I am reading this fantastic book right now and I have to admit it is the reason I haven't been online much.
In the entire time I have been a mother, I have had very few moments of serious self doubt in myself and my ability to be a kick ass mom. This is partly because the bar was set so low in my own childhood and I can't help but try to over compensate for the lack of happiness I grew up with... but it is mostly because I love being a mom. I love it with every fiber of my being, every inch of my soul is made lighter by simply looking at one of my children.
But in the last few months, Amanda has started to change. She has stopped being this really happy kid that I am used to having around and has turned into an almost unhappy kid.
And I have no idea why.
And this has never happened before.
When I talk to other moms about this, they just give me this "oh you thought you weren't going to go through this fucked up thing called 'teenager' didn't ya?" Because apparently, we mothers as a whole, have given up on our kids once their hormones kick in. We've abandoned any thoughts that this is something that doesn't have to be awful and readied ourselves to succumb to their moods and just kiss normalcy goodbye. Even before they are close to that age, we've thrown in the towel I have even done it. I have rolled my eyes and said, "I have no idea what I am going to do when they become teens!"
Why?
Because all the mothers I have ever known have left me with the belief that I am fucked. There is no cure for Teenager, there is no hope in avoiding it. Your child will go through puberty and GOD HELP YOU when that happens.
You basically just need to buckle up and hold on like your life depends on it.
Everything about this miserable, bitchy, sneaky little shit head that used to be your kid is going to try your sanity and your belief that you ever had an adorable sweet angel that held your hand when you crossed a road because you made them feel safe.
With that in mind, I look at Amanda, who isn't even ten years old yet, and I want to burst into tears. I want to grab her and hold her to me and beg her not to grow up. PLEASE just stay this little person I love. I want to fix this all before it is broken. And I have no fucking idea how to or who to ask for help. No one seems to believe that there is even a cure, that there is even a glimmer of hope of a cure. We have all just accepted this state of fuckedness as the norm.
So, this weekend, while I was at The Cake Lady's house sitting in the grass at some insane late hour, I drained my glass of wine and decided I had to admit that I had fallen into some foreign place and needed some help, any help. And then, this woman I respect more than any other mother I know gave me that look.
She gave me the "you're fucked" look.
And I wanted to just cry.
Because she can't believe it too! She can't possibly believe that there is no hope for puberty! I refuse to believe that. I refuse to believe that she is one of those women who is going to throw in the towel. Not her. Not her and not me!
So we are sitting there discussing the intricacies of motherhood and the possible solutions for how we are going to survive the next ten years and fondly reminiscing about the "good old days" when diapers and wall socket covers were the hardest part of being a mom.
Fuck, give me a screaming infant at three in the morning any day over that look Amanda has had on her face for the last week.
Then The Cake Lady got up and went into the house and came out with a book.

Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety by Judith Warner.

From the back cover: This book is an exploration of a feeling. That caught-by-the-throat feeling so many mothers have today of always doing something wrong. And it's about a conviction I have that this feeling --this widespread, choking cocktail of guilt and anxiety and resentment and regret -- is poisoning motherhood for American women today. Lowering our horizons and limiting our minds. Sapping energy that we should have for ourselves and our children. And drowning out thoughts that might lead us, collectively, to formulate solutions.
The feeling has many faces, but it doesn't really have a name. It's not depression. It's not oppression. It's a mix of things, a kind of too-muchness. And existential discomfort. A mess.

And my mouth is just hanging open.
You mean, they have BOOKS for this????
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

So needless to say, I have been rather engulfed in reading this book.
And it has been a nice way to spend my time.

Another excerpt:
The women around me, for the most part, lived in affluent suburban Washington communities. They had comfortable homes, two or three children, smiling, productive husbands, and a society around them saying they'd made the best possible choices for their lives, yet many of them seemed just miserable. One woman told me she'd lost all interest in sex with her husband... Another mom complained of spending her weekends in her car shuttling between soccer and swim meets and birthday parties. And another had taken up the politics of play dates as an issue in therapy."

The politics of play dates as an issue in therapy.
Oh man.
But this is all so true.
But the thing I love about this book is how it seems to be trying to quash these feelings of inadequacy that we all walk around with at some point in our experience as parents, as mothers. And since I am so very new to this feeling, I am so glad to see that I am not the only who wants to fight it and who thinks it is a fight I could win.
So, dear reader, bear with me this week while I read this book and try to find some sanity in this new crazy turn in my motherhood.