Mama Says

This was not my plan.
 
Kids were not in the picture of my future in any way, at any time in my life. I was a strange little girl who at age 7 said, “I don’t need a man, and I’m not having kids.” So I spent my life living for me.  I did not pine away or hope for the right man to raise my kids with, because I did not want to live that life.  Sure, I had my share of long-term boyfriends, but it is amazing what you will settle for when you don’t care about having any kids.
 
I was having a grand ol’ time, living life all for me.  Then I got distracted and the next thing I knew, I was pregnant.  Ok, I’ll come right out and say it: The first baby was an accident.  So I stuck with it.  I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.  Within the course of a year, I went from never wanting kids to being pregnant and married.  I went from “Never, ever, ever will I wait on a man like my mother did,” to being an old-fashioned homemaker.  
 
The roller coaster of emotions that ensued in the next three years was overwhelming.  I went from shock, to giddy, to sick, tired and huge in 9 months. Then, after the baby was born, I was back to giddy, then resentful, guilt-ridden (from the resentment), angry, depressed and completely lost.  I did not know how to do this mother thing.
 
So I read books...lots of them.  Some helped, and some only made me more confused.  I have seen therapists and searched for friends who understand what I’m going through (not many, I must admit).  It is hard to find women who don’t really care for babies, and can hardly stand to be around a two-year-old. I loved mine, of course, but could not wait until we could have a more logical conversation.
 
I spent so many years living for me, that learning to live completely in the moment for an illogical little creature has been the hardest lesson of my life. But I have grown tremendously in the last few years.  The growing pains have been unbearable at times, but I am stronger, more resilient, patient, and compassionate. I have found a deep well of love in my heart that I did not know existed.
 
Because I have children, I have not allowed myself to consider running from my relationship when things get difficult, as I once would have done.  I have learned to accept my husband’s faults and deal with living with someone who I am not always compatible with.  I have learned to compromise as well as stand up for myself.

There have been times, in the midst of misery and post-partum depression, that I felt I was drowning.  I couldn’t breathe.  I thought I was not going to make it through this.  I feel like I have risen to the surface, and most days I am swimming somewhat gracefully to shore.
 
My children have forced me through the most painful growth I could ever imagine.  I thank them with all of my heart for coming into my life and being my teachers.  I know I am not done yet.  In fact, I have only just begun on this path as a parent.  I am still growing, and some days will again make me wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into.  But most days I know that my children have helped me to become a person that I never would have been without them.  I only hope I can do the same for them.
 
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Gender Politics and Who’s Cooking Dinner….It’s Complicated or
I Don’t Want to Cook but I Don’t Have a Fucking Choice and My Husband Does.
 
I’m being taken advantage of, and I am beginning to suspect it’s not just me. In my successful marriage of twelve years to a truly good man, I feel I’m being taken advantage of stemming exclusively from the fact that I am the primary caretaker of our three children and as such spend the bulk of my time in our home.
 
There are a thousand avenues to go down from here—cleaning, laundry, playdate planning, doctor visiting, birthday party planning etc.—but the one I’m going to focus on is the one I like least but am by default required to do…cooking.  Neither my husband nor I are natural cooks.  Neither was raised to cook, (every meal of my childhood could be prepared in 15 minutes or less) and though we enjoy food, neither of us is passionate about it.  It’s not that my husband thinks he’s above cooking, or even truly dislikes it - not so, he just doesn’t think cooking.  Left to him, with no prior thought whatsoever, he would look up at 6 pm and say, “So what should we have for dinner?”  His brain is not adept at meal planning, shopping, or even defrosting.
 
I find the burden of food preparation overwhelming. Not just on top of everything else (diapers, baths, fussing, getting dressed)—it truly stands alone. With children it’s constant.  Breakfast (and dishes, as if), sack lunch, snack, lunch (maybe some dishes), snack, and then the big effort: Dinner. And then when that isn’t good enough, snack!  It kills me.  But the difference between me and my husband is that I do think in terms of meal plans, food shopping, defrosting, and putting meals together.  I even strategize for eating as well as we can—plans for going to the Farmer’s Markets together, buying local, joining a CSA.  My husband merrily, yet passively, supports these ideas.  We don’t revel in cooking, savor flavors or find comfort in nurturing others with food.  We like to eat food from the earth that is good for us, but every vegetable I ate as a child came from a can, and it’s not like his mother passed on any cooking skills to him.  I don’t know how to prepare leeks.  I don’t understand what to do with turnips or radishes.  I don’t know how to make brussel sprouts yummy.  I can and have enjoyed cooking, but the every day responsibility is maddening.
 
We both feel burdened by the constant cooking (and I’m not even talking cleaning up)—but I’m the one who actually shoulders that burden.  Why? Because I’m at home with the hungry mouths.  We’ve discussed to the point of exasperation how we can more fairly divide this burden.  Never happens. At some point when you are being oppressed, you can choose to throw it back in the face of the oppressor and say, “Fuck you, I’m out of here.”  But I can’t say to my husband, “That’s it, I’m done,” and walk away…unless I’m prepared to pay someone else a lot of money to do my job.  I also don’t think children should suffer for their fathers’ lameness (as in, ignoring the need to cook and just seeing what happens).  I know some people think differently, but I can’t do it.
 
This puts me in a hard position.  Essentially I have no leverage.  And I think this is true in a much bigger way: Women are connected to children, literally through an umbilical cord.  Even after the cord’s cut, we’re still attached in a million ways from subtle to overt.  And this makes us vulnerable.  For all the sensitive loving dads, men still walk away from their families at a sickening rate.  When we hear of moms who abandon ship, they’re made into monsters and splashed all over the news, but their numbers are nothing in comparison.  Why is it men take the responsibility so much more lightly? Because usually there is a woman there to pick up the slack, the pieces of the family, and keep it functional.
 
So perhaps feminism is not just that woman are equal to men, but because of the role women play as mothers, they are vulnerable, and should be protected because of their vulnerability and that of their children. Women deserve to be protected from a division of labor that unfairly stresses their emotional, physical, and spiritual resources, not to mention seriously inhibits their ability to follow other pursuits.
 
My husband has the luxury of being absentminded about feeding our family because the kids are not going to suffer because of it—I’m there, slogging through smoothies and almond butter snacks and defrosting the grass-fed beef for dinner.  Because by default, I’m in closer proximity to hungry mouths.  In what other circumstance could he just conveniently forgo the effort to feed himself without paying cash for the right to do so?
 
I’m being taken advantage of, and I know I’m not the only one.

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3-Part Fantasy
 
Fantasy #1: Perfection, or Something Close To It
It’s not that I would be a perfect mother, wife, human being; it’s just that I would be much better at all of those things than I am in reality.  For example, I would rarely raise my voice, or hint at impatience.  I would have enough time and energy for everyone, always ready to get down on the floor and play, or stay up late and “play.”  I wouldn’t give the quick answer; I would give the right answer, the one that takes time.  My kitchen floor would always be an acceptable place to set down a baby; I would always have on hand the ingredients needed to bake a quick batch of chocolate chip cookies; and I would never leave dishes in the sink overnight, wet clothes in the washing machine for more than twenty-four hours, or vegetables in the refrigerator until they rot. The answer would be Yes more often than No. “Yes! I do want to read that book, sing that song, play that game, hear about that thing you saw again and again and again . . .”
 
Fantasy #2: Another Man  
Okay, this one is kind of embarrassing, and I would feel a bit better if I knew that other people shared similar thoughts in their lowest moments and worst stretches.  Because we all have them, right?  Right?!  You see, my husband, the father of my children, has tragically died!  Or left us (and now I feel much less guilty about replacing him because what did he really expect when he took up with that other woman?).  His replacement likes to have conversations with me, enjoys spending time with my kids, and is willing to adapt to fit in with our lives.  He lays in bed with me and talks, wakes up happy to be with us instead of grumpy and full of expectations, and his patience begins right where mine ends.  And that’s all there really is to it.  If I think about it, it turns out he possesses all the attributes I love about my husband (whom I do love), but I get to start over with all the good things.  Plus he’s younger and cuter, too! It’s just a fantasy, after all.
 
Fantasy #3: More Than One Woman  
You know how people sometimes say, “There aren’t enough hours in the day. I wish there were two of me!”  Well, I don’t want two of me.  How irritating would that be?  I do want another woman around, though.  Someone to be a friend to me, a caregiver to my children, and a helper with the endless household tasks. We would share both the fun and the tedium of our days; support each other professionally, creatively, and emotionally; and neither one of us would ever have to feel overwhelmed or lonely in this whole parenting thing.  She would be the best friend who never has to leave, who fits right in, and her responsibilities would be mine.  Together we would build a solid, loving home for children, husband, and each other.  It’s a lot of work, after all, and sometimes I think it just takes more than one woman to do it well.

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I’m a Yeller.  When it comes to motherhood, I have about as much patience as a bull with a banderilla stuck in its neck.  There isn’t a chapter titled “Rage” in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  As someone who always prided herself on her patience and loving nature, anger is the part of motherhood I could never have imagined.  
 
I am an introvert; a lover of silence, harmony and order.  My children are not quiet, never leave me alone, and they turn my house into a battlefield on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t feel very loving towards these two small creatures who are stomping like angry elephants over the calm life I continue to—optimistically—envision.
 
In my early twenties, the vision of my future life included only the patter of fingers on the keyboard, not that of tiny feet.  My imaginary writer’s turret didn’t come equipped with a safety gate. But when I got married it just seemed that a child was the next natural step.  I don’t believe I ever questioned whether I was truly made for this new role.
 
When our beautiful little doll-baby came along I didn’t chatter away at her as I have witnessed with other mothers.  My default mode was mute.  And nursing was difficult.  I felt as open as a 24-hour diner and as over-worked and under-appreciated as the waitress inside.  I wanted my body, personal space, and time back.  My writing—even my journal—was neglected due to exhaustion and lack of creative inspiration.  Along with my milk, I felt the Real Me being devoured by this tiny child.
 
As she grew up, the toys and the tantrums began multiplying.  My quiet, orderly world had become a place of constant noise and chaos.  And although I had my breasts back to myself (albeit far below their former position), I now found myself gasping for free time while digging out from under plastic trucks and fuzzy giraffes.  Especially when the second child came along, I longed for peace, for things to stay put, for a beautiful home, for my writing, and on some days, for anything other than motherhood. I felt oppressed.  Resentful.  Rage-ful.
 
And I started yelling.  The Silent One was vanquished in a storm of frustration.
I can feel calm and then…bam! I’m screaming like a junkie in a police car. The anger which erupts when a grumpy, overtired 1st grader lets half-smashed food fall from her mouth both shocks and scares me.  Or, when we have arranged a day of “kid fun” (i.e. adult hell) and they refuse to get dressed but then cry in frustration when we miss the parade.  Or, when the tiny, but powerful fist smashes into my leg because my Mama-powers do not extend to making the hot sun go away.
 
The anger is a pressure in my chest which, at the worst moments of defiance, illogicality, and sibling rivalry increases to a physical pain.  Sometimes when I have yelled myself to tears, I imagine running off to a cottage by the sea, just my pen and I.  I never would, of course, but at times I long for nothing more than peaceful irresponsibility.
 
I hate The Rage. It does nothing more than give me a momentary release while polluting our home with bad energy for far longer. But I fear if I was capable of restraining the monster, it would only retreat to a deeper place, ultimately causing me greater pain.  The answer is to not allow The Rage to enter at all. In an effort to be pro-active, each morning I write in my journal, “It will be a calm and loving day…”
 
One day I hope I can truly say it was.
 
Would it have been better if I’d kept all that to myself and internalized the self-belief that I am an inferior mother? Are you judging me as a bad mom?
 
Or are you sighing in relief that you’re not the only one?
 
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A few years ago, in my life b.c. (before children) I traveled through Indonesia. As I traveled, I had many opportunities to observe the people there. What struck me most deeply was how women lived together in support of each other. They raised the children together, they did the laundry together, they cooked, ate, laughed and celebrated together.
 
Years later, I became a mother. I live alone in a house. I do my laundry alone, I cook, clean and go through my day alone. Yes, I have the children, but a child is not the greatest conversationalist. I am alone. A lot.
 
I believe we are doing this all wrong. I believe that there is a reason why so many people feel depressed, isolated and lonely. Because we are alone. Because we are not surrounded by our mothers, aunts, cousins, and friends as we go about the tedious tasks that make up almost every minute of our days as a mother.

Somehow, our culture came to this place where most of our social life is about our children. We go to playgroups, storytime, or music class to help our children’s “development”. Not that this isn’t a worthwhile goal. I’m all for it. But when is it about Mama and her needs?

When it comes time to have a playdate, we take a shower, stress about the house being picked up and make snacks. We hang out with our guests trying to feel relaxed while in the back of our mind we are thinking about all of the things that need to get done. Then after our guests leave, we madly rush about trying to make up for lost time. No wonder we rarely make the effort.  We just stay lonely.

So what do we do about this? I believe that we change the way it’s done. How about instead of playdates, we make workdates? I would like to feel OK about asking my friends over and folding my laundry, cooking together, working in the garden together while our kids play; without us watching over them the whole time to make sure they are “getting along”. They’ll work it out. We have work to do and talking to be done without interruption, please!

We keep the world running, and I would like it to be more enjoyable. I would like to do it together; not alone. The kids will love being left to their own devices a little bit more. Now that’s a playdate!

I believe that how we are doing things now is not the way it is supposed to be. I don’t want to depend on my email and Facebook to feel a vague sense of cyber-connection to other people. It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t know how we got here. I do know that I want it to change. I believe we can change it if we want to. We just have to figure out how to make it happen—then do it!

Chauntelle is the mama of two young girls, a yoga instructor, scientist, thinker, planner,  radical homemaker, and a Mama Says Board Member. 

Jane Lowell McCarthy Greene was born to Tom and Tia on July 22 at 1:40 pm at 27 weeks gestation.  Her father Tom said, “She is tiny, but she’s a fighter.” Jane lived 6 months and 6 days to the minute of her birth. In those 6 months she grew, played, and nursed.  She was a sibling and she knew love: love of her family, love of her friends and love from people that had never met her or her family.  In those months I also grew to love Jane. I read Tia’s blog and thought daily of my dear friend. I tried to wrap my head around how life can be so…so…not right.

It was 4:45 pm when I read Tia’s entry that Jane had died.  I sat down and cried. I called my husband and left a message, then called my Mother and we cried together.  Afterwards I thought, “What now?  What should I do? What is enough or too much? What will help? What will hurt?”

I know that Jane Was Here, but not long enough. I know that the medical world tried, but it was not enough.  I also know that there was enough love, but even all this love could not save Jane. I hope that this love is enough for Tom and Tia and big sister Sarah. That it helps make their days a little less painful and brings a little more light.
 
I believe that I will never understand it nor will I “get it”. Sometimes life is just not right. It will never be what it should have been.  I will continue to try and be the best friend that I can for Tia and I will continue to be humbled by her grace, tact, and her incredible “humanness” in handling the loss of her daughter.  I will continue to embrace the memory of Jane and to honor her life.

So this is what I believe: I believe that life can change with every breath we take and that every day that Tia, Tom and Sarah had with Jane was not enough.  I believe that finding grace in life “not being right” is the gift that Jane has left for me.

Susan Paris is the mother of two boys, an RN at Copley Hospital Birthing Center, and a Mama Says Board Member. She is a breastfeeding, cloth diapering, martini drinking mama.

I recently ran into a dear friend who is pregnant and struggling to make a decision regarding her prenatal care and place of birth.  She may have to forego plans for a homebirth because of financial limitations because insurance does not cover prenatal care with a homebirth midwife or the option of birthing at home. Her homebirth would cost around $4,000, which she would have to pay out of pocket, while her insurance would pick up every cent of a $10,000+ hospital birth. 

I firmly believe, without a shred of doubt or waiver, that every single woman who desires true midwifery care, including a birth at home, has the right to this option, regardless of financial capacity.  I believe that the midwifery model of care should be readily available and should be the norm.  Insurance companies should cover midwifery care without a second thought.  Not only would they save thousands of dollars per birth, but there are countless other health benefits to using midwives, including increased rates of breastfeeding which lower healthcare costs dramatically over time.  Countries who embrace this model of care more vigorously than in the U.S. have dramatically lower rates of infant and maternal mortality. The application of this woman-centered model of care has been proven to reduce the incidence of birth injury, trauma, and cesarean section. The Midwives Model of Care is based on the fact that pregnancy and birth are normal life processes. 

Thankfully, there are some insurance plans, including the state insurance plan for low to medium income families, that do cover a portion of the cost of midwifery care and homebirth in our area.  This needs to continue and we need to advocate for all insurance companies to cover midwives providing home birth care so everyone may have the  option of midwifery care.

I believe true midwifery care is far superior to the standard obstetrics or hospital nurse-midwifery care available today.  This opinion is based on my experience as a doula and childbirth advocate, and my personal birth experiences have shaped my beliefs in profound ways.   

I will never forget the hour-long prenatal exams with my midwife Bonne Dunham that covered my baby's physical health and my well being, while also going over my fears, hopes, and concerns.  When she arrived for our birth, I felt her strong and reassuring presence.  Under her care, I pushed my baby out and immediately pulled her up on my chest, and was the first one to touch and hold her.  Bonne gently checked on my baby’s vital signs while she was cuddled in my arms, and we let the cord stop pulsing before cutting it so she got every last drop of what was rightfully hers. Then there were the postpartum visits that occurred one day after the birth, then on the third day, one week, three weeks and six weeks.  I felt fully cared for.  I cried, laughed, and was supported wholeheartedly through the enormous transition both physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  There were certainly hard parts about my births, but there was peace, light, and love that lingered and surrounded us even in the darkest times thanks to the reassurance, confidence, and skill of my midwife.
 
Every woman and every birth is so different.  For some women, homebirth might not be the best option, but every woman deserves the education and information to make an informed decision.  I believe that money should never stand in the way of a woman seeking true midwifery care for her pregnancy and birth.  This is my unwavering belief.

Sarah is the home birthing, cloth diapering, breastfeeding mama of Aliyah and Noah.  She is a doula, community organizer, and a  Mama Says Board Member.

I looked fantastic.  Downright HOT.  I was wearing a slinky red dress that clung in all the right places and I had noted with satisfaction whilst walking into a very expensive restaurant that my waist finally looked tiny and my tummy as flat as those fallen soufflés that always came out of my oven.  George opened the door for me (always the gentleman) and we strode into the bar where the maitre de recognized us immediately.  It wasn’t until Mr. Clooney grabbed and twisted my nipple as we were walking to our table that I began to suspect something was amiss.  

Then it all hit home.  The warm bed.  The rising sun.  The hungry 5-month-old next to me wanting his 6AM feeding (which comes shortly after his 4AM feeding, and about 4 hours after his 2AM feeding, and not too far from his 11PM feeding…..)  I groaned.  No.  Back to the restaurant.  Just for a few more minutes.  Please. Oh please.  My husband continued to snore.

Motherhood arrived, while not unexpectedly, abruptly.  There is only so much you can do to prepare for that about which you know nothing.  You can’t plan for just how you are going to feel when you make the transition from woman to mama lion.  Nor can you plan for the sleepless nights as you nurture and love what has suddenly become to you the single most precious thing in the entire universe.  You can’t understand how the cries of another being can rip out your heart, and you can’t appreciate how much you would give for a home-cooked meal when you haven’t had the energy to make one since before you went and got yourself knocked-up in the first place.  You can’t know what it is like to leave your infant because you have to go to work until you do it for the first time.  Forget the valiant salmon swimming upstream:  all you can do as a new mother is try and go with the flow.  This I believe.

That said, for better or worse, I am still a fighter.  I tried to ignore the residual pain in my right breast after having removed the small, 5-fingered grabber from it, and did my very best to move past the tiny legs happily kicking with morning joy and the micro-paws merrily pummeling me in the chest and face with slimy, drool-covered fingers.  Come back to me George.

But alas, George was gone.  My boy hungry.  The snackbar had to open.  So I rolled over and pulled up my shirt just in time to tuck into my breast my small, squirming, child.  He suckled vigorously and I stared down at him as the light from morning sky brightened the room.  After a few minutes, my baby paused mid-breakfast and his eyes met mine.  Then the suction around my nipple broke as his lips widened into a slow, triumphant, gummy smile when, hunger abated, he noticed my face. 

by Alison Cornwall

5:01 a.m.  Hazel stirs. Nurse and snooze.
 
6:01 a.m.  Other breast.
 
6:52 a.m.  Jaden up.
 
7:00 a.m.  Josh up. Hazel waving feet in the air and farting.
 
8:20 a.m.  Breakfast done. Already feel overwhelmed. Dad took my car to get inspected today so I won’t be able to make Hazel’s well-baby appointment this morning. I forgot she about it when I told Dad he could take the car and now I’m so glad. I really didn’t want to go.
 
9:45 a.m.  Ruby is at school, Jaden is with my Mom, and Hazel is fighting her morning nap so I’ve got her in the sling. Start a fire, some lunch, get dinner out of the freezer, feeling like it’s a rather dull day to record. Jaden got invited to his first birthday party. “I hope they have cake there,” he says.
 
9:52 a.m.  Hazel falls asleep in sling. I put music on and make blueberry muffins. Wondering when I’m going to cave to coffee.

1:30 p.m.  No coffee yet but I’m sensing the time is near. This is the time of day when I start counting the hours until Josh is home. I vacillate between feeling grateful and happy to be home with Hazel, to feeling stuck, like I’m trying to run in water. Hazel is almost always in arms, and my mobility is truly limited.
 
My muffins came out just so-so. I feel sheepish about spending my time on such mundane tasks as kitchen cleanliness, laundry, and all the rest of the messy house. I am not at all conflicted about staying at home when I tickle Hazel and see the look in her eyes--then I know exactly what I’m doing. I wouldn’t make another choice, but still I see myself as lame sometimes, even though I know better. I’m not supposed to, but I am looking forward to the baby years being done.
 
6:35 p.m.  Took a nap with Hazel. Kids came home from school. Went grocery shopping to escape. Came home and made cardboard box shelves for Jaden’s closet “garage” and put dinner together. The kids are now bonkers. It’s too many hours in the day that I’m doing this. I wonder why we had kids. I wonder how I can find some balance in caring for them. (I was so cranky, disgusted, and plain old mad as hell to bother with writing anymore for the evening. By the end of the night I was so fried and felt such a lack of freedom that I felt like I wanted to beat something with my fists. I didn’t. I was crabby, complained, and went to bed.)
 
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Michelle A.L. Singer is a mom of three living in East Montpelier who spends half her time deeply grateful for the many gifts of her life and the other half trying to keep her wits about her. Theoretically she is also a writer. She is currently taking lessons from her husband in keeping a sense of humor.

Slept 12 hours last night. Have not done that in months. Or so I assume.  Don’t feel awake today, despite the long slumber. Not all the coffee in the world could help. Not feeling particularly well and might have to stick close to home today.

I dreamt of bears last night.  This particular animal has never made an appearance in my dreams. Two black bear cubs were checking us out, running around the edge of a compound in the middle of the forest. No mama bear--just cubs.  It was obvious (in the dream) that they should be with their mother. They were young enough to still be with their mother, but old enough to cause some serious damage if provoked. We were wary, but not scared.

Listening to one of the sexiest songs ever: Santana’s Toussaint L’Overture.  Also, have been listening to Alicia Keys’ new album Element of Freedom.  It’s been on repeat today. Does anyone even say “album” these days?

Finally, coffee. I’ve had enough to fuel an army, and still, I am groggy. Blah.  But oh happy day! My long awaited package came! The one containing the Mominatrix book and a book by Marsden Wagner: Born In the USA.

My daughter Cat sings along to the Max and Ruby song loud enough to shatter glass. Or an eardrum.  She starts taking off her shirt in the house. I say-keep it on, it’s cold. She says-I can’t, I have sand in my pits. Me-How did that happen? Her-The sand fairy.  Of course.

On days like these, I daydream of tropical places. Beaches, warmth, sun. NO SNOW. Anywhere that is warm and doesn’t have snow that can be measured in feet. Or inches, even.

Made lamb stew. Turned out pretty tasty.

To read more about a mama's day in the life, pick up a copy of Mama Says Zine or subscribe to the zine!

Kris Underwood is a mother/writer/poet. She currently holds the position of Managing Editor and Columnist (Mama Writes) at MaMaZina Magazine. She also blogs at The Imperfect Parent occasionally, thus the Mominatrix reference. Someday, she'd like to rise to the challenge of writing only Form Poems.