Moms vs Depression

Moms vs Depression

Honestly, I have the greatest child in the world. I know most parents say that, but I do. She’s sweet, she sleeps through the night, she’s cuddly,  she’s stinking cute. There are no negatives to my amazing daughter. My husband on the other hand…there is no other hand. He’s also freaking amazing. He’s sweet, hard-working, handsome, and super supportive. But no, this isn’t about how amazing my life is, even though it just that.

What’s frustrating is that sometimes, even though my life and family are amazing, I can’t get out of bed. I’m so tired that I just spend hours crying. It’s frustrating because there’s typically no inciting incident, or if there is, it’s so trivial it might as well have been nothing. Sometimes I can’t put my daughter to bed because I’m afraid it’ll be the last time I do so. If my husband puts her to bed, I don’t have to think about it.

“Well, do something that makes you happy!”

OH! I mean…of course! Like, love my job? Have an amazing family? Have an incredible support system? I’m so lucky that I have these things– but that’s just it, I already have them. It’s so frustrating because there’s no reason that I’m depressed. I just am.

“But why are you depressed. Can’t you just… get over it?”

There’s a bunch of different kind of depression, and I won’t pretend to be an expert, but basically, mine is chemical. That means I just am this way. I don’t handle it well, either. I completely surround myself with work– I pick up two, three, sometimes four projects so I’m too busy to be depressed. I run around and drown myself in random stuff I want to learn: once it was knitting, cross-stitching, writing a novel, making two podcasts, researching famous mistresses, reorganizing my closet, staying up until three scrubbing the kitchen. Nothing really gets done– it’s all half-assed stuff to keep me preoccupied. Then, real stuff doesn’t get done.

Then, I get anxious about how busy I am. So, I don’t feel depressed– I feel anxious. I have nightmares about not completing projects. I don’t sleep so I can finish cross-stitiching this pattern and restarting it because I hate the way it looks. I reorganize the downstairs (again), but I don’t finish and I leave the whole place looking like a mess. Then, every six months or so, I crash. Hard. My husband is left to pick up the pieces.

So, now I have this kid who’s pretty freaking cool. Like, she’s ten months and screams when Chevelle screams on the radio. My little metal-head is my pride and joy– we’re forcing her to be an astronaut one day.

In all seriousness, I’m anxious because I don’t want to crash. I’m anxious because I don’t want to be depressed around her. I’m anxious about being anxious. I don’t want to have crazy side-projects that keep me from her and drive me insane. I want to be there for her and I want her to have a normal mom.

So, I see a therapist. He’s easily one of the top five most amazing people I’ve ever met. Some days, when he’s too real with me, he’s top fifteen. But he helps. So much. And I haven’t crashed in at least 7 months. He helps me handle my shit.

It’s still not easy. Some days, I want to throw myself into a corner and hide. It’s not as easy as just fighting, though. Sometimes you fight all you can, but you still feel sad. I think when people tell you to just fight it and you have episodes of depression, you feel like it’s your fault because you didn’t fight hard enough. I want you to fight, but fight with the right tools. Reach out to professionals. Know that people care. Depression might win the battle but it doesn’t have to win overall. Take the steps you need. See a therapist. Take medicine if that’s something you and your doctor have discussed. Exercise. Find a healthy way to be yourself. Win the war.

Being depressed is not a failure.

It’s frustrating that I can’t enjoy my daughter and my life 100% of the time because that’s what my daughter deserves because she enjoys life 100% of the time. I’m working towards being me as often as I can so I can love her like she deserves. Some days, I might fail, but I will not fail overall.

In case you need it:

Suicide Prevention Hotline: Call 1-800-273-8255

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

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Staying Fit As a Mom vs Living Your Mom Life

Staying Fit As a Mom vs Living Your Mom Life

This post is an extremely personal, comical, and descriptive account of my attempts at weight loss post-baby. It includes the physical details of what it’s like.

Moms work desperately hard to get back to or do better than their post-baby bump. It’s hard. Sometimes, I just want to wear burlap sacks and pretend I’ve lost the weight, but I’m starting a fashion trend.

I stand in the mirror facing my post-baby belly. Yup, extra large. To be fair, it wasn’t super small when I became pregnant, but it did lack the giant bear-claw scars that now cover it. Coconut-oil did nothing for me. Stretch-mark oil did nothing for me. My daughter was just too powerful– she wanted her presence known before she got here.

“Can I get liposuction?” I ask hopefully to my husband while holding our baby. Perhaps the reminder of my 50 hour labor will inspire him to pretty much let me do whatever I damn well please. No luck.

“No. You can get a gym membership.”

“But that doesn’t get rid of my stretch marks.” To be fair, I don’t really know if liposuction does get rid of your stretch marks, but it was worth a shot.

“But that’s our daughter. I don’t want you to get rid of them. They’re beautiful because they come from her.” Awww.

“But when I want someone who makes more money, they won’t like them!” Not so cute of me.

The thing is, he’s right. Those stretch marks are my daughter. I worked hard for them. They show that she grew, was healthy, and was well-taken care of. It’s still frustrating to see, but I love that my husband constantly reminds me of how beautiful I am because they represent something so beautiful.

Okay, stretch marks= beauty. Check. There’s still my super gut.

Y’all. I’m so tired. Just to complain a little bit (because it’s not like I ever do in this blog), I’m a full-time teacher, part-time mom (just kidding), and in graduate school. I don’t want to work out. I don’t want to prep meals. I don’t want to think about the crap that enters my body. I especially don’t want to run. A) Because leggings make my already North American sized donk look like Antarctica. B) When I run, I take little steps because I’m short. All the other tall people pass me. I know they’ve been going for like 50 miles and I’m on mile .2. I get it. Your endurance is fantastic. 3) My boobs are too big to run. They’re like angry leprechauns hanging off of me and punching me in the face for every indecent thought I’ve ever had.

Here’s the thing. I don’t want my daughter to grow up being unhealthy. I love pizza more than anything. Second only to bread. Third comes my daughter. Even though she typically comes third in my priorities, isn’t she worth my eating only half of this pizza instead of the whole thing? I roll my eyes, but she definitely is.

So, I kicked it into gear. Y’all. This tired mom went to the gym at 5 a.m. so I could be at work at 7:30, work until 6:30 pm, be home by 7:30 pm, work on grades and grad school stuff until 11, and go to bed. Three times a week.

I didn’t lose any weight. I got angry. I wanted to give up because obviously my whale body is meant to be permanently beached. So, I talked to my trainer. Ah, apparently even if you work out, you need to eat better. Shucks.

So now, I add diet into the mix. I use the MyFitness Pal app along with a nutritionist to help me plan my meals. She’s super great. The biggest thing was just figuring out what I’m putting into my body. I didn’t realize that something that says Healthy might really not be. Did you know that you can’t eat an entire loaf of whole-grain bread just because it’s whole grain? Now I do.

I still eat what I want, but I just enter it into the app. That way, I know if I’m coming close to my daily limit of macros (protein, carbs, and fat). I “mess up” a lot of the time. I’m constantly going over my macros because sometimes I just want to eat bread and cheese. And it’s okay to mess up. I walked into a pole the other day, so there are worst things that can happen than my eating a roll.

Every day, I just think, my daughter is worth my being healthy. A lot of people ask me how much weight I want to lose, and honestly, I don’t care. I want to be fit and healthy. I want to be able to carry my daughter without huffing and puffing. I want to be able to chase a bratty kid who hits or bites my daughter. I want to win in a wrestling match with that kid and still have the energy to get up and cheer.

Even though pounds aren’t everything to me, I am proud of the five pounds I’ve lost. It’s a process,, and I’m never going to be a size 2. But I’m going to know about food and I’m going to be able to make my daughter healthy.

You can live your life and be healthy. You don’t need a nutritionist necessarily (although mine is super freaking awesome). Just be aware of what you’re eating. If I’m going to gain a pound, I want to know that cheese was worth it.

Staying at Home vs Working

Staying at Home vs Working

When I first had my baby, I was lucky enough to receive a pretty good (though not perfect) maternity leave. I always knew I would go back to work, but there was a side of me who thought, maybe I’ll stay home after I go back for the semester (I’m a teacher).

So, I had a long maternity leave–12 weeks. The first month was tough. I thought, all moms feel this way in the first month. It’ll get better and I’ll want to be home with her all the time. I will eventually love to stay at home with my baby.

Folks, I hated it. I hated staying at home. Don’t get me wrong: I acknowledge how incredibly lucky I was to have stayed with her as long as I did. But I could not stand staying at home all day. I got to a point where I didn’t clean, I didn’t cook, I just sat and watched my baby.

I’m not organized. I’m not super tidy. But I love my baby. The thing is, staying at home with a baby is super hard. You constantly have to watch this baby, clean everything, do the grocery shopping, run errands, try to fit in seeing people –all with a baby. Most of the time, you can’t see other adults because your baby’s nap time won’t fit in with their baby’s nap time. Sometimes friends without babies can’t fit in time to see you or don’t feel like seeing your baby.

Being at home with her all day caused me severe anxiety and depression. On top of that, I felt extreme guilt- why can’t I just be home, be productive here, and love staying with her? Why can’t I be a good mom and a good wife?

All I wanted was to go back to work. I needed to see people and feel productive. I felt like a pile of filth with this thing I had to take care of. I questioned everything I did and there was no one who could provide logic to my paranoid ideas.

I hated myself for not wanting to stay at home with her. Even so, I went back to work.

When I told people I was going back to work, I got:

“Oh…don’t you think your daughter would want you home?”

I bet she would prefer some time to herself, actually.

“Well, what are you going to do with her all day?”

The cats will take care of her. She’ll be aight.

“That’s great that you’re going back to work! You don’t want to lose yourself.”

Now wait a minute. Just because I can’t stay home all day doesn’t mean I would lose myself if I were to. It would mean I have a new purpose, a new passion, a new love. Staying at home with your child is just as commendable as going to work with a child. You, stay at home moms, are amazing. You are organized. You are wonder women. I just can’t be you.

“Oh, do you hate your baby?”

Well, she’s  no pizza, but she’ll do.

“Oh, is money tight for you all?”

Since when does my wanting to have a career mean that money is tight? And since when does someone staying at home with their baby mean money is great? Most stay at home moms budget incredibly well because they’re good at that stuff. I want to work because I like to work, even though I miss her so much.

I hated going back to work. I love my job, but I missed my baby. By the time I got home, I was exhausted. When she cried, I got angry, which, of course, made her angry. Thank God I have an incredible husband who helps. The guilt I felt, though, remained. The thing is, when you have a child, and you love what you do, you both win and lose every day.

In the long run, what’s best for my baby is a happy mom– a woman who wants to work hard in her career and come home feeling accomplished for her baby. I would be doing her a disservice if I did something I didn’t love.

So to sum up: sometimes I really don’t like my baby, but I love her all the time. Sometimes, I really don’t like my job, but I love what I do all the time. But I will always love pizza.

 

Moms vs Dads

Moms vs Dads

It’s happening. It’s that time of the morning where it really could go either way– the baby could either continue sleeping, thus letting you sleep in the tiniest bit, or she actually gets up, thus you pretend to be asleep until your partner gets up.

Almost inevitably, she wakes up. Now, the games have really begun.

You and your SO (in my case, Dad, hence the title) fall into an epic battle of laziness. You both lie there thinking two things: Who will get up first? Will she keep crying? What course of action will I take? What Herculean stamina will I showcase this morning?

She keeps crying. You both lie there, perhaps even feigning an exaggerated snore just to prove that you, you strong thing, aren’t going anywhere. Then, a wrench:

“Hey babe. I have to shower. Would you mind getting the baby?”

You. Ass.

So, I get up. I’m happy to. She’s my daughter, after all.

To be honest, once I’m up, I do love getting my baby. She’s always so happy in the morning. It’s like she hasn’t experienced the dredge of work, the “Do I have to go?” attitude of the hardworking parents. She’s more like, “WOW! TODAY IS AMAZING AND I AM SO EXCITED TO EXPERIENCE IT!” I love that.

So, if I “lose”, I change her and get ready to feed her. Mind you, I’m the one who has awakened, who has left my slumber to clean her probable poopsplosion. As soon as Daddy comes in, she reaches and cries out to him as if being with me has somehow been the worst 15 minutes of her life.

You. Brat.

Okay, okay. My eight month old baby is not a brat. She’s a delight and I love her more than anything. But in this instance, she sucks.

The thing is, she’s a daddy’s girl. She always crawls to him, wants to be held by him, cuddles him, often in ways she doesn’t do with me. It hurts, Moms. It hurts when I want to hold her so badly. I want her to know that I would do anything for her at any moment at any time. Even wake up for her, which is the worst.

But as soon as I see my husband respond to her, any semblance of jealousy goes away. It’s not jealousy, I realized, it really is just an extreme amount of love for this kid and her dad. This daddy’s girl is so lucky to have a dad who is so worthy of her affection. A dad who, more often than not, gets up with her, changes her, takes her on walks, and really loves her unconditionally. Although I want to feel the same love from her, it’s honestly so worth it to know that they have such an amazing relationship. And I’ll get my turn eventually. He’ll mess up…eventually…

So, it really isn’t Mom vs Dad, even during the intense chicken game. We are so lucky to be her parents who would do anything for her, even wake up for her poopsplosions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daycare vs Mama Bear

Daycare vs Mama Bear

Our daughter was placed in an in-home daycare when she was 12 weeks until about two weeks ago. Let’s say the woman in charge’s name is Maleficent.

We met with her while I was pregnant. Her home was set up beautifully– like it was meant to be a daycare. She had a nice carpet, games, toys, books, and no television. There was an abundance of stimulating colors and sounds. The best part was that it was two minutes away from our home and it was not super expensive. She claimed to have 20 years’ experience, seemed super nice and approachable, but wasn’t too eager for our business, which I liked. On paper, everything looked great.

I left the house and looked at my husband. “I feel like that was great.”

“Same! I think that a good option.”

“But I feel like it’s not going to work out…”

“Oh yeah? Why do you think that?”

“No reason, just a gut thing.”

A gut thing wasn’t sufficient enough reason to say no to such a good setup. We both decided it was the best option for her–fewer babies in a home means fewer germs. Plus, she’s super close by.

So, time went on. I had a 50 hour labor. Our beautiful baby was born. I had an amazing maternity leave and when she was 12 weeks old, we sent her into the she-devil’s lair.

Things started of swell. She sent us pictures, she’d give us gifts and advice on Emerson. We thought we had a great lady in our corner.

The issues really started when Maleficent began complaining about our daughter’s spit-up. She told us it was too much for a girl her age. We understood–she did spit up a lot. So, we took her to the doctor.

“It’s not affecting her growth. She’s quite energetic, so perhaps it’s just how much she moves after she eats. Try settling her down.”

That sounded plausible to us. We told the daycare.

“Well that’s just crazy. You need a new doctor. I have brothers-in law who are doctors. I know.”

“Well, thank you for your advice, but we went to our actual doctor. Let’s just try this and see how it goes.”

As time went on, our daughter’s spit-up decreased a bit at home, but still existed. She continued to be a happy, energetic baby.

“You need to take her to the gastroenterologist.” Maleficent consistently texted us. So, I took her to the doctor again.

“Try slowing down her feedings after one or two ounces. She’s growing and looks great!”

So we did. We slowed down her feedings. Spit-up was almost completely gone. When we told the daycare she responded with, “Why, that’s just crazy. She’s the slowest eater I have.”

I looked at her. “Well…I know she can eat an eight ounce bottle in five minutes. I think we should try this and see how it goes.”

She stared at me, “You don’t see her as much as I do.” RED FREAKING FLAG. But I thought, no, this is just an issue with me. I don’t care how mean or rude she is to me, as long as she takes care of my baby, right?

“That’s true, but I did take her to the doctor. Please take breaks every two ounces.”

Emmie would come home constantly with spit-up on her. I figured Maleficent wasn’t slowing down the feedings. When I asked her about it she said, “You all just aren’t doing what’s best for her.”

I felt so guilty. I want to do what’s best for my child every time. So, we put her on anti-reflux medicine. Her spit-up was still minimal and manageable at home, but maybe we were doing something wrong.

It wasn’t just the spit-up she made us feel guilty about. She bombarded us about starting solids. When I told her we were waiting for the doctor’s go-ahead (she was 5.5 months at this point), she told us we weren’t feeding her enough. When we asked her to increase her formula feedings to every three hours, she responded with, “No. Her schedule is every four.”

I continued to question myself. As a new parent, I trust the guidance of experienced moms, especially a childcare provider. Was schedule more important? Isn’t it important that we listen to the doctor?

At six months old, we got the go-ahead to try solids. The daycare provider did not want to have solids at her house because she “didn’t want to be responsible for that.” That’s fine, I thought. We’re taking it slow anyhow.

Things progressively made us more anxious and paranoid about our parenting skills. She would send passive-aggressive texts about how our daughter was wearing “just a onesie” when it was hot outside and how she “prefers outfits.” Fine, we’ll put her in outfits. We then got a text message telling us our daughter was “really” sick–low-grade fever, continual bowel movements, fussiness, the whole nine yards. She texted my husband to pick her up by 3:30.

At 2:41, she texted him: “I have babies sleeping. When are you getting here?” He was four minutes away.

He picked her up, took her to the doctor immediately, and waited impatiently for the results. Everything was fine. She was smiling and bouncing and happy.

Perhaps the daycare lady was just mistaken, right?

Along with continual texts about the babe’s spit-up, which, once again, was almost nonexistent at home, we had a discrepancy about summer pricing. As a teacher at a private school, I work some hours in the summer, but not full-time. We changed our schedule with her in the summer, and I therefore believed that our prices would be different (also per a conversation we had prior to starting). When she charged us the same price, I called to discuss things with her.

She became irate and defensive, telling me I’m putting words in her mouth.

“I NEVER said that the pricing would be different.

“Maleficent, you did, but if that’s your policy, we’ll abide by it.”

“I NEED CONSISTENCY, I NEED CONSISTENCY.”

“Okay…please tell me when we’ve been inconsistent so I’ll know for next time.”

“I DIDN’T SAY YOU’VE BEEN INCONSISTENT. I SAID I NEED CONSISTENCY. DON’T PUT WORDS IN MY MOUTH.”

“When you continuously say you need consistency, it implies that we haven’t been consistent. Why else would you say you need consistency? It would be a moot point if we’re already being consistent…”

“THAT’S NOT TRUE! And I NEEEVVVEEERRRR SEE YOU! I ONLY SEE YOUR HUSBAND BECAUSE HE ALWAYS HAS TO PICK YOUR DAUGHTER UP!”

That’s when I felt the guilt pang so deeply, I shut her down. Yes, my husband does often have to do the heavy-lifting with our daughter. It’s hard to be a teacher and in graduate school. Yes, it’s my decision, but it’s for our family. And it’s none of her business.

“I’m going to stop you right there. I’m going to go and let you calm down while I take care of my daughter. We’ll talk later.” Her end of the phone hung up.

I continued to believe that it was just me she was having the problem with. She seemed fine with my husband and my daughter still seemed happy. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that shit hit the fan.

My husband called me, telling me Maleficent was extraordinarily annoying.

“Apparently the babe needs growth hormones.”

I started shaking. “She said what?”

“Yeah, she said the babe needs growth hormones. She also mentioned that we aren’t feeding her. Also, she was gossiping with me about another mom and how dirty their child was. She joked about how she gave the baby a bath.”

At that moment, I called another daycare we’d been looking at to see how soon they could start. I was irate, in tears. Growth hormones?! My daughter is not even eight months old. Gossiping about other mothers and giving babies baths without permission? I left work, texted Maleficent telling her that I was going to pick my daughter up.

When I picked her up, she had my daughter in her carseat on the porch while she hid behind her door. “She just woke up,” said Maleficent. “You came during her nap.”

“Great. I’ll be calling later.”

I texted her to see when we could talk. She responded with, “Consider this your three weeks’ notice to vacate from daycare.”

I responded, “If it were unclear, today was her last day.”

She wrote us a letter. I wrote her a letter. Ours to her said, “Our last day of your daycare will be June 16th, 2017.”

Hers to us: We need parenting classes, don’t feed our child, and neglect our baby. We don’t care enough about her and despite our terrible parenting, she has managed to thrive under Maleficent’s care.

Our daughter is in a new daycare where she thrives. She has no bouts of spit-up, she is advanced, makes friends, and is allowed to wear onesies. In fact, they said, onesies are better for crawling. She’s getting chunkier every day.  We pick her up, and she crawls with glee towards us.

Please moms, go with your gut. Don’t let what looks good on paper be more persuasive than your intuition. You know best.

Experienced Moms vs New Moms

Experienced Moms vs New Moms

You know that guy in your office who has been there for years, got a great education, has done really well, but refuses to accept new ideas because he “knows it all”? Any time you, the newcomer, suggests changes, he scoffs, pats you on the head, and says, “Oh, honey. You’ll learn.”

That’s how I feel about moms. 

I’m not trying to say all moms do this. In fact, I’m quite lucky to have a mom, mother-in-law, and grandma who give advice when asked and consider my family’s needs. Thanks, moms in my life. But I’ve come across quite a few moms who don’t respect the needs and wishes of other moms. That’s not okay. 

There are times when moms need to jump in. For example, if a baby is not placed in the carseat correctly–intervene. If the baby is almost falling out of the mom’s arms–sure, intervene. But when it comes to things like different philosophies of raising children, please shut-up. 

Let me tell you a story.

If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that my daughter is small. Our doctor has suggested that we wait to give her solids until her six month check-up to make sure everything is all set. Here’s a conversation I had with a mom:

“How are the solids going?”

“Oh, we haven’t started her on solids yet. Our doctor wants us to–“

“YOU HAVEN’T STARTED HER ON SOLIDS YET?” I looked around expecting the ground to be crumbling, demons driving chariots of Thestrals surrounded by fire to be appearing. Yes, not giving my not even six month old child solids meant the Apocalypse.

“Well, the doctor wants us to wait…”

“No. You can’t wait. Start her on solids today.”

“Well, we appreciate that…but the doctor…”

“Look, I’ve raised four children, have three grandchildren, and have plenty of doctors in my family. I know what’s best. Please start your daughter on solids.”

“Okay, I totally respect that you know what you’re doing and that you have doctors, you know, in your family. It’s just that, we have talked to our actual doctor…”

“She’s OBVIOUSLY HUNGRY.”

I stopped her. She’s not obviously hungry. She’s a chunkers, albeit small. Her legs are the size of strombollis and her chub hangs over her diaper. Her hands have literal dimples in them from the amount of fat she’s got going on. Not only that, but she’s always smiling. She’s always turning over, giggling, trying to crawl. She’s not an unhappy or malnourished child. Honest to God, she’s pretty damn perfect.

“No. We’re listening to our doctor.”

Here’s the clincher. Here’s the real grinding my bones, dragon-Mama turning part of this whole uncomfortable interaction.

“Well, most parents say thank you.”

I have never so badly wanted to smash all of my belongings. You know that part in Coraline (spoiler alert) when the Other Mother starts turning into the spider? Her neck starts to extend upwards, her face becomes more gaunt, and her teeth become fanglike? Her nails grow into long, pointed, knives, fingers following suit. That’s what happened to me.

I glared at her. “I will thank you when you have given advice that is both wanted and correct. I will thank you when you have listened to my perspective, respected it, and gone on your merry way. I will thank you when you are not so blinded by being right that you take what’s actually happening into consideration. I will thank you when I feel you deserve to be thanked.”

That was mean.  I get it. I get that she was just trying to help. And I want the help. I want to do what’s best for my kid. But moms, you do not have the authority to ignore someone else’s needs just because you’ve “been there and know best.” I respect you and I respect your knowledge. Being a mom is hard, and raising productive members of society is hard–I clap for all of you. Just because you’ve had the experience and raised great kids doesn’t mean you can force another mom into feeling badly for how she is raising her child. Stop belittling other moms– it’s hard for all of us. 

Moms, I love and respect you. Please love and respect other moms.

Attrition vs Appeasement 

Attrition vs Appeasement 

In certain situations, mothers stand alone against a sea of stupidity. I’m talking unwanted advice, idiotic interrogations, or unnecessary beratements (beration? Beratings? Wtf is the noun form of berate?) that we all receive. I have a few such incidents which occurred to me over the weekend. In my last post, I recounted the story of flying to our prospective families’ homes. The trip was fairly smooth overall. Let’s take a look at the journey back. 

We had a pretty easy go at the Atlanta Airport Security line, having been able to go through the VIP section of the line (this more than made up for not having been allowed on the plane first). The TSA agents were super nice and efficient with their gigantic bins. There was also a nice woman and her daughter who had us go in front of them. Wow. We made it through with enough time to go to the bathroom. There, a woman noticed me struggling with my infant and gigantic diaper bag (I still haven’t learned), and helped me carry my stuff. “We’re in this together.” Thank you, lady, you’re an amazing, beautiful person.

All these events made me believe in good omens. This trip home would be perfect. You know who else thought his life was going well? The Count of Monte Cristo.

We got onto the plane.  

“Oh my goodness! Your baby is so cute! And boy is she little. Was she a preemie?”

No, ass. I stared blankly at her for a moment. Look at me. I’m five freaking feet tall. Look, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being premature, and I don’t mean to make the word have a negative connotation. I was premature as were four of my sisters. We all turned out wonderfully and at least somewhat put together. But, my God, why? Is this not a super personal question? What if she did have difficulty during her birth or eating or growing? What if she is underweight and it’s a sore subject? Why would you ask me that?
Maybe she meant well…but, I still think it’s stupid.

 My Mom’s group on Facebook believes I’m overreacting to this situation, and I get that. Honestly, my mom’s group is full of beautiful, competent women. And I get that other moms may just want to bond with you. Perhaps I’m too private. But this comment on my daughter’s small stature infuriated me.

But, I acted with appeasement. I smiled, “Oh, no, she’s just small like her mama.”

“Oh! It’s just that she’s so little…” Yes, I get it. She’s little. Do you want me to give her a donut?

I laughed again and just walked to my seat. I hate her.

My daughter was mostly good with few screaming episodes. In one instance, she had a poopsplosion. I took her to the restroom to change her and found that she had pooped ALL over her onesie. She just smiled at me and giggled. You know what you did. You know you’re cute. One day, I will hold this against you.

I didn’t have a onesie with me in the restroom, so I took McImp back to our seat sans onesie. She was just in a diaper. What was I supposed to do? Leave her in the bathroom?

As I was searching for the onesie, my husband was holding the babe. I found it and began to put it on my child.

A flight attendant approached us. He looked at me in disgust as my husband and I attempted to clothe our wiggling infant. “Excuse me, you must do that in the bathroom. This is, after all, public transportation.” He walked away smug at having an unnecessarily poor attitude with us.  

Once again, I smiled. “Of course, I understand.”

The thing is, I don’t understand. We weren’t changing her in our seats. We aren’t heathens. It would be the equivalent of my husband or I putting a sweatshirt on while sitting on the airplane. I wanted so badly to lash out, to tell this flight attendant that I just wanted to more easily clothe my child. I wanted to explain that someone else was waiting for the bathroom when I left, and I would have a naked baby longer if I loomed outside of the restroom door waiting for the person to leave and obstruct a potential bathroom-goer from entering. No, I thought. I’ll just make it easier one everyone if I just changed her outfit in my seat.

But no. This is public transportation. Apparently, I’m inhibiting others’ comfortability. I hate him.

So, here is is. My outlet of attrition. I am building my strength against the idiots through my blog. Perhaps my venting is unfounded. Perhaps I’m easily offended or too harsh on others. Even so, here we are. Horrible moms who make life on others difficult through our attempts to figure it out.

You know what? We’re amazing.