Balancing Act

Where does the time go? First it was the holiday madness, which actually turned out to be less mad than I expected it to be—though the amount of baby-related paraphernalia at least doubled. (Damn you, generous grandparents!)

Next, it was the end of a glorious four weeks of break and a return to school. The spring semester started in mid-January, and it's all but consumed every bit of my mental and emotional space. Physically, I only need to be on campus three days a week—two to teach and one for office hours—but I spend the other days getting ready for those three days away from home, so it feels like a lot more.

One of my New Year's resolutions was to find and then subsequently add more balance in my life—more specifically, figuring out how to juggle being a mom, professor, writer, wife … and also just me.

[Sidenote: My New Year's resolutions always remind me of a line from my Favorite Movie Ever, "The Wizard of Oz." When Dorothy is in Munchkinland, she says, "My! People come and go so quickly here!" to a chorus a teeny Munchkin giggles.]

So, yes, we can now safely add this to the list of Stuff People Warned Me About Motherhood But I Didn't Actually Understand Until I Was a Mother. Boy, that list is getting long.

Before I go one step further, let me just say that I know I should not be complaining about my situation. I have a really good job, one that pays pretty well and requires me to be in the office only two to three days a week. There are a lot of people who have to go to work every day. There are also people who aren't fortunate enough to even have a job.

In my defense, I do work more than 40 hours a week. My nights and weekends are reserved for grading and prepping my lessons. I'm also required to do "scholarly work," which means I have to write and publish what I write. I just often do these things in my office at home while wearing sweatpants and watching "Law & Order" reruns.

My problem is this: I like teaching, but I like being with my son more. A lot more. Even when he's projectile-vomiting all over himself, his crib and me (which he did a few days ago), I still want to be with him more than anything.

In my mind, that's how it should be. I'm his mom. He's my son. We're supposed to have that sort of bond. He's supposed to be my priority, above all else. But I can't abandon every other part of my life, and I don't want to.

What I do want to do is to figure out a way to make it all copacetic, like in one of those iPhone commercials that promises to sync all of your stuff so it works well together. Newsflash: I have an iPhone. Yes, I can sync the electronic parts of my life, but I need something that syncs my actual life. Is there an app for that? Because that, Mr. Steve Jobs, would be impressive—certainly more impressive than the most poorly named gadget ever. (Seriously, is there not one woman who works at Apple?)

I digress. One thing that I need to do more regularly is write. Right now, writing for me feels delicious and almost naughty because I can do it only during time stolen here and there. More than that, though, it feels like me. And here we are.

Perhaps I have become a bit of a cliché—a working mom who's tired and stressed and can't find time to get everything done. I feel like a "Cathy" cartoon sometimes, a thought bubble over my head with the words "Aack! I'm sweating the small stuff! Someone pass the chocolate!" floating inside.

I don't want to be either of these things. I want to be the mom who resists getting a minivan just because it's a minivan—luxury, comfort and convenience be damned. I want to be the mom who listens to Cursive and The Pixies at top volume while driving in that non-minivan vehicle. I want to be a mom who still wears makeup and pants with non-elastic waists and fixes her hair and shaves her legs occasionally. I want to be a good mom, a good wife, a good teacher, a good writer, a good friend, a good sister, etc.

And I will be those things. I am those things. I just have to figure out how to keep all the parts together and not let them slip away, like one of Benjamin's many errant Cheerios.

I take comfort in knowing that (1) I'm not alone—every other mom I know is in the same boat—and (2) that really the only person who expects me to have everything figured out and working perfectly is me. It's all a work in progress—parenting, marriage, writing, teaching, all of it. And when I finally figure it out, and until I do, you can bet I'll be writing about it.

Sophie

Thirteen weeks ago today at this time, my husband and I were driving to the hospital. After a long day of contractions, my water had broken in our kitchen immediately after I took a bite of a square of Ghiradelli dark chocolate. And 27 hours after that, Benjamin was born.

Nothing about that day went as I'd imagined. I can't say "as planned," because as anyone who has ever given birth will tell you, a plan is a ridiculous notion as far as the labor and delivery of a baby are concerned.

In our childbirth class, we had to list the things we did NOT want to happen as far as our labors and deliveries were concerned. Here's my list:

(1) I did not want my water to break prematurely;

(2) I did not want my son to be posterior, thus causing the dreaded back labor;

(3) I did not want a long labor (but who does?);

(4) I did not want to be stuck to labor the entire time in bed;

(5) I did not want a c-section;

(6) I did not want an episiotomy.

True to form, I had every single one of those things happen, except for #6. But that's only because I got a gigantic incision made in my abdomen instead. Silver lining!

You know what? I don't care about any of those things because my son was perfect and healthy, and your grand plans and ideas and wants and don't-wants fly out the window. You get the labor and delivery that you get, and if the end result is a healthy baby, then it's been a pretty damn good one.

And nothing about life since has gone as I'd imagined---most of it, much better than I ever expected. As I type, I'm listening to Benjamin wail and his dad tending to him because my son, being the advanced creature that he is, is apparently over naps. He's so tired, and I've been trying to reason with him all day, but he's not having any of it.

Which brings me to the title of this post.

Sophie.

Sophie is a giraffe. And not even a real giraffe---she's a rubber baby toy. A $20 toy handcrafted in the French Alps of the finest natural rubber and nontoxic paint. Yeah. I got suckered by Sophie.

See, I'm not the sort of person who used to buy things that people said you MUST have. In fact, in my still bratty-teenager sort of way, I purposely ignored stuff that everyone else likes and obsesses over. (Take American Idol, for instance. Never in my life will I understand.)

But I fell for Sophie. Hard. My plan was simple: Purchase said giraffe for Benjamin and watch the bliss ensue.

If you're not familiar with Sophie, here's a pic:

Yes, she looks small here .... and she's not much bigger in real life. I expected something, well, bigger for $20 (plus shipping). And not so dog-chewtoy-esque. And not so creepy. (I think it's the beady black eyes.)

OK, OK, so a more conscientious shopper would've read the dimensions online before purchasing. Then I would've known that it's 1 x 4 x 7 inches.

But every child in the history of the world apparently loves and adores Sophie! How could I not buy this toy for my son?! How could I deprive him of the joys and delights of Sophie?!

Here's a sampling of some of the 234 (!) praises sung of Sophie on Amazon:

"This toy is absolutely wonderful in every way. Sophie is made of soft rubber and makes a pleasant-sounding squeak whenever any part of her body is squeezed, so even a young baby can elicit a reaction from the toy with minimal effort."

and

"My four month old is obsessed with Sophie."

and (my personal favorite)

"She has a cute face, she is french, and she squeaks, what more could you want."

My sentiments exactly, R. Hogue, whoever you are.

Has my darling son shown even the slightest bit of interest in Sophie?

No, he has not.

He will happily grab any toy I put into his fat little hands, but he cannot be bothered with the likes of Sophie. In fact, he looks at her for a second, releases her from his pudgy fingers, and then gives me a look like, "Are you kidding me with this? A rubber giraffe? Really?"

He cares not for her pleasant squeaks or her cute face or even for the fact that she is French. Once again, Mommy's great plan has been foiled.

At first, I was a little put out that he didn't recognize the love and parental concern (read: money) that was put into making this purchase for him. I know he doesn't care a wink about the cute onesies or pirate-themed baby leggings I buy for him. Duh. He's a BABY. And a guy baby, no less. But I thought we'd really get somewhere with Sophie. She squeaks! And she's French!

But then I was proud of him for eschewing the Sophie hype. HE will not be like all the other babies who blindly squeal and coo with every measly toy their parents give them. He will have more discerning taste.

Or maybe one day he will suddenly get interested and start shoving her rubber legs into his mouth like everything else around him and thus join the legions of Sophiephiles worldwide. And I will pat myself on the back for being such a good mama. Either way, we both win.