Defining the Mommy: Identity and Parenting

On a work retreat, we wrote down what we wanted to be when we grew up on a slip of paper, then we guessed who wrote what.  I wrote that I had wanted to be an author/illustrator, a marine biologist, a veterinarian, and a colonist on Mars.

One of my coworkers wrote that she had wanted to be mom and a midwife.  Every single coworker guessed that the mom and midwife was my choice. 

Not a huge deal, but this small incident got me thinking about my identity as a mommy.  Why did the people at work automatically equate me to motherhood, and not to anything else?  Admittedly, I was the only mother there--but there is another coworker who has babysat the same children for years and loves kids, and another whose predilections towards yoga and vegetarianism make her the perfect fit as wanting to be a midwife.

At work, I talk a lot about Mo-mo, but I also talk about Batman, my friends, my family, my pets, my hobbies, my interests.  I've had conversations with at least two of my coworkers about what we'd do if we won the lottery.  I said that I would still want to work at least three days a week because I love interacting and working.
 
There are amazing, intelligent, women who are able to find fulfillment in devoting themselves to their home and their family without working outside of the home.  I am not one of them.  I could do it, but I know I would not be happy doing it long term.  In some ways, I feel as if I have to apologize for that.  But I'm also quite proud of my achievements and never want to sell myself short for all that I accomplish.

If I define myself through my work, but my work defines me through my motherhood, who does that make me?

My office place is made up of mostly women in their 20's and 30's.  Very few of us have children.  The organization is trying to become a more welcoming place for families, so those of us with kids are the guinea pigs.  I've worked it out with my boss so that I come in early and I leave early and spend more of the late afternoon with Mo-mo.  If I work during an evening, I come in late so that I can at least eat breakfast with her.  My boss is both encouraging and supportive and wants to create a welcoming, family-friendly environment.

But how does this effect the way my coworkers see me?  Do they see a woman working hard at juggling it all, or do they just see the mommy always putting her child first?

I'm not going to pretend I'm not a mother.  I love Mo-mo too much and it is a big part of who I am.  Nor am I going to resist being labeled just a mom.  You know what?  A mom is an amazing thing to be.  There should be no "just" about it.

All I can really do is work hard and learn fast.  I'll continue to play the balancing game that all working mothers seem to do, and be proud of my accomplishments in both parenting and at work.

The Picky Eater and the Battle of the Wills, Momma vs. Toddler

A lot of parenting seems to be fairly easy.  Keep them safe.  Tell them they're loved.  Expand their world.  

Then, of course, there are the parts that aren't.

I have a bonafide picky eater.  Not only is Mo-mo picky, but she doesn't let us feed her.  She stopped at 10 months.  That's right, as soon as she started on finger food, she absolutely refused to eat anything that we give her directly.  She'll clamp her mouth shut and start to scream if we are persistent.

Up until last week, we've been doing the bad-wussy-parent thing of giving her a special meal of things we knew she'd like.  We'd give her our regular meal first, she wouldn't eat it, then we'd give her things like fruit, bread, cheese, and peanut butter:  the staples of toddler life.  

This pattern is okay for a baby but not for a toddler.  And as much as I don't want to admit it, my daughter is old enough to learn bad habits.  And she's learning that if she doesn't eat what we give her, she just has to wait ten minutes and we'll give her exactly what she wants.  

I refuse to have a child who only eats PB&J at age seven, or who always gets a special meal made for her.  It's just not happening.

So Batman and I are being hardcore meanies.  She only gets what we eat.  We're cutting down on the snacks.  If she doesn't eat, we're not going to make a big deal out of it, but we're only going to offer her what we had for dinner.  

Let me tell you this:  it's hard.

First of all, she's so damn cute when she asks for "gapes" or "fish" (grapes and goldfish).  And it's so damn hard to change a pattern.  

Second of all, I worry about her weight.  She's in the 96th percentile for height and only the 25th for weight.  The pediatrician said to offer her higher calorie options of things, like adding cheese to broccoli.  (And yes, if you're curious, I did ask the pediatrician her opinion about this.  She said that it's better to clamp down and be strict now than try and do it later, when bad habits are firmly established.  And that Mo-mo will eat if she's hungry once she figures out she doesn't get anything else.)

This is especially hard because I was a picky eater.  My parents are divorced, and my mom and my dad had two very different parenting styles.  My mom let me eat whatever I wanted, and it was invariably chicken nuggets, taquitos, and the occasional bomb pop.  My dad made me eat whatever was for dinner.  I always had to at least try the food and finish the portion on the plate.

As I was growing up, I much preferred my mom's relaxed feeding style.  But as an adult, I understand why my dad was so strict.  

Being responsible?  No fun at all.

Biblioklept

The only things I have ever stolen are books.

I never went through the teenage stage of shoplifting and petty theft.  I never stole cosmetics, clothes, or alcohol.  Unlike my younger brother, I have never stole a shark's head or a variety of flags from different countries (but that is a story for another time.)


In college, I studied abroad in Western Australia for six months.  One of the first things I did when I got there was locate the closest libraries.  I have to have a constant supply of novels and fiction to remain sane and happy.

Besides the nearby public library, my dorm had a tiny little library room.  These books were cast-offs, uncatalogued and unattended.  You checked them out on the honors system by removing the index card from the back and leaving it in a box by the door.

Before I left Australia, I stole about seven novels.  I barely felt a twinge of guilt.  In their place, I left behind the books I had accumulated in the six months.  It was more than a fair trade.  I gave some best sellers in wonderful condition and took away books that had been last checked out over twelve years ago (according to the index card tucked in the cover.)

One of the problems was that books are heavy.  And I carried them all with me in my backpack.  So in order to made room for the souvenirs and knick-knacks of three weeks of traveling, I decided to turn the books into gifts for strangers.

It wasn't difficult.  Every time I finished a book, I found a clever hiding spot where someone might spot the book.  I hoped that each one would be picked up, brought home, read, and loved.  

I left one at a train station in Adelaide, nearby the PacMan machine that I played for an hour while I waited for my train to leave.  Another I placed on a park bench near the Sydney Opera House.  I left them in Fiji hostels, where I imagined tourists picking them up and bringing them to along to a new home, on the other side of Australia, in New Zealand, in Great Britain.  The last novel I left in the LAX airport, wondering if someone would marvel at the "PROPERTY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA" stamp and realize how far the book had traveled.

I judged my reading habits well.  I had only one book left over at the end of my journey, the one I chose just in case I needed something that would take me awhile to get through.  I actually still have it and I still haven't read it.  It's Shogun by James Clavell.

I have never stolen anything since then, books or anything else.