Frankly Speaking

I was born in 1982, which basically means I was raised in a world where – in addition to an emphasis on whole language (boo phonetics!), ribbons for participation, and activities galore – I was told I could do absolutely anything. That said, I promptly went about doing exactly that.

I have spent the last three decades studying, researching, trying, testing, attempting, failing, succeeding, failing, succeeding and working. I have never really doubted my ability to do anything because as far as I was told, anything is possible if you keep working at it. Except, maybe, making it onto the high school basketball team, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t practice all summer and go out to tryouts. Enough said.

The funny thing is, when you spend your whole life trying to do everything, the sudden and stark absence of everything is quite startling.

My baby has become my everything. But even she takes naps (God willing). And where does that leave me?

I don’t seem to have any hobbies. Who has time for hobbies when you’re studying and researching and trying and attempting and failing and succeeding and working? With the day stretching out before me and the only real things on my to do list being “eat lunch” and “wash bottles”, it’s a bit hard to understand exactly what I’m supposed to be doing with myself. Even the baby is starting to look at me as she peers out from one of the 14 different activity centres we now own, as if to say “Don’t you do anything? Sheesh, even I like to bat these little monkeys around and I’m only 11 weeks old”.

It’s as though I’m actually conditioned to feel busy – and busy enough to feel stressed. If I’m not busy, I’m not sure what I’m doing, or where I’m heading. A year ago, the idea of sitting on my gorgeous couch, my favourite jazz tunes singing out of my speakers, the rain pitter-pattering away as my beautiful baby girl sleeps upstairs would have sounded like a dream come true. Now I’m left wondering – what the hell am I supposed to do next?

I can’t sit still. Most of my friends can’t either. That’s why one of my girlfriends went for three separate walks yesterday. Two during thunderstorms. I rest my case.

What’s more, in the world of billable hours I have emerged from, there’s not much value to sitting still. So how do I put a value on my day when I can’t send in a summary report, shout a status update into a conference call line, or fire off a few final thoughts from my Blackberry while simultaneously running for the train, buying groceries, planning a wedding shower for a nearest-and-dearest, and cooking a five star (okay, okay, 0.5 star) dinner?

And that, my friends, is about where I stand now. Somewhere in between, knowing instinctively that what I’m doing is valuable and that’s it’s what I want to do. But somehow simultaneously wondering how I will survive it. That’s the funny thing about life, I guess. It’s always greener or brighter or better somewhere else. But at the end of the day, being present where you are is probably the only real way to derive any happiness from this game at all. Here’s to being present. One quiet moment at a time.

At  my baby shower, my own mother gave me a book called “Motherhood is not for sissies”. Little did I know at the time that by summer, I’d be seriously considering having the slogan tattooed on my forehead, just in case the theory was ever in doubt.

I get a lot of things now that I never would have gotten before. I get why people call this the hardest job in the world – because it is. I get why some of my girlfriends had a stunned look on their face for months after The Birth – because this whole thing is quite stunning. I get why red wine was invented – not that I’m ever really awake enough to sit down and enjoy any, but hey – a girl can dream.

There is a lot of fun to my day. There are moments and hours of amazement and wonder. There are times when I can’t believe anything else really mattered before now. There are afternoons of contented naps when she sleeps and I just lie there whispering wow, and thank you, aloud.

All that aside, though, the little book is right:  This whole deal ain’t for sissies. This is work; hard work at that. Which is why I’m putting it all on the line right now and giving myself permission to do something more people should do: I admit right here, right now, I’m not perfect.

I don’t always know what my baby wants. But I promise to try and figure it out.

I (embarassingly) can’t identify her cry in a crowd of babies yet (despite the fact that squirrels can probably do this, I know). But I am always listening just in case.

I don’t beat myself up if the day goes completely amok. But I get up an try again tomorrow.

I hate that my husband can somehow fall deeply asleep after we feed her in the night, while I toss and turn. But I try not to mention that to him (most of the time).

I only know what day it is if I check the calendar in our room. But I manage to get most of the places I am supposed to be.

I may, as one friend said this week, sometimes find myself half an hour before a party, chopping veggies in my nightgown with unbrushed hair, unbrushed teeth and no hope in hell of being ready on time. But I refuse to care about any of that.

Instead, I hold myself to the highest standard of effort. I ain’t taking home a trophy for mother of the year, that much I know already. Mabe a pretty ribbon for participation and most improved player, though. I think that would be nice. Better still, a nice message to pass on to my daughter, too.

All I can do is my best. The rest I make up for in loud (very loud) singing, potty mouth type jokes, lots of laughter and occasional trips to the Dairy Queen (for me, not her). So far, that’s about all I got. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough, and I hereby give myself permission to just relax and enjoy the ride.