Friday, July 8, 2011


I want to go back in time in order to tell myself to calm the hell down.  I think it's because I didn't have a lot of other mother's around, I think it's because I didn't have a good sense of confidence instilled, I think it's because I expect constant perfection from my entire being at all points of the day (which, surprisingly, doesn't happen... which tends to lead to a lot of self-depreciation... but that's for another day, yes?)- I think it's a lot of things.

I wonder if it would have been different had it just been one of those things?  Probably not.  

At any point, I was recently asked how motherhood has impacted me.  I didn't want to answer it at the time, and I still think this is a chicken-shit answer, but I can say with confidence that one of those things has been my finally becoming aware of how hard I am on me.  So hard, in fact, that I don't want anyone to ever see my butt.  And I mean anyone.  So hard that I don't sing out loud in front of anyone.  And I mean anyone.  So hard that if I place a plate of food in front of you, I am first to tell you everything that is wrong with it.  So hard that I spend countless hours working on a graduate paper, knowing full well that a B-average would mean nothing in the long run, but realizing that having an A-average means the world to me so those extra hours of complete insanity are worth it.  So hard that I haven't been in a swim suit yet.  So hard that if you want to be my friend, I spend time trying to convince you not to waste your time... and here's all the reasons why (the list is long, ladies).

Being a mother has been the first time that I have looked someone in the face and felt like complete shit for the amount of perfection I expect from myself.  Although it can be rather difficult to walk backwards when naked so my husband can't see my buns, I haven't really worried about it.  I mean, I hate it- but I haven't worried about his self-esteem, nor his acceptance of his own body, because of it.  And not singing songs in the car while my husband is driving can feel sad to me at times, especially during those moments when I want to belt out a Gillian Welch song, but I have never thought that since I want him to enjoy singing out loud I should lead by example.

Geez.  I make it seem like I live in a shell around tesoro.  Not true.  He's my beloved, and I am his- I just have some anxiety about most things in life.. most of which stemmed from the models I had growing up.  Which is yet another reason why I need to lay off myself around me, around him, and most especially, around our kid.  I am different.  We are different.

All of this being said, and there is so much more to add (and oh how I wish I could do it in a concise manner!), to really just say that I don't expect my boy to be perfect.  I do expect compassion, kindness, love, and generosity- but not perfection.  And my concern is that the amount of shit-talk I have to do when I don't achieve that high, high, all-the-way-to-the-sky bar myself?  I worry that it will pour out onto him, either through my own frustrations at myself that get misguided, or through some sort of jacked up modeling that dimples on one's buns equals bad and wrong and worthy of hatred.  And the truth of the matter?  All buns are worthy of love.  Even those that look like mine.