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| Out and about with baby guy |
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A
few weeks before I gave birth to our son Felix, Max discovered a well-worn
vinyl of the soundtrack to the movie Shaft in my Mom’s basement.
I
know, that’s a sentence with a lot to unpack.
If
you know my mom, you probably can’t imagine her grooving to Shaft today or any
day in the past. But people are complicated, aren’t they?
And
yes, we came home from a gloriously long home leave with a perfect baby boy.
Honestly, I was worried a new baby would be boring. Just being real. They don’t
talk politics or play guitar or make books with you. I thought he would grow on
me as he got older and more fun. But I have been completely delighted with
everything about this baby. I love all of his baby noises, every sweaty walk through
the neighborhood and his adorable fat feet. This kid is great and being a mom
is great.
But
I’ve also had moments of identity crisis. Pretty mild, since I was expecting
them, but still. Moments when I’m not sure quite how to integrate this new role
into my old self.
These
moments usually occur during one of the many harried sitcom mom scenes I have
found myself enacting since returning to Egypt. Last week I answered the phone with
dog poop in one hand from my apparently newly un-house-trained dog who was barking
maniacally at the phone, a squirmy baby rocking a gnarly spit-up beard in the
other hand, and most of my chest covered by the dripping spit up beard. I then
tried to put on my shoes hands-free before walking down three hot flights of
stairs with the baby for a delivery where they almost never have change and
I either have to trudge back up the stairs and search for small coins or find an
ATM outside with a baby on my hip.
So,
as much as I hate TV Mom stereotypes, sometimes that’s me.
Is this who I am now? My
former self, suffocated by drool?
But
before we left home, I had a moment of clarity at the local Target. (Not the
first of these moments to occur at a Target, I’m sure. It’s a magical place.) I
reached for my wallet to pay for a box of diapers and the contents of my purse spilled
out onto the counter in front of the red-vested cashier. I picked up my keys and
also a handful of Egyptian pounds, a package of wet wipes and also a water
color pencil, a stick of gum and
also a guitar pick, a tube of chaptsick and also my three day pass to see the temples
at Angkor Wat from last spring.
And Also.
I
am a mom, and also a person. A mom, and also a traveler. A mom, and also an
artist. A mom, and also a mediocre-but-getting-better bassist.
I’ve
been a little gun shy about blogging because I didn’t want to drift into the
land of boring, naval gazing baby poop stories. Sure, it’s a large portion of
how I spend my day, but the circle of people interested in my baby’s poop is
very small. And said poop doesn’t define me anyway.
The
mothers in my life knew this. I’m lucky.
So
here’s to writing, to making art, to living, and also, to momming.
