The rage to pride pipeline

the volatile whiplash of rage punching my bed because a toddler that has come out of their room for the 34th time (I counted) vs. the amount of insane empowerment felt by successfully changing to a new sleep routine on Day 2 in which she sleeps through the night on her own

The depths of loneliness on this Mother’s Day…

Being a mom is not my greatest joy or only purpose

I felt the need to include a “but I am enjoying it” sentence there but I shouldn’t have to. Why does the world think the above sentence is negative or sounds mean on its own without the “but”.

Happiness and empowerment

Walking outside my at-home office to pee or get a drink of water is baby attachment style roulette these days. I could be met with an absolutely securely attached version of her, who giggles and smiles and blows a kiss or puts her fist up to “pound it” as I walk by or… I can be met with a baby that upon hearing my door squeak open, yells out a concerned whine and comes barreling down the hallway in a crawl that can only be so advanced in speed by her very pointed delay in walking. The mental calculation of every bodily need like taking a piss or to hydrate is 10x’ed by the information gathering of hedging against which situation I am going to face with her. So before peeing or getting water, I run through this checklist: how long do I have in case things go awry? When’s my next meeting? Am I strong enough to firmly and kindly disclose the boundary clearly with care, as in “I’m working right now, I can see you’re sad, and that’s ok to be sad, but I will play with you at the end of the day, not right now. I love you.” Am I strong enough to dodge the made-up judgements I’m fantasizing that her caretaker is making about me choosing a meeting over my crying baby? On purpose I remind myself not to resort to sneaking around or to tiptoe, I need to act confidently. This is my house after all. This whiplash of confidence and extreme insecurity of mom-ing is familiar and unrelenting.

Today, knowing the drill and weighing all outcomes, I decided to peek in her room. And just when you think you have everything figured out - here comes a new stage. There she was, on the edge of her Montessori floor bed, ready to stand-up. Martha squealed “mira, mira” which usually means Zizi is going to point to a new body part she’s learned in Spanish after Martha prompts her, like “ombligo” for belly button, which was yesterdays. But instead, Zizi threw her head back and laughed and took 3 drunk steps forward before collapsing onto the carpet. And we all cheered. My almost 1 and a half year old baby took a few steps unassisted right in front of my eyes. We yelled and cheered and made her do it 6 more times, than 3 more for the camera. I have no idea what version I got (the first ever steps? The 49th of the day)? 6 months ago, I would have politely celebrated and then cried in a bathtub at 3am over the guilt of not knowing if I missed a milestone “first step ever”. Then wept more over the crushing reoccurring realization that I have no partner to share this moment with! To marvel at together, because duh, everything is better with another human. Then another round of tears at 4am with a second round of scalding hot water that I refreshed over my water-soaked skin with the re-realization that I’m about to be twice divorced, and then wrecked with fear over the forecasted reaction the father of this now-walking baby will have over learning she has had this milestone in his absence and preparing for the painful hurt of potential words that will hit my pain centers. That’s usually what happens.

But today, I felt the absence of all of that. I felt joy and gratitude that I work remote and got to see one of the firsts. I felt deeply cared for with Martha’s delight in sharing with me this new motor skill + development, that all of Zizi’s cohort’s married / still together parents celebrated MONTHS ago. I felt excited to share the video I got with a whole SLEW of people! Not only her dad but friends, mothers of friends, family, friends of friends, and eventually all of Instagram, obviously. What a joy to witness, something so relatively benign like walking, but knowing my body created the brain and the limbs that coordinated with some magic voodoo electric pulses that make WALKING POSSIBLE. I felt like a f*cking superwoman, a God amongst mortals, like an absolute bad ass queen who then, after 20 minutes of cuddling, celebrations, kisses, and videos… effortlessly said “ok, I’m going back to work now, I love you, I will play with you later!” And then I walked out of the room quite unceremoniously, got my water, took my next meeting. What a dream of a day.

Sadness and despair

Dreading your baby’s 1st birthday party due to such a stark difference of how you thought it would be is the type of sadness I would not wish upon anyone.

When she is away on Sundays, I feel lost and directionless. Everything I was focused on working on or finishing up melts away in a pot of complete and utter demotivation and sadness and emptiness. This is not what I want or how I want to feel, even though I have chosen this.


Santa Claus is a voyeur-forward kink


** when I was in the final stages of pregnancy, eVeRyOnE was always asking “is the baby here yet?”, so instead of answering constantly, I just sent them this link to a dashboard I made which included when I last vomited and what it was **
** once I year, I go from being a single mom of 1 to a midwest single mom of 5 [not really, more like super fun aunt] in beautiful Minneapolis. The first year we had a contract and very clear “rules”. **