Transition Into The New (Years)

So it's New Years tonight. I guess I'm supposed to reflect on 2010, make plans or express hopes for 2011. I've never really done that before, never felt a real connection with the over excitement about this calendar event. Thinking about the changes that lay ahead in the year to come, this feels different somehow.

This past year has seen the momentous decision to have a baby. It has also seen the death of my grandfather, two stressful moves in one month, a job change, and a hell of a lot of fear and uncertainty.

2011 will be the year I become a mom. Can't get much more eventful than that. 2011 will see the most rapid development of any year of my child's life, and it will arguably be the year of the steepest learning curve of mine. These are certainties.

What I hope for 2011 is that I will further adjust to my new life, my new role. I hope that I can continue to grow as a person. I hope that I will continue to do all my can to foster the love and stability needed to maintain my most important relationships, including the love of my life, my family, and my friends. I hope that I can start my daughter's life out in the best way possible.

With hopes come fears, and I sure have a lot of them for 2011, it seems. But for now I'll leave those and focus on the positive. That is how I plan to survive.

Happy New Years, everyone.

No Literal Bursting, Please

It's official: I have stretch marks.

Well, technically I've had stretch marks since I was in high school. It's the blemish that women hate talking about (and having), because not only are they unsightly, they feel weird, and, despite what makers of creams and weird skin lasers would like to have you believe, they are permanent. It's my damned soft and sensitive skin that does it, I think. My mother managed to have three kids sans stretch marks, but her skin is much more rough and tough than mine. I suppose I should count myself lucky that it's only a few.

The first three I named. Huey, Dewey, and Louie appeared on my left hip about a month ago. Then Sonny and Cher made their debut shortly after on my right. Those I could handle; they're out of the way, no big deal. But almost over night, I now have new ones on my belly. Blech.

If I take a step back from the "Blah" factor, I have to admit that watching stretch marks progress is really interesting. The ones I have from before kind of appeared out of no where, I have no real recollection of them ever being anything other than thin white lightning bolts etched into my skin. I've been able to see get wider and longer, particularly the ones on my hips. It's quite literally my flesh tearing because it can't stretch as fast as it needs to. When you think of it that way, it seems like it should hurt, which it doesn't. But it does itch like hell.

Kinda feels like I've been inducted into some sort of strange mom club now. My battle wounds have begun. The kicking of my ribs, the swollen feet, the heartburn, and the decreased lung capacity will all go away come baby-time. But the stretch marks will remain.

Well, and them and the baby.

The One About Christmas

As a mother-to-be, when people find out I don't really "do" Christmas, they feel the need to inform me that once the baby comes, I'll have to get into it. Have to get into it? Why??

"Well, for Santa, of course," they inevitably mention.

"Santa?"

"Ya, what are you going to do about Santa?"

"There is no Santa."

Let me get back to the Santa issue momentarily and run you through a brief list of reasons that I don't celebrate Christmas (because people invariably require it. Apparently "I just don't celebrate it" isn't good enough for people, since I'm not Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or have some type of horrible Christmas related trauma preventing me from enjoying myself). Let's start with the easy ones.

1. The music. I loathe Christmas music. It wasn't always this way. As a choir geek, I used to love the beautiful melodic sounds of traditional Christmas music, and my family would yearly bop around to Boney M's totally funky Christmas album as we decorated the tree. But after more than two decades of hearing it day in and day out for what now equates to almost two full months out of every year, the simple thought of it makes me want to burrow pencils deep into my ear drums.

2. The tacky decorations. It's like a bad disco music video nightmare. The glitter, the snowflakes, the absolutely-wrong-any-other-time-of-the-year (except for in plaid) pairing of green and red. It's visually abrasive, to say the least.

3. I'm not religious. I don't believe in God, nor do I have any emotional ties to the various "pagan" (read: other) cultures that Christmas co-opted and "borrowed" from.

To this, people usually respond, "Oh, but Christmas isn't just for Christians. It's about peace and love and good will towards your fellow human" (although they usually say "man"). This is where the person asking why I don't like Christmas usually gets into a deeper conversation that they were really bargaining for.

4. I don't believe in Conditional Charity. People who the rest of the year don't care about the poor, the hungry, the disadvantaged suddenly become givers. People who (from my own anecdotal experiences) sometimes even berate the poor, blame them for their circumstances, and avoid generosity, suddenly allow themselves to take on the role of benevolent philanthropist. Some would argue this is a good thing, I disagree. It allows people to forget the rest of the year, to feel as though they've done their duty until next season. The poor doesn't need a turkey dinner one night of the year, they don't need toys or a tree. They need a society that cares about them enough to deal with the systemic issues such that we can address the reasons for poverty, not the symptoms of it. The whole year.

But people don't generally like to hear that one.

5. The waste. The easy waste to point to is the mindless consumerism. To buy crap people don't need because you feel you have to is ridiculous (when I bring up this one, people often say "But I want to." I'm always curious how careful and thoughtful their gifts really are, and how many of them were "Well, hell, I don't know what to buy uncle Tom, I guess he'll like this random-thing-I-found-last-minute well though."). And then there's the wrapping. And the unnecessary dead tree rotting in people's living rooms. And the over eating (I like the occasional feast as much as the next person, but when I hear of people I know having two, three, and sometimes four days of huge meals and constant grazing with various mandatory sectors of their family, I'm never really sure what to say).

So this brings us back to Santa. The final issue I have with Christmas.

For those of you who don't already know, there is no Santa Claus. It's a shocker, I know, considering that all of us can tell you what this man looks like, what he wears, what his job is, who he's married to, and even where he lives (creepy?). It's also a shock considering the great lengths adults, who know full well he isn't real, go to in convincing children that he is.

I've been working with kids for years now. I know they're not as stupid and fragile as a lot of adults would like to think. They have the capacity for complex and creative thought, just like the rest of us. For that reason, I don't believe in lying to them. Period. The end. If I know something isn't true, I won't perpetuate the idea of its truth to my child, all for some kind of bizarre nostalgic projection of my own lost innocence.

Now, none of this is to say that there aren't things I have taken from my experiences with Christmas over the years that I enjoy. I love seeing my family, particularly now that I don't live in the same province as any of them. But I can do that at any time of the year, really, so long as we're all together.

And then there's.... hmmm.... wait, no, I guess it's just that one thing.

Family.

Luckily, I'm close enough with my family that I don't need an excuse to spend time with them, to tell them that I love them and cherish their presence in my life.

That is how I want to raise my child. Knowing that she is always loved, always precious to me. And that we should always love others, always respect them as human beings and want to help them.

And if we want to give her a gift, I want her to know that her father and I were the ones who thoughtfully picked it out, not some imaginary fat man in a red suit. Sorry Santa, you're not taking credit for my presents.

Reflections of Ourselves

I thought I was going to write a post about Christmas, but then another topic came up that I feel I need to vent about first. I still have a few days to give my Christmas rant, don't worry.

Since realizing that I was going to become a mother, I've been taking stock of the people and forces at play in my life. This didn't start with the pregnancy, but it definitely gave me an impetus to think about what kind of influences I want around me.

I'm no longer living my life just for me; I'll have a small helpless creature to consider in my choices! Shit, I'll have to try my best to stay sane and stable for the sake of this kid. As a grown and relatively emotionally healthy woman, I can bounce back from stress, I can rationalize things and cope with whatever comes my way. But this child....I remember the emotional fragility of childhood. I remember how little things seemed so huge, and huge things seemed so frightening. We can't count on our children just not understanding or remembering the problems surrounding their parents' lives. I decided that I have to make my life as joyful and stable as possible, not only so that I can be a more happy and emotionally secure person (and parent), but also because I'm bringing a child into a world she has no control over, so it should be as healthy as if she moulded it herself.

Idealism? Maybe. I think I'm realistic, I know nothing is perfect. But we all have to strive for something, so why not greatness instead of mediocracy?

All this pondering over the kind of upbringing I want for my child forced me to examine not only my own life but the lives of those around me. I know that I am greatly influenced by the emotional state of people close to me; when someone I care about is stressed, I get stressed. When a friend is outraged or sad or elated, I experience all of these things with them. It's just part of who I am.

I need to surround myself with people who display the kind of qualities I wish for myself and my family.
I need positivity.
I need strength.
I need stability.
I need kindness.

I don't need drama, viciousness, irrationality, unreliability, or immaturity. In fact, no one needs these things.

I'm lucky to have close friends who display all of these positive qualities, and I thank them for their presence. Displays of the second set of traits causes a reexamination of a person's place in my life. Cuz I don't need bullshit.

We All Change....

In the last couple days I've sorted through and gotten rid of a bunch of stuff from my past. As a packrat, it's hard to say goodbye to perfectly useful stuff, but it's a healthy realization that, ultimately, it won't be me who will use it, and that's ok. I use the umbrella concept of "making room for the baby" as an easy way to explain my chuckage, but I know that isn't the real reason.

I'm giving away almost all of my collection of art/craft supplies. "Won't have much time for art when the baby comes," I tell myself and others. Bullshit. I haven't created anything in ages.

I'm throwing away a huge collection of articles I printed during my time in university, diligently kept and organized by topic and/or course, for useful reference when I do my masters. "Not sure I'll go back to school now, what with the baby coming," I tell myself. Bullshit. I knew long ago it wasn't a priority for me.

It's making me realize that I am more prepared for motherhood than I knew. My life the last few years has seen less wild parties and all-nighters, more quiet nights at home with a movie.

I'm not in anyway saying that parents have to be boring, in fact, quite the opposite. There's no reason that parents should have to give up their fun, their social life, their hobbies, for the pure fact that they are now "responsible parents." They should be honest with themselves and their children about who they are, not morph into some strange caricature of what they think a parent ought to be.

However, people do change over time, we all grow (hopefully), and for many (though not all), this may mean slowing down a little. Realizing that I was heading there before having my kid makes me hopeful that I won't become one of those bitter parents who blame their children for "taking away their freedom." Or worse yet, one of those martyr moms who bravely and proudly display all of the things they sacrificed for their children, making them into a boring one-dimensional human-type replicant who believes they exist for the soul purpose of procreation and child-rearing. Barf.

I am thrilled to become a mother. I can't wait for the positive ways that this life experience will change me, help me grow as a person. I am not, however, willing to only be a mother. I'm still me.

"The Plan"

We didn't plan on getting pregnant. I know that's taboo to say, but it's the truth. My partner and I have been together for over ten years, and while we always wanted kids, we didn't entirely plan on it being this soon.

When you have an IUD in and have been told by your doctor that it's likely going to be difficult to conceive when the time comes, pregnancy arrives as quite a shock. I don't think enough women talk about the intense feelings they cycle through as they cope with an unplanned pregnancy, and I don't think this silence is healthy. I am so excited and happy to be a mother, but that doesn't mean that I felt this way from the get go. And not being thrilled initially doesn't mean that I will love my child any less. This is important to remember.

The fear that sets in when you find out you're pregnant isn't so much "What the hell am I going to do" but more of a "How did this happen" kind of feeling. Simple answer: I had sex. Even with a reliable birth control method, nothing is 100%. You just never think you're going to be that 2%.

The conversation I had with myself went something like this:
"This wasn't part of the plan!"
"No shit."
"Well what about the plan?"
"We make a new plan I guess?"
"And what is that plan going to look like? Is there a baby in that plan?"
"I have no idea."
"BUT THE PLAN!"

I don't believe in fate, or that this is, in fact, part of some larger plan, beyond my tiny human life plans. I believe in choices. Ultimately, I chose to become a parent. It's funny that even when you tell people that you didn't plan on conceiving, their mind never wants to make that leap that the outcome of having a baby is a choice, not a given. Conception does not equal birth. I fear for those women who see that equal sign deeply etched into their version of reality, many of whom can't even think about choices, let alone talk about them.

Futile dwelling over lost plans only lasts a short time, as you begin to think forward, make new plans, suss out in your head possible futures based on real and important choices. One thing is certain, you will never be the same. Whatever the outcome, all choices change you, shape you as a person. This is true of the very small - in our daily lives, the seemingly mundane decisions that then branch out into a whole web of new options - and the very large - those major life crossroads we sometimes wish we never had to face.

For me, burst from this belly, this new life growing inside of me, was a whole new set of choices, a whole new set of experiences, branching out into the future, forever changing me, my partner, and our life plans.

1: The Number of Posts I've Done

I've done it. My boredom has finally given into the easy narcissism of blogging. I have no idea what this blog will ultimately be, or even if I'll stick with it, but it seemed a way to kill time and engage in some cataloguing of sorts.

Here are some numbers...
4: The number of days I've been off of work.
33: The number of weeks pregnant I am.
26: The number of years old I am.
2: The number of black cats I have living in my apartment with me.

So the theory goes, over the next seven (or so) weeks of my pregnancy, I'll attempt to reflect (and likely over-analyze) on what things have been like for me so far, project (and likely obsess) over what motherhood will be like, and perhaps, along the way, ramble about some other stuff.

I think I'll keep it to a short first post. I haven't written much since I finished university two years ago. I'm hoping that the creative and self-analytical tendencies of my Anthropology degree will come flowing back to me, allowing me to string together sentences worthy of reading. After mulling over what I have just done ("You're blogging now?!"), I'll be sure to paint a picture next time of me and my history as I see it.