Archive for August 12th, 2008

Not five minutes after Seth called to say his plane had arrived safely in Baltimore, the J-man came down looking pretty miserable.  So miserable, in fact, it was hard to be annoyed with him for being out of bed after bed time. 

"Eema, I barfed."

Of course he did.  All over his pillow and sheets.  Because, you know, it would have killed him to wait an hour so that it would have been Seth’s problem, right?  That’s three vomits for me during Seth’s two and a half days away. 

That man seriously OWES me, right?

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Some time ago Bea, previously of Infertile Fantasies fame, wrote eloquently of wanting "credit for time served."  That is, we (infertiles, you know) spent so much time preparing for parenthood… we worked at it for so long, and yet when we finally get there, our friends who started on that journey after we did, yet reached the goal long ahead of us somehow manage to treat US like the "newbies" when we finally reach pregnancy and, finally, parenthood.  Finally we’re part of that exclusive club, and treated like we don’t know anything about what it’s like to be a parent though we’ve spent the last year, two years, five years working to get there and yet, we get no "credit for time served," do we? 

I admit Bea wrote far more eloquently on this topic, but that’s not my point.  My point is that Bea writing about this reminded me of a story.  My own desire for credit for time served. 

One day, when the triplets were, maybe four or five months old, Seth was out of town, I had recently returned to working full time, and I was dropping J off at school.  On my way back out of the school, I ran into an acquaintance of mine.   We’ll call her… "Sheila".  Sheila has two children, ages 6 and 4.  Her husband is one of the most laid-back, sweet guys I’ve ever met, but I admit, Sheila rubs me the wrong way nearly every time I encounter her, so I don’t want to bias you or anything, but hey, it’s MY blog, so I’ll cry if I want to.

Right.  Where was I?

Sheila walked in as I was walking out of the school and asked how I was doing. 

"Okay," I said, "A little tired."
"Oh well," she shrugged, "Welcome to Motherhood!"

I’m sorry, WHAT?  Did she seriously just tell me to suck it up?  Because that’s what it sounded like to me.  Now I recognize that all mothers are tired.  And I recognize that I’m not special or anythi- oh wait, I am special, but that’s another story. 

Now, really, she might have been doing this motherhood thing for a while, but, um, first of all when was the last time that Sheila spent the night up with not one, not two, but THREE babies?  Second of all, "welcome to motherhood?"  WHAT?  Like this was something new to me?  What about the last four years that I’ve been a mother to J?  Do I get no credit for that?  And nevermind Bea’s point, the credit for time served.   How about the five years I spent working to get to this point of motherhood?  It’s not like I was just dropped in at this point with no warning, no forethought, no experience, planning, research, consideration. 

Do I get no credit whatsoever?  None? 

And seriously?  Every single time I’ve seen Sheila since she’s made some patronizing remark about my parenting, and I’m really geting tired of it.  Hello?  I have four kids.  FOUR.  And three of them are under a year old.  And I’ve been parenting almost as long as her and actively working to become a parent for as long as I’ve known her.  Credit for time served, indeed.    

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