Maybe We Need More....

I am not sure if this is a sign of normality or a subtle hint in disguise. Ella has now taken on interacting with inanimate objects. Not the usual baby doll intermingling- giving a bottle, feeding them her unwanted peas. The photo to the left is of her chair cushions. Yes, orange crab chair cushions she sits on. And it appears as if they were thirsty because she’s giving them refreshing, hot imaginary tea from her Disney Princess teapot.

I assure you, my daughter is not a caged monkey with a fake cloth mother sitting in the corner. She socializes nearly everyday with other children, either through a play date, class, or trip to the playground. But it is always the same once we arrive home. There is no one left to play with, but me.

It is times like these I wonder if she needs something more- like a sibling. All of her friends have siblings. She has now reached an age where everyone she knows either has a brother, sister, or one on the way. And lately, she seems especially lonely in her car seat when I peer through my rear-view mirror. She gazes at the passing cars, looks down at her own fingers, and usually just sits alone quietly.

If it were up to my husband, we would have had another child already. But I am not sure if I’m ready to re-live another 9-months of relentless pregnancy. He did not have to give up contact with the outside world while imprisoned by bed rest. He did not have to stay on a restricted diet due to gestational diabetes, never to taste a slice of bread or sugar for months. He did not have to take Turbutaline everyday to hold back premature contractions, a drug that makes a human heart race faster than a greyhounds. He never endured any of it. In fact, he was hardly there to witness it. He was always at work. And still is.

So I guess for now all she has for company at home besides me is our dog Pete. Their relationship very much resembles a brother and sister's. They both compete for my attention. His world fell apart once she was born. She pulls his hair. He loyally protects her. And she annoys him to no end.

I know. Maybe we need fish.

Twenty-Something

Certainly some of the best things in my life thus far have been unplanned. Growing up in a strict and disciplined home, I was molded into quite a workhorse, but bucked at any notion of spontaneity.

When I saw those 2 pink lines that cold winter morning, I froze. Sliding down the wall as my legs gave way; I sat atop the cold ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor, stunned by the sheer hard truth that fell before me. Pregnant, and twenty-something– not exactly what I planned.

After many years of working with the most fragile, tiniest preemies in the world, one would think I would be better prepared for this role of motherhood. I mean, I’ve helped a fair share of children born at less than one pound to survive all odds in this world. And I’ve also seen many more suffer and pass; sometimes in my very own hands, alone.

This acute, fast-paced career of mine would surely have me groomed for being a parent one day. Or so I thought. After a year and half in this parenting business, I find just the contrary.

I’m a twenty-something mom caught in the cut throat, evolving world of motherhood. Yet again trying to find my way, and a new self. There are “young moms” and there “older moms”, but “20-something moms” are caught right in between. Like the listless middle child struggling for their own identity. There’s a reason why they made Jane Brady a little nuts-o in The Brady Movie.

I’m too young to know enough or accomplish all that needs to be before starting a family.
And I’m too old to hold on to those reckless dreams; to just break free and run. At times I feel as if I don’t have enough tread worn from my sneakers to be taken seriously, or I’m just a tattered old sole that must be tucked away in the suburbs. I’ve reached a point where I want to just take my shoes off, leaving nothing left for them to judge. How’s that for spontaneity?

I’m a mom. I don’t want to live my life like Britney Spears (I like my hair). I’m not ready to live in the confines of some gated community in the ‘burbs. I want to be a good mother. I want to feel like a woman, a mother, an individual. I don’t want to live my life in sweat pants. I don’t want a white picket fence.

Quarter life crisis, anyone? I’ve got one here, hot and ready to serve.