This is kind of a soggy topic, so if you're not into the travails of pee issues, move along and check back in a couple of days for a new post.
I'm training (or supposed to be training, or talking about training) for a half marathon in February. I should probably register soon to strengthen my resolve, though one of my favorite running friends just signed up for the OTHER half marathon in February, dang it, so now I'm torn (not that I could keep pace with him, but still; he's fun pre- and post-race).
No matter what race I run, I think my race time is going to be seriously impaired by my bladder. As in, I'm going to have to stop to pee every three miles or so. That is four stops in one race. Add a wait in line, plus the pulling off/putting on of gloves without dropping them down the hole, and you are adding at least four minutes to my race time, plus the slowing down and speeding up for each stop.
Some have suggested I simply run wearing a diaper, "like serious marathoners do."
I'm just not ready to go there. But I may not have much choice. These days, I get to the gym, hit the loo upon arrival, and then have to skip to the loo again about 19 minutes into my workout. When running, I cannot do my usual 4.5-mile loop without stopping at a cafe.
Not drinking water is not an option. I'm pregnant, lactating, and working out. I drink a lot of water even when none of the above are true, so these days I'm into the gallons.
And I'm not even going to touch upon a little thing called "stress incontinence," but you know it if you have it. Hello, Kegels. [I probably SHOULD talk about this particular topic more, to bring it out of the closet, but you know what? I don't feel like going there right now.]
Are there lightweight running diapers out there? Depends for athletes? Sleek, non-chafing, ultra-absorbent solutions for pregnant runners with overactive bladders? Or will I be racing in short bursts from Port-a-Potty to Port-a-Potty, stopping behind a tree when necessary?
Time will tell.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
See (the growing) Mommy Run
Because I am such a devoted athlete and all-around organized person, I am woefully behind on my half-marathon training and--despite printing the training plan and mapping it out to my calendar--have NO idea what week I'm on or what I'm supposed to be doing.
Today was possibly supposed to be a 30-minute tempo run (what IS a tempo run, you ask? I have no clue) or maybe a 3 mile run at pace (what??). But see, this weekend I'm running a 5K race, which I'm supposed to be doing NEXT weekend (except there's no local 5K race to run next weekend), so should I switch this training week with next, or just skip this week and pretend it's already next week?
Further confusing the issue is that, in part due to a minor tiff with the race director, I'm no longer planning to run the late-February half-marathon I was intending to. Instead, I'm running one in New Hampshire a week earlier.
Therefore, if I skip this week and jump to next, I should not only be on track for the earlier race, but I'm also nicely synched up with the training plan in terms of the 5K race this weekend.
Right?
In that case, apparently I missed some speed training earlier in the week. Whatever. I was busy.
Running is hard lately. Outside is fine, but I again tried running at the gym today and nearly died of heatstroke about half a mile into it. I should have worn shorts instead of half-tights, but still. Running indoors makes me too hot.
My only consolation--when I had to cut my run short, due to my rising temperature and an inability to breathe, thanks to my cold--was that today is supposed to be "Rest or easy run" because of Sunday's race.
I honestly don't know how, at this rate, I'm going to manage a half-marathon by mid-February. And my recent all-carb, mostly-junk diet is packing on the pounds faster than I'd like (I'm pretty sure I'm only supposed to gain one pound a week, right?).
I know the real goal here is to grow a healthy baby, not to run a personal-best at any race or look anything other than pregnant, but...Dear butt of mine, could you try to keep yourself looking kind of normal for a little while longer, please? Thank you.
Today was possibly supposed to be a 30-minute tempo run (what IS a tempo run, you ask? I have no clue) or maybe a 3 mile run at pace (what??). But see, this weekend I'm running a 5K race, which I'm supposed to be doing NEXT weekend (except there's no local 5K race to run next weekend), so should I switch this training week with next, or just skip this week and pretend it's already next week?
Further confusing the issue is that, in part due to a minor tiff with the race director, I'm no longer planning to run the late-February half-marathon I was intending to. Instead, I'm running one in New Hampshire a week earlier.
Therefore, if I skip this week and jump to next, I should not only be on track for the earlier race, but I'm also nicely synched up with the training plan in terms of the 5K race this weekend.
Right?
In that case, apparently I missed some speed training earlier in the week. Whatever. I was busy.
Running is hard lately. Outside is fine, but I again tried running at the gym today and nearly died of heatstroke about half a mile into it. I should have worn shorts instead of half-tights, but still. Running indoors makes me too hot.
My only consolation--when I had to cut my run short, due to my rising temperature and an inability to breathe, thanks to my cold--was that today is supposed to be "Rest or easy run" because of Sunday's race.
I honestly don't know how, at this rate, I'm going to manage a half-marathon by mid-February. And my recent all-carb, mostly-junk diet is packing on the pounds faster than I'd like (I'm pretty sure I'm only supposed to gain one pound a week, right?).
I know the real goal here is to grow a healthy baby, not to run a personal-best at any race or look anything other than pregnant, but...Dear butt of mine, could you try to keep yourself looking kind of normal for a little while longer, please? Thank you.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Anger and Mommying
I recently read about a study that said that there are three demographic groups most likely to be amongst the angriest people in the population.
One of those groups is "people, usually women, who have young children at home."
No shit. In the past year-and-a-half I have been transformed from a fairly decent, patient, helpful person to a swearing, cursing, door-kicking monster. I have never felt such rage as I've felt as a parent--not towards my son, but towards the rest of the world.
You want to cut me off on the highway? Litter where I can see you? Try to make small talk with me in the doorway while I am juggling a cranky toddler, a diaper bag, and two bags of groceries--and when I really have to pee?
Fear my wrath.
Then there's the whole world of inanimate objects I regularly want to destroy: our front storm door that won't close, the heavy interior door that won't open, the dome light in the car, the basement door that won't stay open, the stroller that doesn't quite fit through the doorway...
I have never before sworn so much. I think I utter the word "f*ck" or some form of it far too many times per day than is healthy.
I'm not sure what this is about. I'm tired. I am frustrated a lot of the time. I'm not the most patient, selfless, creative person, so living with (OK, raising) a toddler takes a LOT out of me. Too much, lately, it seems.
I think maybe I am not a nice person anymore. I'm an entitled, grouchy bitch. "Entitled" because for f*ck's sake, can't you see I'm trying to get in line and only have two items and my toddler is having a meltdown and I really have to pee (a chronic problem lately, pregnancy-related) and can't you please just let me get in front of you in line to spare us all this hideousness? Can you please just cut me a tiny bit of slack before I, too, have a meltdown right here in the store?
I can see why mothers get called "entitled." I'm like a one-woman poster child for the cliche of the distracted, harried, angry, cell-phone-using mom. Except I'm almost never on the phone because that, too, causes more stress in my life, since the toddler thinks it is HIS toy to play with and won't let me talk on it.
Even writing this is making me tense.
Am I really just not cut out for motherhood? Have I made one big terrible mistake?
One of those groups is "people, usually women, who have young children at home."
No shit. In the past year-and-a-half I have been transformed from a fairly decent, patient, helpful person to a swearing, cursing, door-kicking monster. I have never felt such rage as I've felt as a parent--not towards my son, but towards the rest of the world.
You want to cut me off on the highway? Litter where I can see you? Try to make small talk with me in the doorway while I am juggling a cranky toddler, a diaper bag, and two bags of groceries--and when I really have to pee?
Fear my wrath.
Then there's the whole world of inanimate objects I regularly want to destroy: our front storm door that won't close, the heavy interior door that won't open, the dome light in the car, the basement door that won't stay open, the stroller that doesn't quite fit through the doorway...
I have never before sworn so much. I think I utter the word "f*ck" or some form of it far too many times per day than is healthy.
I'm not sure what this is about. I'm tired. I am frustrated a lot of the time. I'm not the most patient, selfless, creative person, so living with (OK, raising) a toddler takes a LOT out of me. Too much, lately, it seems.
I think maybe I am not a nice person anymore. I'm an entitled, grouchy bitch. "Entitled" because for f*ck's sake, can't you see I'm trying to get in line and only have two items and my toddler is having a meltdown and I really have to pee (a chronic problem lately, pregnancy-related) and can't you please just let me get in front of you in line to spare us all this hideousness? Can you please just cut me a tiny bit of slack before I, too, have a meltdown right here in the store?
I can see why mothers get called "entitled." I'm like a one-woman poster child for the cliche of the distracted, harried, angry, cell-phone-using mom. Except I'm almost never on the phone because that, too, causes more stress in my life, since the toddler thinks it is HIS toy to play with and won't let me talk on it.
Even writing this is making me tense.
Am I really just not cut out for motherhood? Have I made one big terrible mistake?
Motherhood is a Poor Fit for My Skill Set
After one of our worst days together yet--half of which he spent at daycare--I am seriously reconsidering this mom gig. When I don't love it, I hate it...which is most of the time lately.
I'm sick of fighting about shoes, jackets, mittens, getting into the car seat, not hitting lamps with the broom, diaper changes, not dragging me away from the stove when I'm cooking, not dipping spoon (and then licking aforementioned spoon) into a pot of soapy water in the sink....and so on. I don't even worry about tooth-brushing, and as for potty-training, we all gave up after a seemingly promising early start.
No, we don't fight about the big stuff. It's always the really really small stuff.
Today when I picked him up from daycare I didn't bother putting his shoes on. I'd parked right in front of their house, their steps were covered in ice and snow, I didn't have the time or patience for his 45-minute meander down their five steps, it was cold, and I have a big deadline tomorrow. It seemed easiest to just scoop him up and carry him to the car.
Not so.
The first screaming was about his jacket. It was less than 40 degrees out, so--crazy me--I thought putting a jacket on him might be a good idea. Then, he was upset that he was not allowed to walk out under his own power.
The car seat was the last straw for both of us. "NOOOOOO!" he screamed, arching and writhing and clawing at my face. Once again (he's done this before, most recently last evening) he missed my eyes, but barely, scraping my cheek with his little toddler-claws.* By this point--having been reunited with my sweet toddler for a whopping six minutes or so--I was DONE. I'd had enough.
"Just get into the car seat, Max," I muttered. "I'll give you some bunnies" [cheddar bunnies, an offer/bribe that always works and brings us instant peace and smiles].
"NOOOOO!!!" again, writhing and arching and clawing.
I pinned him in the seat with one arm while wrestling to get a strap over one shoulder. "I don't fucking CARE, Max," I snarled, shocked at myself even as the words came out. "Just get in your CAR SEAT."
Of course, within ten minutes he was fast asleep. A nap was all he needed, as it is every time I pick him up from daycare. But he fights it--and me--every time.
I'm not proud of myself for swearing at my son. Nor am I proud that that was only the first of several "fights" we had this afternoon. I suppose looking at them as "fights" is part of the problem. He's my son, my toddler, not my adversary. I'm his parent, his mommy, and I should be gently teaching and guiding him, not swearing at him and forcing him into his car seat.
I did managed to learn something, though. Later, when I suggested a trip to the bookstore and he happily agreed, he again resisted getting into the car seat. Fine, I thought. "Max, would you rather go for a walk?"
He stopped struggling and his face lit up. "Yeah!"
So we took a walk around the neighborhood, walking on walls and looking at all the holiday lights. Only a few more minor scuffles before my dear husband finally walked in the door at bedtime, at which point I broke down in tears and gladly handed over the child.
In six months, we'll have a second child. Hopefully sometime between now and then I'll re-embrace motherhood...or else change my name, cut and dye my hair, and flee to Canada, to spend my remaining years safely with cats and adult humans only.
* I keep his nails as short as I can, which involves putting on a headlamp and entering his room after he's asleep, carefully trimming his nails without waking him.
I'm sick of fighting about shoes, jackets, mittens, getting into the car seat, not hitting lamps with the broom, diaper changes, not dragging me away from the stove when I'm cooking, not dipping spoon (and then licking aforementioned spoon) into a pot of soapy water in the sink....and so on. I don't even worry about tooth-brushing, and as for potty-training, we all gave up after a seemingly promising early start.
No, we don't fight about the big stuff. It's always the really really small stuff.
Today when I picked him up from daycare I didn't bother putting his shoes on. I'd parked right in front of their house, their steps were covered in ice and snow, I didn't have the time or patience for his 45-minute meander down their five steps, it was cold, and I have a big deadline tomorrow. It seemed easiest to just scoop him up and carry him to the car.
Not so.
The first screaming was about his jacket. It was less than 40 degrees out, so--crazy me--I thought putting a jacket on him might be a good idea. Then, he was upset that he was not allowed to walk out under his own power.
The car seat was the last straw for both of us. "NOOOOOO!" he screamed, arching and writhing and clawing at my face. Once again (he's done this before, most recently last evening) he missed my eyes, but barely, scraping my cheek with his little toddler-claws.* By this point--having been reunited with my sweet toddler for a whopping six minutes or so--I was DONE. I'd had enough.
"Just get into the car seat, Max," I muttered. "I'll give you some bunnies" [cheddar bunnies, an offer/bribe that always works and brings us instant peace and smiles].
"NOOOOO!!!" again, writhing and arching and clawing.
I pinned him in the seat with one arm while wrestling to get a strap over one shoulder. "I don't fucking CARE, Max," I snarled, shocked at myself even as the words came out. "Just get in your CAR SEAT."
Of course, within ten minutes he was fast asleep. A nap was all he needed, as it is every time I pick him up from daycare. But he fights it--and me--every time.
I'm not proud of myself for swearing at my son. Nor am I proud that that was only the first of several "fights" we had this afternoon. I suppose looking at them as "fights" is part of the problem. He's my son, my toddler, not my adversary. I'm his parent, his mommy, and I should be gently teaching and guiding him, not swearing at him and forcing him into his car seat.
I did managed to learn something, though. Later, when I suggested a trip to the bookstore and he happily agreed, he again resisted getting into the car seat. Fine, I thought. "Max, would you rather go for a walk?"
He stopped struggling and his face lit up. "Yeah!"
So we took a walk around the neighborhood, walking on walls and looking at all the holiday lights. Only a few more minor scuffles before my dear husband finally walked in the door at bedtime, at which point I broke down in tears and gladly handed over the child.
In six months, we'll have a second child. Hopefully sometime between now and then I'll re-embrace motherhood...or else change my name, cut and dye my hair, and flee to Canada, to spend my remaining years safely with cats and adult humans only.
* I keep his nails as short as I can, which involves putting on a headlamp and entering his room after he's asleep, carefully trimming his nails without waking him.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Recent Photos
Too much text lately. Here are some images.
Max and C, Thanksgiving Day at Turkey Trot
Max enjoys his first cupcake at Lyndell's.
Max helps me cook. In the bowl: cinnamon and curry. On the floor: the eggs I forgot to put back in the fridge (or at least out of his reach).
Max and his cousin, whom he adores
3 generations of Turkey Trotters, Chatham 2009
Max eating grapes...
Me, a few weeks later (13 weeks pregnant). I think that last time, I was about 6 months along before I looked like this. At this rate of expansion, I will be unable to walk by March. I'll just topple over.
Max and C, Thanksgiving Day at Turkey Trot
Max enjoys his first cupcake at Lyndell's.
Max helps me cook. In the bowl: cinnamon and curry. On the floor: the eggs I forgot to put back in the fridge (or at least out of his reach).Max and his cousin, whom he adores3 generations of Turkey Trotters, Chatham 2009Max and me and morning hair
Max eating grapes......and feeding me grapes.
Me, October 4, Harwich Half Marathon, not yet aware I was pregnant (did not finish due to injury).
Me, a few weeks later (13 weeks pregnant). I think that last time, I was about 6 months along before I looked like this. At this rate of expansion, I will be unable to walk by March. I'll just topple over.Monday, November 30, 2009
Week 13 or Something
Half marathon training begins. Actually, I'm two weeks ahead of schedule, but I might as well start now. Except today I made the mistake of running at the gym instead of outside (due to All the Crap I Had to Do Today, I didn't feel right making Max sit in the jogger after spending so much time in the car seat running errands).
I hate treadmill running. It's dull. I expect there to be electrodes taped to me or something, or perhaps a cheese maze at the end. Plus, the gym is hot. It's not hot for normal people. In fact, the temperature is quite nice. It's just hot for pregnant people who tend to get really warm really fast. It's a keep-your-clothes-on kind of gym (except for the weights area, where certain women strut about in sports bras and lifting gloves, which gives them a certain sort of dominatrix look--if you're into buff dominatrices). But I couldn't keep my clothes on. Off came the shirt early in my run.
Even so, I was hot and red for too long after.
I think I'm going to have to run outside from now on, happily. I'd rather run in knee-deep slush in a sleet storm, actually, than run indoors. It's much more invigorating and fun. I just hope I can otherwise keep working out at the gym, while remaining at least partially clothed, without overheating.
In other news, I'm now 13 weeks pregnant, or 13 weeks and some days, or something. Whatever. Pregnant enough that I'm sort of showing and I can no longer hold plank position for long periods of time without achiness for a long time after.
Right-o, perhaps I shouldn't be holding plank position for long periods of time.
We had an ultrasound today to measure stuff for problems. You know, Early Risk Assessment. To determine the likelihood that the fetus has (or doesn't have) Down's syndrome or other issues. We won't get the results for a week. But the blob looked quite blob-like, and at one point it flapped its blob-like arms.
I, of course, took the tech's word for it that we were looking at an actual normal fetus with parts like a head, body, and limbs, whereas C, of course, could see all the parts without having to have them pointed out to him. The tech gave us some printouts, kind of a mix of gray and black and white messy blobby blurs, which may or may not mean anything at all except that the images have that familiar triangular shape of an ultrasound image.
As for what the printouts show, well, they might as well be pictures taken underwater at Sea World at night.
That's my life right now. I really should do a Max update post soon. He's quite the funny little person these days. Today he was eating curry powder. He licked some up, then he dropped cut grapes into it to coat them before eating them. He smelled like curry and had chocolate* and blood** smeared on his cheek and we had the sweetest afternoon.***
* I fed him chocolate chips as I made brownies. For the first time EVER, he said "Please" without being prompted as he bounced up and down begging for more chocolate chips.
** My blood. He gave me a bloody nose earlier and it reopened while I was nuzzling him. He scratched the septum in some enthusiastic toddler maneuver the involved Grabbing Mommy's Face and Head Really Hard.
*** I am madly in love with him.
I hate treadmill running. It's dull. I expect there to be electrodes taped to me or something, or perhaps a cheese maze at the end. Plus, the gym is hot. It's not hot for normal people. In fact, the temperature is quite nice. It's just hot for pregnant people who tend to get really warm really fast. It's a keep-your-clothes-on kind of gym (except for the weights area, where certain women strut about in sports bras and lifting gloves, which gives them a certain sort of dominatrix look--if you're into buff dominatrices). But I couldn't keep my clothes on. Off came the shirt early in my run.
Even so, I was hot and red for too long after.
I think I'm going to have to run outside from now on, happily. I'd rather run in knee-deep slush in a sleet storm, actually, than run indoors. It's much more invigorating and fun. I just hope I can otherwise keep working out at the gym, while remaining at least partially clothed, without overheating.
In other news, I'm now 13 weeks pregnant, or 13 weeks and some days, or something. Whatever. Pregnant enough that I'm sort of showing and I can no longer hold plank position for long periods of time without achiness for a long time after.
Right-o, perhaps I shouldn't be holding plank position for long periods of time.
We had an ultrasound today to measure stuff for problems. You know, Early Risk Assessment. To determine the likelihood that the fetus has (or doesn't have) Down's syndrome or other issues. We won't get the results for a week. But the blob looked quite blob-like, and at one point it flapped its blob-like arms.
I, of course, took the tech's word for it that we were looking at an actual normal fetus with parts like a head, body, and limbs, whereas C, of course, could see all the parts without having to have them pointed out to him. The tech gave us some printouts, kind of a mix of gray and black and white messy blobby blurs, which may or may not mean anything at all except that the images have that familiar triangular shape of an ultrasound image.
As for what the printouts show, well, they might as well be pictures taken underwater at Sea World at night.
That's my life right now. I really should do a Max update post soon. He's quite the funny little person these days. Today he was eating curry powder. He licked some up, then he dropped cut grapes into it to coat them before eating them. He smelled like curry and had chocolate* and blood** smeared on his cheek and we had the sweetest afternoon.***
* I fed him chocolate chips as I made brownies. For the first time EVER, he said "Please" without being prompted as he bounced up and down begging for more chocolate chips.
** My blood. He gave me a bloody nose earlier and it reopened while I was nuzzling him. He scratched the septum in some enthusiastic toddler maneuver the involved Grabbing Mommy's Face and Head Really Hard.
*** I am madly in love with him.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Clarification
I need to clarify something from my "Riding with the Big Dogs" post.
1. I am not a bad-ass. Nor am I a big dog. The guys were mellow and perhaps being kind.
2. I am, however, sort of a big tool. During pause in the ride, one guy asked if I raced.
"No," I answered, thinking he meant mountain bike.
"Well, you're wearing racing gloves," he said, pointing to my hands.
Oh. I had no idea they were racing gloves. They are my only full-fingered gloves and I got them from the website Steep and Cheap for about $9. "Um, they were on sale," I mumbled.
"Also," another guy piped up, "there's a number on your helmet."
Oh, awesome. "That's from a triathlon I did. I forgot to take the number off," I told them.
We kept riding. I felt like a total dork for only, you know, a few more minutes.
1. I am not a bad-ass. Nor am I a big dog. The guys were mellow and perhaps being kind.
2. I am, however, sort of a big tool. During pause in the ride, one guy asked if I raced.
"No," I answered, thinking he meant mountain bike.
"Well, you're wearing racing gloves," he said, pointing to my hands.
Oh. I had no idea they were racing gloves. They are my only full-fingered gloves and I got them from the website Steep and Cheap for about $9. "Um, they were on sale," I mumbled.
"Also," another guy piped up, "there's a number on your helmet."
Oh, awesome. "That's from a triathlon I did. I forgot to take the number off," I told them.
We kept riding. I felt like a total dork for only, you know, a few more minutes.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Me and My Totally Messed-Up Baby Girl
(or, irrational pregnancy fears?)
I have an incredibly strong feeling that the being (fetus, baby, whatever) I am pregnant with will be a girl. Is a girl. Whatever. I also have a strong feeling (not as strong) that there's something horribly wrong with her. Chromosomally wrong. Like, too many, or not enough, or they didn't all join up correctly, or something.
I think that latter fear stems from the whole girl thing. I've never wanted a girl. I don't really want a girl. I know I'm just supposed to want a healthy baby and all that, but I want a boy. I was afraid, when I was pregnant with Max, to admit that I really wanted a boy, in case it would jinx things, but I did, and I was so happy and relieved to find out (some minutes after he was born) that he was (is) a boy.
I just don't get girls. I've never had that many women friends. I've always been more comfortable with guys. I worked with men, only men, for a long time when I was a carpenter, and I loved it--the banter, the easy-goingness, the readability of them. There were a couple of a**holes, sure, usually subcontractors on their first day with our crew. And as far as friends go, it wasn't until I was in my late 20s that I made some close women friends, except for one woman friend from high school.
Plus, I myself was fairly inane child. I blame my parents, to some extent--my mother didn't want me mowing the lawn, or learning about tools, or doing anything else fun with my father and brothers. She wanted me indoors, looking pretty, and encouraged me to collect stickers and string beads and attempt to sew.
She was, of course, not thrilled when I became a carpenter. [But she also had told me once that the reason they were sending me to college was so that I'd have "something to fall back on" if my marriage failed (whenever I married, that is), which I found and still find a shocking concept...now that we have the right to vote and all, you know? ]
I think this culture also fosters a certain pink princessy inanity in girl-children, whereas boys are encouraged to build stuff, take things apart, be rough-and-tumble, and in general get dirty. I know a great many parents who are raising their children fairly equally and claim that the children themselves take on certain gender roles. That may be true, but I wonder how much is due to the influence of other kids at daycare/preschool, or well-meaning grandparents who send dolls and trucks according to gender, or stupid sexist children's books where all the construction workers are men and all the women are pretty, gentle Mommies.
Plus, I don't know what I'd do if I had a girl and raised her the way we're raising Max and she turned out to be inane and insipid (perhaps to fit in with friends) instead of smart and focused and not caring about peer pressure.
I know peer pressure affects both, but it's not boys who are falling behind in math and science when they hit adolescence. It's not boys who look ahead to adulthood and realize they'll usually earn a lot less than men for the same work. It's not boys who look around and see that we've still haven't cast aside traditional gender roles, if we are to believe statistics that show that even in families in which both parents work full time, the women do about 70% of the housework and childcare (!!!!!!!). Women suffer more harassment in the trades, are victims of sexual assault MUCH more often than men are, and in general are pretty much screwed in this culture.
Yep. So that's the real reason I don't want to have a daughter. Fighting for your rights is just tiring and annoying and endless, and I don't want her to have to go through that. Boys have it easier, plus I have the chance to raise my sons to do it differently. My son might notice that I encourage his father to participate more in childcare and housework. My daughter will likely notice that I still do most of it and have to delegate work like some kind of domestic manager. See the difference?
So maybe I'm not really afraid of birth defects or some horrible chromosomal problem. What I really fear is having a daughter and failing her:
I have an incredibly strong feeling that the being (fetus, baby, whatever) I am pregnant with will be a girl. Is a girl. Whatever. I also have a strong feeling (not as strong) that there's something horribly wrong with her. Chromosomally wrong. Like, too many, or not enough, or they didn't all join up correctly, or something.
I think that latter fear stems from the whole girl thing. I've never wanted a girl. I don't really want a girl. I know I'm just supposed to want a healthy baby and all that, but I want a boy. I was afraid, when I was pregnant with Max, to admit that I really wanted a boy, in case it would jinx things, but I did, and I was so happy and relieved to find out (some minutes after he was born) that he was (is) a boy.
I just don't get girls. I've never had that many women friends. I've always been more comfortable with guys. I worked with men, only men, for a long time when I was a carpenter, and I loved it--the banter, the easy-goingness, the readability of them. There were a couple of a**holes, sure, usually subcontractors on their first day with our crew. And as far as friends go, it wasn't until I was in my late 20s that I made some close women friends, except for one woman friend from high school.
Plus, I myself was fairly inane child. I blame my parents, to some extent--my mother didn't want me mowing the lawn, or learning about tools, or doing anything else fun with my father and brothers. She wanted me indoors, looking pretty, and encouraged me to collect stickers and string beads and attempt to sew.
She was, of course, not thrilled when I became a carpenter. [But she also had told me once that the reason they were sending me to college was so that I'd have "something to fall back on" if my marriage failed (whenever I married, that is), which I found and still find a shocking concept...now that we have the right to vote and all, you know? ]
I think this culture also fosters a certain pink princessy inanity in girl-children, whereas boys are encouraged to build stuff, take things apart, be rough-and-tumble, and in general get dirty. I know a great many parents who are raising their children fairly equally and claim that the children themselves take on certain gender roles. That may be true, but I wonder how much is due to the influence of other kids at daycare/preschool, or well-meaning grandparents who send dolls and trucks according to gender, or stupid sexist children's books where all the construction workers are men and all the women are pretty, gentle Mommies.
Plus, I don't know what I'd do if I had a girl and raised her the way we're raising Max and she turned out to be inane and insipid (perhaps to fit in with friends) instead of smart and focused and not caring about peer pressure.
I know peer pressure affects both, but it's not boys who are falling behind in math and science when they hit adolescence. It's not boys who look ahead to adulthood and realize they'll usually earn a lot less than men for the same work. It's not boys who look around and see that we've still haven't cast aside traditional gender roles, if we are to believe statistics that show that even in families in which both parents work full time, the women do about 70% of the housework and childcare (!!!!!!!). Women suffer more harassment in the trades, are victims of sexual assault MUCH more often than men are, and in general are pretty much screwed in this culture.
Yep. So that's the real reason I don't want to have a daughter. Fighting for your rights is just tiring and annoying and endless, and I don't want her to have to go through that. Boys have it easier, plus I have the chance to raise my sons to do it differently. My son might notice that I encourage his father to participate more in childcare and housework. My daughter will likely notice that I still do most of it and have to delegate work like some kind of domestic manager. See the difference?
So maybe I'm not really afraid of birth defects or some horrible chromosomal problem. What I really fear is having a daughter and failing her:
- failing her by not having kicked down the gender inequality in my own home, let alone in the broader world;
- failing her by raising her in a society that still doesn't truly value her as a whole person (but will happily objectify her);
- failing her by having to admit to her that I failed myself, sometimes, by not always fighting for myself, by giving in sometimes, by not always being as true to myself as I could and should be--because sometimes it's easier or I am just tired.
We won't know until June what we're having (or have had, by then). The next 28 weeks may be frought with contemplation, it seems.
Feminist readers with girls, how do you handle this stuff? Do you share these concerns?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Riding with the Big Dogs
Today I had a most excellent mountain bike ride, one of the best all year. The weather was perfect, the other riders were comrade-like and easy to ride with, the trails we were on were amazing, and my skills weren't as rusty as I'd feared.
Funny, all this, because I was riding with a pack of middle-aged men, the tough quiet kind that were riding trails while I was still using training wheels, the kind who don't say much but can climb a vertical icy rock without getting up out of their seats. You know. You've seen them on the trails, right?
I was joining what I thought was a regular ride by a local mountain biking group. I'd emailed the leader, known as "Big Dog," to half-jokingly suggest the woods near me, so I wouldn't have to travel far (seeing as C's least favorite weekend morning activity seems to be watching Max while I do something fun away from home). Big Dog emailed the list to say that thanks to my vote, the ride would take place at the woods I'd suggested.
Well, I couldn't possibly stand out that much, right? Anyone on the ride could be the Julia who'd suggested it.
Um, yeah. I started thinking about this last night and realized I was about to ride with a guy named Big Dog who manages an entire mountain biking Website, and I'd told him I'm of intermediate skill level. That was my skill level before Max, when I was riding a lot. I haven't ridden much since he was born (not for lack of desire, mind you).
I was going to get my ass handed to me on a broken derailleur, wasn't I?
I bucked up and arrived at the appointed place this morning. One guy said, "You must be Julia." Another guy said, "You're Julia?" I'd managed to get myself on a ride with a bunch of 40-something guys, a group of friends who'd been riding together for years. I was the youngest, the only woman, and (though it's totally irrelevant except in terms of current bladder capacity) the only pregnant one.
[begin waxing nostalgic]
I used to love doing things with all guys. I preferred it, in fact, to doing things with women or even mixed-gender groups. But mountain biking is different. I started having flashbacks to the rides I did with a local adventure-racing group. They were a bunch of 40-something guys who were so good that riding with them was absolutely mortifying. One time I fell so far behind that it got dark and they rode back into the woods to look for me. I felt like a toddler on a big wheel that they were babysitting.
I gave up on them. I don't think they miss me.
Then I tried riding with a local women's mountain biking group. They weren't so much fun. I could keep up with most of them, but they weren't very friendly. The one that spoke to me the most was this catty, snotty woman who once, noticing what gear I was in for the steepest uphill on the trail, said condescendingly, "Oh, I used to ride this in granny gear, too."
I gritted my teeth. I was training for a marathon at the time and my legs were like rubber after the previous day's long run. "Actually, I ran 20 miles yesterday and my legs are a little sore," I told her. "Normally I never use the granny gear."
She smiled. "Well, every new rider uses the granny gear a lot. It's OK. Don't worry, once you get better you'll be able to ride this in the middle gear."
"I usually do," I insisted, thinking Why don't you keep your eyes on your own gears?, but she smugly pulled ahead of me, probably to evaluate someone else's chain rings.
So that was my great fun riding with all women. Mostly, I liked riding with C and his friend Rob, long lovely rides that involved endo's, some blood, impossibly funny crashes, hiking our bikes over ridiculously tough terrain, and encouragement from Rob to ride certain obstacles I otherwise wouldn't have thought possible.
I miss those days.
[end the waxing nostalgic]
I took a deep breath and promised myself I wouldn't get discouraged. The worst that could happen was that I would merely wreck their Saturday morning ride by being slow and technically inept.
Except the funny thing was that they rode slowly. Weirdly slowly. Relaxed, middle-aged slowly. There were 5 of us: me, a tough silent man who never did quite get my attempts at banter, his 69-year-old father (who could ride), Big Dog, and a weird guy. Silent and his father had lived near these woods for a long time and knew all the cool trails on the north side. On our first technical uphill--which we started from, practically, a dead stop (I kid you not)--Big Dog stumbled and stopped, and I rode on past him. Yeah, I thought. I'm not so bad. Behind me, Weirdo also stumbled, but Old Guy rode on through (and past me, once I finally bungled it).
And so it went. We hit some gorgeous trails. It took me a while to warm up to the technical stuff, but while the other guys were usually a little better than me, they were just as likely to trip up on the tough stuff.
Silent Guy, on the other hand....man. He seemed to specialize in coming to a complete stop, then turning and riding up a nearly-invisible trail that went sharply up to the left (this happened three times today). He could also, on that sharp uphill in the deep wet oak leaves, neatly ride right over enormous wet, slimy logs like they were nothing. (I was very happy with my log-jumping today, but I had to laugh when I got to some of the uphill logs he'd ridden over. There was no way my bike and I would get over these as one.)
I got more and more confident. Then they warned me of a steep chute we were approaching. It didn't look too bad except for the enormous boulder you kind of had to duck under as you rode down the chute. That rock was unnerving.
More unnerving was watching Old Guy head into the chute and then endo, bike over man over bike in the leaves, scraping rock. Ow. I promptly dismounted and walked it.
Otherwise, it all went well. I finally felt comfortable enough that, while waiting for everyone to climb a technical uphill (which, happily, I wasn't the only one to carry my bike up) I casually announced I was taking a "nature break" and wandered off to pee.
I could climb hills faster than most of them, but they could usually handle the technical stuff much better than I could. There was one point when Silent Guy, as usual, was way ahead of us. I was last. In front of me was what looked like a pile-up of men and bikes. I rode towards them. Big Dog, from the man-bike heap, yelled, "Aim for the center rock. Middle rock, and lift! You can do it!"
By a complete and utter stroke of luck, I did it, hitting the middle rock, lifting my front wheel, pedaling the impossible, and riding on towards Silent Guy, leaving the others to sort themselves out and pick themselves up.
That felt good.
And that, dear readers, may have been my last ride until late next summer (by spring, I'll be too big to ride anything technical at any sort of speed), unless we keep this freaky nice weather for the next few weeks and I can get out again for another glorious ride. But if I don't, I'm satisfied. It seems I can, in fact, ride with the big dogs and keep up.
And that's a really nice feeling.
Funny, all this, because I was riding with a pack of middle-aged men, the tough quiet kind that were riding trails while I was still using training wheels, the kind who don't say much but can climb a vertical icy rock without getting up out of their seats. You know. You've seen them on the trails, right?
I was joining what I thought was a regular ride by a local mountain biking group. I'd emailed the leader, known as "Big Dog," to half-jokingly suggest the woods near me, so I wouldn't have to travel far (seeing as C's least favorite weekend morning activity seems to be watching Max while I do something fun away from home). Big Dog emailed the list to say that thanks to my vote, the ride would take place at the woods I'd suggested.
Well, I couldn't possibly stand out that much, right? Anyone on the ride could be the Julia who'd suggested it.
Um, yeah. I started thinking about this last night and realized I was about to ride with a guy named Big Dog who manages an entire mountain biking Website, and I'd told him I'm of intermediate skill level. That was my skill level before Max, when I was riding a lot. I haven't ridden much since he was born (not for lack of desire, mind you).
I was going to get my ass handed to me on a broken derailleur, wasn't I?
I bucked up and arrived at the appointed place this morning. One guy said, "You must be Julia." Another guy said, "You're Julia?" I'd managed to get myself on a ride with a bunch of 40-something guys, a group of friends who'd been riding together for years. I was the youngest, the only woman, and (though it's totally irrelevant except in terms of current bladder capacity) the only pregnant one.
[begin waxing nostalgic]
I used to love doing things with all guys. I preferred it, in fact, to doing things with women or even mixed-gender groups. But mountain biking is different. I started having flashbacks to the rides I did with a local adventure-racing group. They were a bunch of 40-something guys who were so good that riding with them was absolutely mortifying. One time I fell so far behind that it got dark and they rode back into the woods to look for me. I felt like a toddler on a big wheel that they were babysitting.
I gave up on them. I don't think they miss me.
Then I tried riding with a local women's mountain biking group. They weren't so much fun. I could keep up with most of them, but they weren't very friendly. The one that spoke to me the most was this catty, snotty woman who once, noticing what gear I was in for the steepest uphill on the trail, said condescendingly, "Oh, I used to ride this in granny gear, too."
I gritted my teeth. I was training for a marathon at the time and my legs were like rubber after the previous day's long run. "Actually, I ran 20 miles yesterday and my legs are a little sore," I told her. "Normally I never use the granny gear."
She smiled. "Well, every new rider uses the granny gear a lot. It's OK. Don't worry, once you get better you'll be able to ride this in the middle gear."
"I usually do," I insisted, thinking Why don't you keep your eyes on your own gears?, but she smugly pulled ahead of me, probably to evaluate someone else's chain rings.
So that was my great fun riding with all women. Mostly, I liked riding with C and his friend Rob, long lovely rides that involved endo's, some blood, impossibly funny crashes, hiking our bikes over ridiculously tough terrain, and encouragement from Rob to ride certain obstacles I otherwise wouldn't have thought possible.
I miss those days.
[end the waxing nostalgic]
I took a deep breath and promised myself I wouldn't get discouraged. The worst that could happen was that I would merely wreck their Saturday morning ride by being slow and technically inept.
Except the funny thing was that they rode slowly. Weirdly slowly. Relaxed, middle-aged slowly. There were 5 of us: me, a tough silent man who never did quite get my attempts at banter, his 69-year-old father (who could ride), Big Dog, and a weird guy. Silent and his father had lived near these woods for a long time and knew all the cool trails on the north side. On our first technical uphill--which we started from, practically, a dead stop (I kid you not)--Big Dog stumbled and stopped, and I rode on past him. Yeah, I thought. I'm not so bad. Behind me, Weirdo also stumbled, but Old Guy rode on through (and past me, once I finally bungled it).
And so it went. We hit some gorgeous trails. It took me a while to warm up to the technical stuff, but while the other guys were usually a little better than me, they were just as likely to trip up on the tough stuff.
Silent Guy, on the other hand....man. He seemed to specialize in coming to a complete stop, then turning and riding up a nearly-invisible trail that went sharply up to the left (this happened three times today). He could also, on that sharp uphill in the deep wet oak leaves, neatly ride right over enormous wet, slimy logs like they were nothing. (I was very happy with my log-jumping today, but I had to laugh when I got to some of the uphill logs he'd ridden over. There was no way my bike and I would get over these as one.)
I got more and more confident. Then they warned me of a steep chute we were approaching. It didn't look too bad except for the enormous boulder you kind of had to duck under as you rode down the chute. That rock was unnerving.
More unnerving was watching Old Guy head into the chute and then endo, bike over man over bike in the leaves, scraping rock. Ow. I promptly dismounted and walked it.
Otherwise, it all went well. I finally felt comfortable enough that, while waiting for everyone to climb a technical uphill (which, happily, I wasn't the only one to carry my bike up) I casually announced I was taking a "nature break" and wandered off to pee.
I could climb hills faster than most of them, but they could usually handle the technical stuff much better than I could. There was one point when Silent Guy, as usual, was way ahead of us. I was last. In front of me was what looked like a pile-up of men and bikes. I rode towards them. Big Dog, from the man-bike heap, yelled, "Aim for the center rock. Middle rock, and lift! You can do it!"
By a complete and utter stroke of luck, I did it, hitting the middle rock, lifting my front wheel, pedaling the impossible, and riding on towards Silent Guy, leaving the others to sort themselves out and pick themselves up.
That felt good.
And that, dear readers, may have been my last ride until late next summer (by spring, I'll be too big to ride anything technical at any sort of speed), unless we keep this freaky nice weather for the next few weeks and I can get out again for another glorious ride. But if I don't, I'm satisfied. It seems I can, in fact, ride with the big dogs and keep up.
And that's a really nice feeling.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sleep is for Sissies
I had a post all planned in my head this morning but right now cannot hold a cohesive thought, let alone remember my own name. Max is crying "Mama" in his crib (it's naptime) and if you haven't heard the sound of a whimpering, wailing, crying child calling for you over and over, it's the kind of nerve-shattering sound that makes one want to drill a hole through one's own head in genuine belief that that would be less painful than listening to "Mama" and having to ignore it.
I don't have to ignore it, of course. But since our trip, Max is having a hard time going to sleep. I don't want to get him (and us!) into the bad habit of letting him fall asleep in our arms, because I don't have the patience to spend one-and-a-half hours letting him drift off in my arms deeply enough to transfer him to the crib, especially at naptime (and after the second or third failed transfer, my patience is oddly much less than it was in the first place).
Last night was terrible. I know I'm opening myself up for judgment here; so be it. Last night it was two hours of horribleness. I went in every 10 or 20 minutes to reassure him that I'm still here. He'd stop crying until he realized I was leaving the room again. Finally I picked him up, and almost instantly he fell asleep on me, head on my shoulder. How sweet. Except he wanted to stay that way, and I wanted to be doing something else. After about 10 minutes I tried to transfer him. Our crib rail is a little noisy and he woke up and started screaming again.
Arghhh.
I eventually ended up in my own bed, fully dressed, buried under the covers, sobbing. I had no idea if I was doing the right thing. All I wanted to do was bring him into bed with me and cuddle him until he fell asleep, but I'm pretty sure that's not a bedtime routine I'd like us to be following. Before the trip, it was so easy: A few books, lights out, an in-the-dark recitation of Goodnight Moon, a final kiss, and into the crib, where he'd grin at me before rolling over and going to sleep.
Now? No. Twice last night he finally fell asleep on his own before waking (to...the sound of the toilet paper roll spinning? The cat walking past his room??).
C wisely suggested I pick up Max, keep him awake in my arms, and ask him if he's ready to go to sleep (or go back in the crib). Max tried to fall asleep on me. I'd ask him if he was ready to go to sleep. "Nooo," he'd insist in a tearful voice before dozing off again. Finally I put his sweetly sleeping self gently into the crib.
Naptime has always been a challenge. Today the cries are interspersed with long exhausted yawns. He has to fall asleep soon, right? I don't want to have to stroller/bike/drive him around every time I want him to nap.
Why is it that some kids will happily go into their cribs and play quietly (or cheerfullydrift off to sleep ) by themselves?? Why is my own child so in need of "Mama" when it's crib time?
I don't have to ignore it, of course. But since our trip, Max is having a hard time going to sleep. I don't want to get him (and us!) into the bad habit of letting him fall asleep in our arms, because I don't have the patience to spend one-and-a-half hours letting him drift off in my arms deeply enough to transfer him to the crib, especially at naptime (and after the second or third failed transfer, my patience is oddly much less than it was in the first place).
Last night was terrible. I know I'm opening myself up for judgment here; so be it. Last night it was two hours of horribleness. I went in every 10 or 20 minutes to reassure him that I'm still here. He'd stop crying until he realized I was leaving the room again. Finally I picked him up, and almost instantly he fell asleep on me, head on my shoulder. How sweet. Except he wanted to stay that way, and I wanted to be doing something else. After about 10 minutes I tried to transfer him. Our crib rail is a little noisy and he woke up and started screaming again.
Arghhh.
I eventually ended up in my own bed, fully dressed, buried under the covers, sobbing. I had no idea if I was doing the right thing. All I wanted to do was bring him into bed with me and cuddle him until he fell asleep, but I'm pretty sure that's not a bedtime routine I'd like us to be following. Before the trip, it was so easy: A few books, lights out, an in-the-dark recitation of Goodnight Moon, a final kiss, and into the crib, where he'd grin at me before rolling over and going to sleep.
Now? No. Twice last night he finally fell asleep on his own before waking (to...the sound of the toilet paper roll spinning? The cat walking past his room??).
C wisely suggested I pick up Max, keep him awake in my arms, and ask him if he's ready to go to sleep (or go back in the crib). Max tried to fall asleep on me. I'd ask him if he was ready to go to sleep. "Nooo," he'd insist in a tearful voice before dozing off again. Finally I put his sweetly sleeping self gently into the crib.
Naptime has always been a challenge. Today the cries are interspersed with long exhausted yawns. He has to fall asleep soon, right? I don't want to have to stroller/bike/drive him around every time I want him to nap.
Why is it that some kids will happily go into their cribs and play quietly (or cheerfullydrift off to sleep ) by themselves?? Why is my own child so in need of "Mama" when it's crib time?
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