What, you may ask, rouses me from the confines of my husband’s furry arms (he’s half-Italian) and the warmth of my marital bed at 3:00 am? Well, I happen to be 30 weeks pregnant, and have recently been unable to sleep through the night. I think this is my body’s way of preparing me for the inevitable sleepless nights I will experience once baby Damien is born. Yes I am naming my child Damien. It is a lovely name and if Nicole Kidman can name her fracking kid “Sunday” or even better, Jason Lee can name his child “Pilot Inspektor” then for frack’s sake, I can name my child after the fictional spawn of the devil. And anyway, he is not named “after” The Omen child, it just so happens that some writer unfortunately used that name, thereby sullying a perfectly good name’s reputation. So I seek to reclaim it for what it is – a good name.
Why do you blog Indie Mama?
Anyway, I feel the need to justify why I need to put my personal thoughts out there on the worldwide web. Why not just keep a personal journal? I could even get a nice fancy leather bound version from Borders with embossed celtic knots and even a handy dandy lock to keep my secrets secret. The truth is I desperately need a reason to use my brain. Somehow, publication on the internet and the possibility of being read by other human beings forces me to articulate myself in some sort of coherent manner rather than complete and utter verbal diarrhea. So I will try to write, if not well, it is at least something to do other than tossing and turning in bed.
Indie Mama – The Domestic Goddess in her politically incorrect glory
I recently became a housewife and I am desperately afraid of becoming a retard. Now I know I have just offended women who have chosen domestic life as well as the developmentally disabled. The dichotomy of this situation is that while I feel the need to publish my thoughts publicly (an admittedly narcisstic move on my part) at the end of the day, I really don’t care what you, the potential reader, thinks. I am using my own vernacular and these are my uncensored unapologetic thoughts which sometimes, often times, tend to be off-color. It is in fact my signature characteristic. I also; however, realize that by having to justify my choice in language I am in essence offering up an apology in disguise, and therefore, do care what people think. What can I say? I am an enigma. Or rather, let’s call it what it is, I am kind of fracked up.
So anyways, about being a housewife… Yes, I have fears which were confirmed by certain actions today, that I will turn stupid. For one, I had a couple of Grand Theft Auto moments on the expressway where I knocked over a construction barrier and then later cut someone off. Later today my friend started explaining how her marketing department is trying to create organic growth and I immediately became bored and wanted instead to discuss her recent sexual escapades. My brain, which used to be occupied with such complex issues as how to stimulate sales growth or negotiate favorable contract terms, now deals with nothing more complex than what is the best non-toxic method of cleaning granite countertops. Which is important too! Those frackers cost $2,000 and I don’t want to ruin our investment but at the same time, I don’t want my kid to end up being slow or growing boobs at 2-years old because I used some funky chemicals in the name of preserving my Black Galaxy countertops.
Are all housewives stupid? Certainly not! But let’s face it, your mind does start to turn a bit jelly-like after spending much of your adult life in a challenging corporate setting with adult stimuli and conversation and then suddenly your mornings are spent crying over The Baby Story and marveling at how Kate Goselin can manage the upbringing of 8 children all on organic food. I see these women at my local supermarket. In ill-fitting clothes with poorly chosen handbags driving around in ugly, gas-guzzling, minivans with the inevitable bumper sticker announcing their child’s achievements. All the while driving very badly and swatting at some poorly behaved child in the backseat while "Finding Nemo" plays on their DVD player. I lambaste and judge these women yet I am not one of them? Are they any less intelligent than I? Or are they just more comfortable with their choices in life than I am?
I feel this overwhelming feminist guilt over sitting at home while my husband earns the bread and butter. I am a college-educated woman and the daughter of a working mother who always told me I should have my own money. I see the value in that statement now. It’s not any fun having to feel guilty about stopping at Starbucks for a snack or feeling that I need to justify to my husband why I want to spend his hard-earned money on a movie this weekend or having lunch with my girlfriends. At the same time, isn’t feminism about being able to make choices? My choice to stay at home is not about wanting to sit on the couch eating bon-bons and watching my “stories”. Although, yes I have had days where I do just that. My choice has to do with the fact that not only do I want to HAVE children, but I want to RAISE them as well. My way.
Procreation and Child-Rearing
I don’t want TV raising my kids, or a nanny, or even my own mother. I don’t understand paying someone I don’t know to rear my child. For me, why have a child in the first place? Plenty of women work and successfully raise children, but that’s just not for me.
In this overpopulated world where resources are diminishing and there are so many unwanted, unloved children seeking loving homes, why would I want to bring another kid into the world, simply because that’s the thing to do? Because I want to meet someone who is half me and half my husband. The physical manifestation of our love and partnership. I have a deep and abiding desire to nurture and to love. I want to help guide and mold this person into a productive member of society. Is that selfish? Yes of course it is. I could do the same for an adopted child in need of a home. But my husband has no family (that he will associate with). Coming from a large (albeit dysfunctional) family I can’t imagine how it must feel to walk through this world, essentially alone. To not have that innate certainty, that no matter what kind of shyte this world throws at you, at the very least you will have your family to support you and back you up when times are bad. He doesn’t have that. Has never had that. I am his only family and now I find myself weeping over this fact. My husband deserves to have some blood on this planet that will love him back unconditionally. And however, selfish or machismo it may sound, he deserves an heir. Not to take over his throne and rule England or some bullshyte like that, but a legacy to show that he was here on this planet. That he loved and made a difference in someone else’s life and that same person carries his genetic heritage. Because in the end, that’s what us humans are for. To give and receive love. What other possible purpose could we have on this earth? Certainly not to be its stewards because every day we bring the earth closer to destruction.
I want to state that I am not lambasting mothers who choose or HAVE to work and put their kids in day care or in the hands of some other caregiver. I am just saying it’s not in me to do that. And who’s to say, that one day I won’t HAVE to or probably even WANT to work again? But for right now, we have the financial means to afford me the luxury of staying home. And we both agree that is what we want for our family. I take extreme pleasure in the thought of being with my child all the time and raising him. Because in the end don’t we really have children for our own selfish desires? Because we want to raise and nurture them. So if I am going to have a child, I want the right to be the primary caregiver for my child. If I am going to be a mom, I want to give it my all and be the best mom I can be. For me that means staying at home.
Okay, so what’s your excuse?
So therefore, what’s my excuse now for not working while I am only pregnant and not caring for a kid yet? Because my job sucked, my husband makes enough to support us, and basically I am taking an extended vacation before my life becomes completely absorbed by my child. Not that it hasn’t already. I spend almost all of my time poring over pregnancy books, reading parenting websites, and changing the items on my baby registry for the 100 billionth time. But now I have the luxury of researching and nitpicking every item that will come into contact with my kid. I have the time to renovate the house, and get repairs done, and wash the baby’s bed linens. I have the time to write a 5-page interview questionnaire for my child’s potential pediatrician and make appointments to interview them. And yes, I also have the time to sit on the couch and eat ice cream (bon bons not really my thing) and watch Jon & Kate Plus 8 with the occasional porno thrown in there just for fun.
That pregnant glow…
As this is my last trimester of my adventure in pregnancy, I feel the need to ruminate on that topic for a moment. I spend hours staring at my naked torso in the mirror waiting for the baby to move and shake my belly which I find fascinating in a creepy kind of way. But I am convinced my son has some sort of performance anxiety as every time I do this he seems to calm down and refuse to perform and this self-voyeuristic act ends up being me just staring at my huge, brown, areolas which my husband has affectionately termed “Chocolate donuts”. I am amazed and admittedly delighted by their new size, yet just because they are now larger, it hasn’t given them any added buoyancy. In fact I was quite horrified during a recent mirror session to discover that one breast had disappeared entirely as it had somehow melted into the folds of my armpit while the other breast had fallen into the middle of my chest making it appear like I had one large, floppy, boob in the middle of my chest. Perhaps it is not that my son has performance anxiety – perhaps I am merely horribly distracted by the National Geographic quality of my new pregnant breasts, which incidentally, started to leak the other day. Gross. Yeah, yeah, life-giving colostrum blah blah blah. It was still gross.
I think that is plenty of material for my first blog. I am sure my life; however outwardly mundane and boring, will produce more material for me to wax poetic on. And that is the end of my first blog. I don’t know how coherent I actually have been. Certainly not concise. I don’t know if I even made any sense at all. But I’ll work on it.