And Also

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.