Rosalía's Suprise Party & Tangential Reflections on Motherhood

We celebrated Rosie's first birthday on June 14th (n.b. her real b-day is June 7th). It went all right, save for the fact that the scorching heat and eerily aggressive flies forced our outdoor bbq indoors, thereby altering the mood somewhat. Props to Patrick for sticking it out by the grill so we could eat. My mom made fabulous creme puffs with fresh strawberries.


Here Rosie is being fed by her nana with the help of tia Manda.



In this picture I am trying to look official. I must admit I found myself falling into the trap of getting very anxious about how a 1 year old birthday party is supposed to go.



Here is Rosie riding an unidentified quadruped, though most agreed it was a cow-dog hybrid. My mom found it at her usual purveyor of toys and clothing-- the curbside. Score!

After much prompting on the part of our guests, Lucero and Rosie entertained us all with a rousing rendition of "Piano Man". (Baby grand also from curbside...major score.)


Below (left-to-right) is Sarah with Lucero in her lap, Rosie, yours truly, and Alex.



None of our friends with little ones could make it, but the guests were people who had helped us immeasurably this last year, especially my sister, my parents, and Agapito's in-laws; to say nothing of all of my girlfriends who have simply lent an ear or hand.

Here I'd like to share some of what I've been thinking about on the subject of mothering. For those of you just in this for the pictures, read no further. For those of you who'd like a sneak peak into my rambling mind, read on.

I just watched "Desire", a documentary that my friend Brent worked on. It follows the coming of age of 5 girls in New Orleans. Three of the girls become single moms while in high school. Afterwards, I peeled myself off the floor and blew my nose, then gave myself a small scolding for ever complaining about the (privileged) rigors of grad school and motherhood. Not that it isn't difficult, but many of the challenges are self-imposed. Like obsessing over how a birthday party is supposed to be, or any number of relatively unimportant details.

Case in point: Lucero's 5th birthday party is in August, and it will be the first big party that Agapito and I have thrown for her. I have already begun worrying over the jumpy castle and piñata (princess, star, dinosaur?). Judith Warner talks about these issues in her NY Times blog and in her book, Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety (which I have yet to read, but know about first-hand). I was comforted to read in her blog that she worried over and finally accepted that her children would never have a room in which crayons and markers were in separate labeled bins, or where everything was in its place (or had a place for that matter). In an interesting article examining a mother's choice to work outside of the home, another author/mother, Sandra Tsing Loh, admitted that her house is always trashed. Ever since I read these two pieces, I've taken greater pleasure in my life, my home, and even in my children and Agapito. No joke. Although, if I were to be a stay-at-home mom (or whatever obnoxious and inadequate term we're using these days to devalue women's work), I would totally groove on labeling things and putting then in their place. But until that day...

Judith Warner also claims that the mothers who are really facing the challenges of unrealistic expectations are those born between 1956 and 1972, i.e., in the wake of the 2nd wave women's movement. But as a woman born in 1976, I think my generation is doubly judged. Not only do voices from the mainstream admonish us with "You finally get to have it all, career and family, so why are you whining?", but there's also the whole do-it-yourself hippie/hipster counter-culture movement that differs from Martha Stewart mainly in aesthetics and the politically-correct provenance of raw materials. Otherwise, I think DIY culture can be freakishly backwards. When I read an article in BUST or a similar magazine on knitting stocking caps for all my friends for Christmas, I'm sorry, but I feel like running to Target and buying everyone striped socks made in China. And this mentality carries over into counter-culture mothering, best exemplified by "Mothering" magazine, which I prefer to call "Martyring". "Mothering" magazine seriously makes me want to wretch, despite the fact that many of my beloved family and friends are subscribers. I'd elaborate, but first I need to go finish harvesting my own baby food while my 5-year-old breast feeds in her hemp cloth sling. And that's after I take her to a drum-circle that comes from a culture my country is neo-colonizing. Barf.

Which is all to say that I think there are problems and neuroses permeating all classes and cultures of mothering in this country, especially those who self-righteously think they're above it. I could cheerfully segue into a discussion of class, because of course it's about class, but I'll save that for another post.