of the paintings, the Madonna was shown bare-breasted, as the Son of God reached for sustenance. 

In truth, it's probably more accurate to say that breastfeeding a toddler was well and good to the Northern Renaissance painters of those images than to the Virgin Mary herself (after all, who can say how long Jesus was breastfed). 

But that's fine too. It reminds me that beliefs about breastfeeding are culturally constructed and shifting. I realize that people's offense today is not an absolute. If I were living in the Renaissance, rich patrons of the arts would be sharing their living spaces with paintings in which breastfeeding is exalted. 

Of course, it's not the Renaissance. And I don't need these kinds of images in homes to justify my choices. The Met can keep their paintings right where they are. 

But I do have a wish for the world in 2013: I wish that people would let others do what they think is best for their children. I wish that women supported one another more. I wish that we could all be tolerant of one another's personal beliefs. 

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