No More Whining

I have enough self-awareness to admit that I've done nothing but complain so far. It's so easy. No one to tell me to shut up or add these rants to some accumulating list of Times She Complained. It's great! See, this is an occasion for smiley faces and positive exclamation points!! :)

A blog is a safe haven for complainers. A free analyst (minus the analysis). A wide shoulder. It's where I've discovered either a. My Inner Complainer or b. a passion for chronicling complaint. The rest of the time I'm bragging about her clucking prowess to other mothers at the coffee shop and couching the sleep deprivation in the context of personal growth. Oh, puke! Why can't two unshaven, powerbar-fed mother-strangers standing upright thanks only to a full-fat latte admit that it's hard? Even the full-fat milk is shameful. We talk about how hard mothering is only in reference to other women, with our inner circle moms group, or in an I-always-change-more-diapers-than-you outburst.

Yesterday I met two women and their babies. The girl, Skye, is two months younger than Stella. The other is still brewing in her mama's belly. What did we discuss? Whose chin Stella favors, how many teeth Syke has, the inconvenient juxtaposition of ribs and the growing uterus (ha, ha). Advice to the pregnant one? Sleep. Get in as much sex and foreign film as you can (I should have said foreign sex... something exotic sure sounds nice right about now). But what was going on in my head right before our strollers rafted together in front of the cooperative bakery? Complaints, of course. Today was so long, and I have another hour and a half before she goes to bed. My husband won't be home to help. He's never home to help. My right shoulder blade is killing me. I don't want to go to work tomorrow. It's not fair that other women have nannies and don't even go to work... Of course, to these strangers, these of all people who could relate and find relief in a little honesty, I was an upbeat champion for motherhood.