Look, I know that I’m lucky. I am privileged. My husband makes a good living and I don’t have to work, and even though I do, I still have plenty of time to spend with my baby. But there are a lot of women who have no choice, and their babies start full day care when they are three months old. And guess what? Those children will turn out just as fine as those who were home with their mothers, extended relatives or nannies. Actually, they will turn out great, so long as it’s what’s best for mom and baby.
The first time I dropped Palmer off I cried all the way to the day care, feeling so guilty and thinking, Oh my God. Here’s my little six-month-old baby who is growing and changing every day and I am choosing to spend three hours away from her. What if she does something that I miss? What if she stands up for the first time? When I dropped her off, she was happy as a clam, but I got in my car, closed the door and sobbed some more. Then I called my mom.
“I feel so bad. I can’t believe I’m choosing to do this,” I cried.
“This is going to be good for her and you,” my mom reassured me. “It’s going to allow you to work and have time for yourself.” Mom was right, as always. When I picked Palmer up that afternoon, she was happily playing with all the other babies. She’d had fun and I’d gotten a much-needed break to work and enjoy my regular number-three eight-piece chicken nugget meal with a Coke in silence. After that, I saw dropping Palmer off as my few hours of freedom. (Something I appreciated even more so during coronavirus quarantine, when Jason was working twenty-four-hour shifts and I was home alone with her.)
The truth is that work does not stress me out. If anything, work is a reprieve. Before I had Palmer, I thought that stay-at-home moms had it easy and all this time for themselves. Oh Lord, was I wrong. It’s absolutely the COMPLETE opposite. That first year, I felt like I was drowning being home all day with my child. It was mind-numbing, and being at home was not making me be the best mom that I could be. That sounds awful, but I don’t care. There were times when I’d count the hours until Jason came home and if it got to be about 6 P.M. and he was not pulling into the driveway, you’d better believe I was texting him, “Where the heck are you?” I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel resentment toward him, because being a mom is a job without a paycheck. I’d rather be in an office, because besides making money, you can have stimulating adult conversations. When you’re taking care of a baby, you’re, well, taking care of a baby. It’s not like she was saying, “Thank you” or “I love you, Mommy.” When Jason was on call, there were days when I didn’t talk to an adult. I felt guilty and awful complaining about it, but I did feel limited.
Here’s something else that I learned: women often talk about figuring out how to “have it all” and “find balance.” Well, I think that’s a bullshit standard. There’s absolutely no way to have it all. There’s just NOT. We’re socially conditioned in this country that when a woman pops out a kid, she has to make the choice whether she’s going to stay home or go back to work. And the father is typically, though not all the time, the breadwinner in the house.
But again, it’s not that simple or cut-and-dried. I’d worked very hard to get where I was in my real estate career. Actually, I worked hard to find a career in the first place. After not having any direction for a while, I spent three years working as a makeup artist in a department store in Charleston. Then I got my real estate license and briefly joined a woman named Eve, who dealt with some of the most beautiful homes in the area. She offered me a three-month trial period working for her and showed me some of the ropes. After that, I worked with a larger company that was well established in town and worked my way up in the field to become a top seller. Because real estate is a field where you can kind of make your own schedule and that schedule varies week to week, I thought it would be a lot easier to manage work and motherhood. Boy, was I wrong. I worked as a buyers’ agent only, so, before Palmer, my days mostly consisted of researching property, running comps, scheduling showings and meeting with potential clients to show houses. Weekends were always a busy time for showing property. In real estate you have to be flexible, and the key word is available. This is hard when you have a small child, so when Palmer was born, I had to turn away a lot of clients and refer them to someone else. After being home with her for about six months, I slowly started taking on clients again. (Thank God I had my mom to watch her while I worked.) But I didn’t get back in the game the way I was before.
When I was childless, I was a platinum-level Realtor, which means I had sold over a certain dollar sale threshold with my company (around $10 million). The sales levels are silver, gold, platinum and diamond, so I was one step away from the very top. However, the first year after Palmer was born I didn’t sell one thing. I went from being on top of my game to forgetting to call back the appraiser! I went from working as much as I wanted to staying home and taking care of a baby. You just have to adapt to your new life and accept the fact that you are always going to have to sacrifice something as a mother. Today, if I wanted a fuller workload I could have it, but I do not take on the same amount that I did before I became a mom. There is always going to be a give, so I’m still working on changing my expectations.
I’m someone who is very goal driven, so it’s been hard to shift my mode of thinking from “I’m going to pat myself on the back because I closed this deal” to “I’m going to pat myself on the back because I took Palmer to the children’s museum” or “I made her a healthy breakfast.” When I talked about this challenge with friends, they said, “Get a nanny,” but then I grappled with that. (I thought about getting a nanny. I even met with a bunch, but they were all too young and hot. I was looking for one who looked like Mrs. Doubtfire and could change a diaper.) Ideally, I’d like to work and make money all day and then be with my child. But I also know that I’m only going to have one child, so if I get a nanny, am I going to beat myself up for missing this precious time in Palmer’s life to sell a house? It’s just a total mind f*** either way, and I’m still figuring out the solution.
What I do know is that becoming a mother is simultaneously the hardest and most wonderful thing I’ve ever done in my life. As much as maintaining a sense of self is insanely important, so is recognizing that you will never be the woman you were before you got pregnant. When you become a mother, the old you is still there, but your identity is suddenly so much more. I saw this quote on an Instagram page I follow (attributed to Lisa T. Shepherd) that said, “In raising my children, I have lost my mind and found my soul.” Exactly! For those who say “becoming a mother won’t change me”… well, I hate to break it to you, but it will stretch you, grow you, frustrate you and enlighten you in so many ways.
Chapter Twelve THE PRESSURE TO GIVE YOUR CHILD (AND YOURSELF) A PINTEREST-WORTHY LIFE
A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.
—AGATHA CHRISTIE
There’s pressure to be the perfect mom no matter where you live, but I think it’s safe to say that the expectation of domestic bliss is heightened in the South. Having a child in the days of social media makes matters even worse. When my mom had me, she read books. But today everyone searches online, reads mom blogs and spends hours on Instagram. This can be great—I got a lot of helpful info from good ol’ Google—but going online and on social media also makes it very easy to compare yourself on your worst day to someone else on their most filtered. The result? It can make you feel like crap. For example, when a mom blogger posted about the baby food she made—yes, made—from organic pears, it didn’t feel great to know that I was getting Palmer whatever was on sale at Target—buy one jar, get one free. Or when another mom brags about her child never having any junk food while yours is elbow deep in a bag of chips, you may feel like you’re not measuring up. Well, guess what? Your kid is probably going to eat McDonald’s one day whether you like it or not, so not every morsel you feed the kid as a bab
y has to be organic.
That said, while I’ll never go to great lengths to make pureed vegan baby food, I’ve fallen into the keeping-up mom trap. I swore to God that I was not going to be one of those moms who throws an elaborate first birthday party. After all, why spend a bunch of money when your baby’s not going to remember a single second of it? Total waste. I also felt this way about her first two Christmases. People would ask me what I was getting her and seemed shocked when I said, “Nothing. She has enough.” I wasn’t being a Scrooge. My point was that Santa would come deliver the goods when Palmer could understand. Also, her birthday is November 11, so she received a ton of presents right before the holidays anyway. I don’t want her to be a spoiled child, so I purposely hid a good many of her birthday presents and recycled them as Christmas gifts. Cheap of me? Yes… but you gotta admit, it was kind of genius. I stuck to the no-Christmas-gift thing and didn’t introduce the Easter Bunny until she was two years old for the same reasons. I figured it was impossible for Palmer to understand the concept of either any earlier. But I was obviously full of shit about the party, because it wasn’t the same with the birthday bash. Why? Because I got invited to friends’ kids’ first birthdays and the guilt set in. So did the comparisons of myself to other moms with parties that were Pinterest-worthy. Won’t I be judged if I don’t have a big bash? She’s going to be my only baby, so I should have a big party, I thought. Yup, I found myself totally eating crow on this one and planning a birthday party that was so stressful and time-consuming that it might as well have been her wedding. Okay, not that bad, but you get the point.
I started thinking about it when she was about eight months old and decided on an Elvis theme. Elvis is the fifteen-year-old mutt that forsook our neighbors for us and then became our dog for good when the original owners moved to another state. (It would have been too hard for Jason if the dog had moved, because he and Jason share a deep love.) I even had an outfit custom made for Palmer with Elvis’ image embroidered on it and a birthday cake and custom invitations made with Palmer’s monogram intertwined with an artist’s rendition of Elvis. We had lots of balloons and handmade paper flowers from Etsy. I also invited way too many people, about sixty, and there were six times as many adults as there were children. Family members flew in from as far away as California for the occasion.
I’m not justifying it, per se, but when you become a parent, your whole outlook changes. All of a sudden I wanted to give Palmer a party so she could experience it and we would look back and have memories. I even hired an expensive local caterer. Well, would you believe that by the time the weekend came for the party I was so flustered and overwhelmed with the details that I totally forgot to pick up the food? The party was on a Sunday and the food needed to be picked up on Saturday since the caterer was closed on Sunday. My dumb ass completely forgot. So there we were on Sunday morning with no food. Luckily my friends helped me scramble, and we made do with a local restaurant. We also had a full bar, which in hindsight was a little inappropriate for a first birthday party. Let’s just say I had a headache the next day.
Looking back, I am glad I gave Palmer a party. The photos and memories were priceless, and she seemed to really enjoy herself. Of course, then I swore I wouldn’t give her a big second birthday party and ate those words also. This time it was a Minnie Mouse–themed party—her first character obsession. Her second birthday was not as involved as the first, but I still invited way too many people. When you become a mama, you do so many things you swore you wouldn’t. Here are just a few that I file under Things I Said I’d Never Do: I let Palmer’s toys take over my living room and my house. I let her have her pacifier past six months old and I swore I’d never wear matchy-matchy mother-daughter outfits, but just check out my Instagram. Oh well, it’s part of the job.
Several of my friends post pics on Instagram of creative meals they make for their kids, making a monkey out of pancakes or arranging fruit in the shape of a funny face. I would see these images and think, Shit… these women have it together Not only are they making healthy meals, but they are styling them as well. So one time I did this, too… but I lied. I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I copy-and-pasted a photo from Pinterest in my Instagram story as if it were my original work. It was a turtle made out of a waffle and apple slices. Is this pathetic? Yes. I did it only because I wanted other women to think I had it together too, and the real truth is Palmer probably ate a hash brown from McDonald’s that morning straight from the McD’s wrapper!
Even though I won’t be styling any meals soon or planning more elaborate birthday parties, I get the impulse. When you become a parent, you intrinsically want your child to have wonderful and memorable experiences. You start to notice how quickly time flies and how fast he or she changes, and you want to do everything in your power to provide for and protect your kid. And, yes, there is a fine line between providing and spoiling, which I try my hardest not to cross. I will never forget the first time Palmer looked at me and her little voice said, “Thank you, Mama.” I can’t remember what prompted it, but it made me want to cry happy tears. Seeing your child acknowledge something you have done is so gratifying… and it makes you want to do more. I will try to keep this memory in the archives if Palmer turns out to be a snotty, rude teenager like I was someday.
And pressure to be the best mama often turns into pressure to be the best-looking mama. Another thing I tried to emulate from social media was all the photos of women who wore waist trainers after they had babies. A waist trainer is basically a girdle that you strap around your midsection after giving birth to help shrink your stomach, and these women claimed that it made their stretched-out midsections go back to normal in a matter of weeks. Seems simple enough, right? Not so much. I had the idea that no matter what my stomach looked like after birth, this magical contraption that I spent way too much money on would fix me quickly. I ordered two from different companies and even packed them in my hospital bag. I look back on that and laugh out loud at the fact that I actually thought I would be wearing one in the car home. Truth is, I wasn’t even thinking about what my stomach looked like at that point. It was the last thing on my mind. I was more concerned about the blood clots that were coming out when I peed and not falling down from being so weak when I walked.
About two weeks after I had Palmer, I remembered that I had these waist trainers in the closet and decided to strap one on. It’s so hard to do that Jason had to help me, and once it was on it felt like a torture device. I couldn’t breathe. My ribs hurt. While my stomach looked completely flat under my T-shirt, my insides felt like they were in a vise. This lasted about five, maybe ten minutes, but that was it. I couldn’t take it off fast enough and I never put one on again. Screw this, I thought. I’d rather still look five months pregnant. Instead I decided to embrace my stomach, and although you couldn’t really tell this on social media or the show, I would say it took a full year before it went totally back to normal.
Chapter Thirteen THE TERRIBLE & NOT-SO-TERRIBLE TWOS
The days are long, but the years are short.
—GRETCHEN RUBIN, MOTHER OF TWO
The terrible twos started a bit early for us—probably when Palmer was about twenty months old. While it can be a trying time, it is also my favorite so far. Why? One minute Palmer was screaming bloody murder because I wouldn’t let her pick up dog poop and the next she was hugging my neck saying, “Luh yew, Mama.” Good Lord, did that melt my mama heart! And I get it. I kinda act this way, too, when I have PMS. God bless Jason. But back to the terrible twos. Every stage with a baby/toddler/child is something new, something terrifying and something exciting. At first, I thought the newborn stage was hard. Nope. The toddler stage was harder. That’s when Palmer went through a short-lived but irritating phase of slapping me in the face with her hands. One morning, I asked her to give me a kiss and instead she took her little hand and went whap.
Palmer is no wilting flower, that’s for sure. She is a very strong-willed child. (As was
I. My mother tells me this is payback. Ha!) Palmer started asserting herself very early on—even from inside the womb, when she refused to come out until forty-one weeks. She is VERY independent and knows what she wants. If there is a way for her to do something herself, she will try. I hear “No, Mama, let me do it” multiple times a day. If she’s sick, she won’t even let me be the one to give her Tylenol. SHE insists on sticking the syringe in her mouth and pushing it down to release the medicine. As frustrating as this can be, her independence is also one of my favorite things about her, at least before the teenage years.
Once Palmer officially turned two, she went through a phase where she didn’t want to get dressed. She already had opinions on what clothes she wanted to wear, and the only way I could get her dressed in the morning was to give her several choices and let HER be the one to pick out her outfit. It took many tantrums to figure out this trick. One time Palmer straight-up refused to get dressed before a trip to Target. Let me just say that you should never underestimate how physically strong a pissed-off two-year-old can be. I literally couldn’t dress her. She wanted to wear a tutu, a diaper and nothing else. She was crying. I was crying. I finally gave in. I put on a hat and pulled it down low and we were on our way. I got a few judgey stares, but I could tell most mothers completely understood. Just a side note to those moms who give you the I’ve-been-there look when your child has a tantrum in the supermarket, is practically naked (as in wearing a tutu and diaper) or does anything else that’s embarrassing in public: thank you. It really makes you feel less alone when you get a sympathetic, I-get-you-girl, this-will-pass nod rather than a what-a-crappy-mom-you-are stare.
One Day You'll Thank Me Page 11
