Monday – Mediocre Moms Need Love, Too
Mar. 1st, 2010 02:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
Six years ago when I worked for the web-based company, I used to go lean up against the wall between Astro Joe’s desk and Señior Matt’s* desk whenever I had something I wanted to announce to them. The first time I did this was shortly after we moved into the new office, when I assumed the leaning position with my arms stiff by my side while I stared up at the ceiling, and blurted out that there was something I needed to tell them. The blood drained from their faces: they both thought I was about to quit.
“I’m knocked up,” I said instead, “You’re going to need to get a temp in here in a few months.”
They let out the breaths they had been holding.
“Congratulations!” Astro Joe said, and Matt concurred. I looked at both of their faces to see if they were being sarcastic or not, and forced a smile when I saw they were sweetly sincere. I was nauseous, feeling fat, and uncertain about whether I was really cut out to be a parent. Every time someone congratulated me, it sounded like a sarcastic thing to say. No one ever meant it sarcastically, though.
A few months later, when I was about 5 months into my pregnancy, I went back to the announcement post so that I could get the opinion of two people who started out life as little boys.
“I think my baby’s going to hate me,” I said.
“Nooooooooooo,” Astro Joe and Señior Matt said in unison.
“Little boys don’t hate their mommies,” Señior Matt assured me.
“They don’t,” Astro Joe said.
I looked at them skeptically. Both of them had good mothers who did all the beyond-the-call-of-duty things that the moms in TV shows do. It occurred to me that they were both kind of mama’s boys and their opinions on this weren’t worth as much as I’d thought they might be when I first walked across the room.
I’d worded my concern wrong; I wasn’t concerned with my baby or my little boy hating me. Little kids don’t know any better. I was concerned about him hating me once he was a grown man and he saw how much better all his friends’ moms were. I’ve met plenty of grown me with no kind words to say about their mothers.
“If you guys say so,” I told them.
“I promise,” Señior Matt.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Astro Joe.
They both seemed greatly amused. I trudged back over to my side of the room to brood and maybe do a little work. “I’m holding you two to that,” I said as I plopped into my chair. “If he grows up and turns out to hate my guts and his therapist tells him he should cut off all contact with me, I’m holding you two accountable. I’m talking lawsuits here.”
Fast forward six years, and my son has never been a member of a pee-wee soccer league or a t-ball team in large part because his lame-ass parents aren’t that keen on sports. When he starts school and finds out about such things I will sign him up if he asks, but only then. He’s never been part of an organized play group. When I go through the drive through window at the pharmacy, he wants to know where his burger and toy are (because those are what he thinks drive through windows are for). A home-cooked meal, for all he knows, consists of boxed macaroni and cheese. I have no doubts that my son deserves better than he wound up with. I suspected this would be the case six years ago.
“Sue us, if you must,” Señior Matt said.
“I’m not too concerned,” said Astro Joe.
“You should be,” I said. “Both of you.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
*Joe is Hispanic, but Matt is not. We only started called Matt Señior because of the Vietnamese guy at the drycleaner next door to our old office, who addressed all men as Señior. For some reason we all took to calling Matt Señior after this, even though he is one of the whitest guys I’ve ever known, and possibly the whitest guy in the history of the world (to the point that he likes every single item listed in the book Stuff White People Like). Calling Matt Señior made us all giggle (and sometimes snicker).
.
.
Six years ago when I worked for the web-based company, I used to go lean up against the wall between Astro Joe’s desk and Señior Matt’s* desk whenever I had something I wanted to announce to them. The first time I did this was shortly after we moved into the new office, when I assumed the leaning position with my arms stiff by my side while I stared up at the ceiling, and blurted out that there was something I needed to tell them. The blood drained from their faces: they both thought I was about to quit.
“I’m knocked up,” I said instead, “You’re going to need to get a temp in here in a few months.”
They let out the breaths they had been holding.
“Congratulations!” Astro Joe said, and Matt concurred. I looked at both of their faces to see if they were being sarcastic or not, and forced a smile when I saw they were sweetly sincere. I was nauseous, feeling fat, and uncertain about whether I was really cut out to be a parent. Every time someone congratulated me, it sounded like a sarcastic thing to say. No one ever meant it sarcastically, though.
A few months later, when I was about 5 months into my pregnancy, I went back to the announcement post so that I could get the opinion of two people who started out life as little boys.
“I think my baby’s going to hate me,” I said.
“Nooooooooooo,” Astro Joe and Señior Matt said in unison.
“Little boys don’t hate their mommies,” Señior Matt assured me.
“They don’t,” Astro Joe said.
I looked at them skeptically. Both of them had good mothers who did all the beyond-the-call-of-duty things that the moms in TV shows do. It occurred to me that they were both kind of mama’s boys and their opinions on this weren’t worth as much as I’d thought they might be when I first walked across the room.
I’d worded my concern wrong; I wasn’t concerned with my baby or my little boy hating me. Little kids don’t know any better. I was concerned about him hating me once he was a grown man and he saw how much better all his friends’ moms were. I’ve met plenty of grown me with no kind words to say about their mothers.
“If you guys say so,” I told them.
“I promise,” Señior Matt.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Astro Joe.
They both seemed greatly amused. I trudged back over to my side of the room to brood and maybe do a little work. “I’m holding you two to that,” I said as I plopped into my chair. “If he grows up and turns out to hate my guts and his therapist tells him he should cut off all contact with me, I’m holding you two accountable. I’m talking lawsuits here.”
Fast forward six years, and my son has never been a member of a pee-wee soccer league or a t-ball team in large part because his lame-ass parents aren’t that keen on sports. When he starts school and finds out about such things I will sign him up if he asks, but only then. He’s never been part of an organized play group. When I go through the drive through window at the pharmacy, he wants to know where his burger and toy are (because those are what he thinks drive through windows are for). A home-cooked meal, for all he knows, consists of boxed macaroni and cheese. I have no doubts that my son deserves better than he wound up with. I suspected this would be the case six years ago.
“Sue us, if you must,” Señior Matt said.
“I’m not too concerned,” said Astro Joe.
“You should be,” I said. “Both of you.”
*Joe is Hispanic, but Matt is not. We only started called Matt Señior because of the Vietnamese guy at the drycleaner next door to our old office, who addressed all men as Señior. For some reason we all took to calling Matt Señior after this, even though he is one of the whitest guys I’ve ever known, and possibly the whitest guy in the history of the world (to the point that he likes every single item listed in the book Stuff White People Like). Calling Matt Señior made us all giggle (and sometimes snicker).
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-03-01 09:18 pm (UTC)It's your duty as parents to make him participate in some activity he hates. There's no escaping it, no shirking your responsibility on this one. Pick something!! Football, t-ball, soccer, underwater demolition, something!!!
no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-01 10:52 pm (UTC)I take credit for homemade cakes if I cracked an egg into the mix!
no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 02:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-01 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 02:12 am (UTC)My son starts school next year. If he wants to sign up for stuff he hears about from the other kids, I'll make an effort. I can always sit on the sidelines and read a novel. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-03-01 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 02:13 am (UTC)That's my game plan, at least.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 12:12 am (UTC)*HUGS* You're an awesome mom...not a perfect one, but hey, who is?
no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 02:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-02 03:31 pm (UTC)They're more poetic and "games" oriented. I think it worked out just fine.
And I think you'll work out just fine, too.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-03 03:15 pm (UTC)I was delighted to hear that sitting back and watching was okay.