The New Face of a Stay-At-Home-Mom

The year was 1990. I was 7. I thought all moms stayed at home with their kids. That's just what moms do.

The year was 2008. I just had a baby. I had a flexible part-timeish job. I became a stay-at-home-mom. I had to make mom friends. Figure out how to make play dates (not totally unlike making real dates) and relinquish respect from everyone in the world, except other moms. It was hard as hell, completely under appreciated, sleep deprived and over-puked on, but now I realize, it was good.

The year was 2010. My husband got a promotion to a job traveling 3-5 days a week. The stay-at-home mom gig became a single parenting gig and it sucked. Big time. I love that kid to pieces, but preschool 2 days a week became my sanctuary. I'd drop him off early and pick him up late. I was that parent. Not because I was absent minded, but starving for time off from parenting solo

The year was 2012. Debt, marital stress and impending job layoffs sent me job hunting. Not a casual, part-time, flexible, all-fulfilling gig would work like most mothers envision. Mama needed benefits and a steady paycheck. I've worked for small businesses, where neither were promised, so the prospect of a giant corporation backing my bills was a little exciting at first. Cute "work" clothes and people judging me if I didn't shower was an idyllic prospect. (Moms have mom code: we don't judge if you don't shower-sounds good, but isn't cute.) My preferred job labeled me as "overqualified" after 5 interviews. Thanks Master's degree. Can I have a reimbursement on all those Starbucks drinks?

The year is 2013. Mom goes to work. Dad and kid sleep in. Dad feeds the kid breakfast. Dad does the laundry. Dad takes the kid to the library. Dad goes to the gym, does yoga. Mom goes to lunch with co-workers (I used to think heaven existed in meals that other people cooked, without children present). Dad puts the kid down for nap. Dad takes a nap. Dad takes the kid to the science center. Mom works 40 hours a week. Squeezes in a workout, while feeling guilty for taking time away from the kid for herself, then heads home at 5pm exausted. Dad got laid off and is the new stay-at-home-mom/dad. Cute? Maybe.

The house is messy, the kid is high on refined carbohydrates, undernapped, and overstimulated on 4 straight hours of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, but alive. In actuality, my house is probably cleaner than when I was at home. My child is better behaved with the enforcer around. And he is still fed too much white flour for my hippy taste, but you can't win it all. Really, my husband makes a fabulous full-time dad. While I don't think it's in the male blood, I think they need investment and productivity and progress. All of which is very hard to sift out of Dora The Explorer and cabin fever and coaxing another human to use a toilet quickly enough, but he does it well. I know both of us don't want these lives forever. But it is now.

This job has been the best and worst thing for me and our family. The best? Because it allows us to pay bills, drive cars and crazy things like eat fresh vegetables. It's given my husband and I a new appreciation for the lives we used to live. I thought nothing was more trying than 72 hours straight with an insensible 2 year old fit. Now I know insane bosses and purposeless reports can drain you nearly as much.

I miss my old life, he doesn't miss the same grueling, heartless corporate gig I now do for less money. I miss my freedom, calling the shots on where and when, and certainly, pouring my entire insides and energy into my little boogery ball of a child. That meant something to me and my life and purpose, this job does not. It's not fair, but it is what is now. Hopefully not forever will I have a job that dulls my sharpness and reduces my wit, but for now, it does.

The problem with this life now is that there's little me time. I like my me time. I loved my 1-3 nap time and fought for it ferociously when i had it. It wasn't a luxury, it was my one payment for mothering. My me time gets swallowed by trying to get exercise, asking my husband to stay a little longer at the library so I can come home to a quiet house, or my saturday morning sleep in amongst the racket of saturday morning cartoons and knocks on my bedroom door.

But I've come to realize this: there is no perfect. Full time mothering is not perfect. It is not continually  blissful and filled of gracious children and family and people. It's under appreciated and overwhelming. And certainly filled with too much poo. But going to work is not perfect. You miss your child's life. The child who you are working the hellish job for, that child. Your energy gets sucked by making money for the man, and not feeding hungry children across the world. (I'm sure some of you do, and I'm totally jealous.)

But here's what we have: health, a reliable car, a place to live, an unemployed husband (oh, not you?), and still lots of debt. I guess we also have each other. Life may not always feel good, but we need to make it good in it all. Cheers to you mothers and fathers, to whatever you do with your time, you deserve a tall drink either way.

New Normal.

Today marks my last day of freedom. Monday I begin full time work. It's decent pay in a good location. Most importantly it's a job, and may be our family's only one in a few months. A couple years ago I would have jumped a tall building to get away from boogers and tantrums for 8 hours. Now it makes me want to scream, because I realize how short this time is for childhood. This is not what I signed up for. But what is?

I've had a job before, but the flexibility was astounding, as was my former employers ability to drain the small business bank account before our paychecks could be cashed. I'm excited to have some corporate lawyers to call if mama can't cash her check. I am excited for adult conversation, lunches out and most certainly, a paycheck.

I did not breezily walk into motherhood. I was pulled into it kicking and screaming being dragged by one foot behind the truck. I understand that no one got me impregnanted except for myself. But regardless, I commenced 10 months of nausea with a child that screamed all night. All my friends from grad school had left town. So I was left across the country from my family, with a new husband, a new baby, no friends and really no life. I was not a gooey in love new mother. It was more instinct to keep this being alive that I had created. But keep you alive turned to like and like turned to love. If you don't believe in redemption in this life, I challenge you to let me tell you about how this little heart of mine can turn around. Instinct says keep yourself alive, children are the opposite of that.

Imperfection is a key to life. Accepting it. Sometimes it makes life better. My sweet child is pretty cute, but his imperfect eyesight led to glasses, which in my opinion, make his cuteness even cuter.

And here I am. This kid is the chili to my cheese dog. Some days were survival, some days were beautiful. One day on the playground a mother told me, "my kids don't watch much TV. Only 6 hours a day." I was pissed. Not that they watch that much TV, but that she would quantify it. You can't be proven guilty without any evidence, and she was showing a mom card. The mothers of the world work way too hard to give away any reasons to not receive the same glory of those who climb Everest. We all have our 12 hour TV days, but nobody talks about them and certainly never admits to them. It's like Fightclub. Either way, in good and bad, I had the luxury to shape him into the best being I knew how to make.I see no more valuable and impacting use of my time and energy.

I've had people tell me to my face that I was avoiding the challenge of a career by choosing to stay at home with my child. Different strokes, different folks. If that's not your calling, I support you. If it is, I support you. I assure you the last four years of my life haven't been breezy. Nor easy. Fulfilling? Yes. Hard as hell? Yes. The only consistent theme? Poop. Good? When all is said and done, yes.

Life changes in ways we never hope or expect. This job is my best option right now in the face of uncertainty and doubt. It's not perfect, but I assure you walking around unknowingly with spitup down your back and addicted to caffine isn't perfect motherhood either. So bust out the pumps (shoes, Dad) and nylons (no, mom) and countdown to vacation! Cheers.

Grandbabies.

Let's start out to say I like fat babies. Not just fat, obese. If it is on a daytime talk show getting gawked at by the audience members, that's probably the right size for me. The bigger the better. I was robbed with a stick thin baby. Good thing he was cute. I give this one an 8 out of 10.

(That was totally unrelated to the topic of this post.)

I have some amazing friends. On top of being spectacular human beings, they are fertile as all get up. Last year was the year of the baby. Four of my closest friends popped one out. Such is life in your late 20's. And actually two on the SAME DAY, in the same hospital. The probability seems numerically impossible. If you've seen Father of the Bride 2, it was not far from that. I'll be George, you be Franz, let's do this...

This was an outing with 3 of my babies, Matt, Pax and Evan. When I see the "grandbabies" there is a lot of squealing, smooching and squeezing on my part. It's rather ridiculous. How fun it is to watch them grow and become these amazing little beings. My friends have taught me how to mother, for which I am overwhelmingly grateful. I don't know how mothers do it without other mothers.

And then sweet Lennox. He's only the 95% percentile. His brother was off the charts, so that's little for their family.


On the other hand, it's strange when you get to the age in life past family growing years when people (well, men mainly) move into the big V of their lives. And I don't mean Vegas. Such is life in your late 20's.

Good news is that some of them aren't finished with their child bearing years. And oh, how excited that makes me. Auntie Grandma Alicia needs more babies to smooch. I am going to seriously creep these kids out in a few years, but I don't care. Bring on the babies!

April 27th, 2011

Today marks the one year anniversary of April 27th, 2011. I’m sure some people saw the aftermath on the news, and more than I care to know didn’t register it at all. Twelve months ago in Tuscaloosa our lives were turned upside down. Another bad Alabama storm that turned worse than bad. My husband and I drove back from a coveted night away in Huntsville that day, narrowly missing the tornado in Cullum. We earlier gathered in the ballroom of the hotel under a tornado watch, feeling invincible. We were jaw-dropped at merely the trees downed on the side of the highway, some snapped in half from the wind of the day’s events thus far, little did we know…

We returned to a house without power and an anxious mother-in-law caring for our son. The radio forewarned of another storm, the third of the day was heading towards Tuscaloosa. Without power or internet, we sat in the car, expecting the usual “be safe” message that accompanies these tremendous yet frequent Southern storms. Instead we heard grave messages of caution and warning admonishing us not to take this one lightly. I texted a friend, asking if we could use her cellar, because our neighborhood was close to a small tornado a couple weeks prior. “Oh and if there’s anything big, just tell me.,” I texted to her. Those words may have saved my life. My usual pharmacy, gas station, and hippy health food store were in the eye of the storm and soon ravaged. A few minutes before the big one, I received a message back: “There’s something big on the ground by downtown, take cover.” A native Alabamian does not say take cover lightly.

We took cover in the bathroom, stuffed a pillow in the small window, started the DVD player for my son and waited. No power, no internet, no phones…I know why people didn’t take cover, I probably shouldn’t have. The cellar where we were planning to head, we later found out was blocked by a tree down in the middle of one of the worst hit neighborhoods. We would have been trapped and needed to be cut out hours or days later. Then been faced with houses torn apart by wind, impassable streets, and bodies of victims found not far from where we would have been seeking shelter.

After we heard the train, the jet engine, or any large machine pass over our house, as people talk about with tornadoes, we headed out. We expected to see a few trees down, a couple billboard signs blown off. As we drove north, unknowingly to what is now known as the “dead zone” I looked out over a close friend’s neighborhood and could see no houses standing in full. It looked like a bomb went off and 100 houses were torn apart. I was immediately brought to tears. Not I’m sad and scared tears, but a big boo-hoo ugly cry because I knew I was looking at death.

A big rig toppled and jack-knifed, lay across the road. A pickup truck carrying a man with two crushed legs, zig-zagging in brutal directions, being held by a friend in tears headed to the hospital. Phones were congested and no calls were going through. The fate of friends and loved ones seemed to hang in the balance. In flip flops and a dress, I ran…over live power lines, besides crushed vehicles, and to climb over the first of countless downed trees that day. I was prepared to dig through the rubble. I arrived to her street, telling my husband and friend, to be ready to do the same. From down her block, I saw her neatly cut bob weeping on the phone, with tears streaming down her face. She, a polite and orderly lady, was covered in dirt and as I came to find out when I hugged her, shards of glass. I don’t know what words were said, but we hugged and cried. I didn’t even look at her house, because she was alive and that was all that mattered. A hundred-year-old tree crushed her neighbors house, smashed and toppled cars everywhere, houses without roofs and walls, and a thick coat of mud over everything. That neighborhood, which I had been to countless times, still shocked me every single time after that. Nothing stays the same, tornado or not.

We continued to walk across apocalyptic neighborhoods to check off the list of friends within walking distance. Cars were useless because the roads were impassible, and people on bicycles had a leg up. Little did we know that far more people were affected than what our eyes could see, but we had no way to know. After hours and days, a count was slowly gathered when the phones would ring, and all were safe. Their homes, their cars, and their lives were not, but they were.

And certainly there were tears. Tears at the first storm after, tears driving through damaged neighborhoods to get back to our still-standing house, tears of guilt that we could have taken more damage. Tears watching the line of power trucks from out-of-state coming to help restore a necessity. I cried because it was hope, somebody out there cared enough to send them. When the looting and uncertainty immediately followed the storm, we all lost sleep. Then came the National Guard, hope. For a brief moment in time the nation turned an ear to our pain. Then Bin Laden died a few days later, and our brief moment of outside empathy seemed to vanish. We turned back to each other, because nobody could do it alone.

I used to think relief work was tractors and Humvees. They’re part of it. Tuscaloosa soon learned that buying a chainsaw, picking glass and nails out of a flowerbed, and cooking someone a hot meal was “storm relief.” The X's of the search and rescue teams that we saw in New Orleans, became ones on our friends and neighbors houses. Lots of 0's for no loss of life, and then you'd round a usual corner and be struck by a 1. One life lost in that house. Forty three lives lost that day in our city alone, there should have been more. Thousands of houses torn apart, lives turned upside down.

An older friend of mine, who nearly lost everything in the tornado tells me, “we all have storms in our lives.” Storms of cancer, storms of divorce, storms of relationships. To me, it has created a greater need for God and for people. Need is a definitive construct of life. It is life to need, and to fill other’s needs.
People ask, “where is God in this?” I don’t have an answer, but I know He was there. In protection, in grace. More lives should have been lost, more damage should have been done (if that’s even possible). And if God wasn’t there in the eye of the storm, He was certainly there after. The sweet neighbors who brought sandwiches when there was no power nor roads to drive on. The churches that gathered supplies to bring to those hardest hit. The relief teams that traveled across the country to make a difference in stranger’s lives. I told everyone I could, thank you. You are God to us.

Watching the news is now painful with a new empathy. A tidal wave in Asia, an earthquake in Europe, I understand. I think no better relief workers than those who understand. The first 6-12-24-48-72 hours were what mattered the most, when the help was so desperately needed…and ironically, the only ones who could help were usually the victims too. But they did. Hugs between strangers, a bank teller checking on the safety of my family, and well-wishes from a relief shelter across the world in tsunami-stricken Japan.

I was not sucked up into the funnel cloud, or found under a crushed car, and only had thousands of dollars of damage to our house and not hundreds, like friends. But I was profoundly effected. Kids on the playground playing storm..."the tomato is coming!" and finding a safe place in Hobby Lobby during any given rain storm are signs that there is a new normal. I in no way intend to be melodramatic and pretend I saw or experienced the worst, but my story is mine. For everyone involved in big and small ways, it has been a healing process. We moved away from Tuscaloosa, and a new prick of pain comes with every visit. Living there it became normal, and we deadened ourselves to it, because we had to.  

The storm will last more than the day of April 27th, 2011. It will last longer than these 12 months. The few untouched remnants of storm damage have become a shrine to the pain everyone felt, some much more profoundly than others. The damage says “it happened” and that the pain is real. It was hard to watch demolition of already ravaged buildings, because it somehow erased tangible proof of people's fear and pain. In the months and years to come, when everything is repaired, it will become just another story for the books. We live for the hope of tomorrow, cherishing those who understand the fear and pain that few will understand. The good news is that there is hope, it exists.

Three.

A conversation with my three-year-old son today...

Him: What's that? (Pointing to my bra)
Me: That supports my chest.
Him: You mean your bumps?
Me: Sure.
Him: They hold your bumps up high.

We were all three once.

Go West Son.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind...

There was a lot of travel. A LOT of driving. Driving with a 3-year old. In case you don't know what to do with a three year old for 30+ hours in a car...

You do this. This is hide-and-go-seek while still in a car seat. Judge if you will, and you'll get there in life, and do the same.

A summation of our trip involved an insane amount of Dora the Explorer on DVD, uber amounts of Dora the Explorer CDs, and flat out bribery on all counts. In the name of time with precious friends and family I will do most anything.

A quick jaunt to Shreveport, LA to see a sweet lady named Em. Well, actually her name is Emily Lou. Yes, as in the country singer. J complained that her red hair was not actually red. Sorry kid. A brief lunch catchup about our old lives, grad school and our new challenges was a great potty stop. Shreveport, you're kinda cute, I'd like to see you again. You too, Em.

We then drove 6 hours south to the great city of Katy, Texas. Somehow this city got lucky and now houses our best friends. Jacqueline popped out #2, Lennox William Samples, last November. I had played Grandma and came to cook, clean, hold and manage two insane 3-year-olds after they got home from the hospital. I think I did some cooking, wiped the counters down once, told the boys to stay outside and was so, so grateful that the crying child in the middle of the night was not mine. This was the week I had shared a bathroom with two 3-year-old boys. There was a lot of pee that didn't make the toilet. A lot. And this stinking cute oldman baby.

This time around was a little different. Jac could manage more than 4 word sentences that didn't involve the word "boob". She's alive (mostly) and semi-well rested. Moreso, she lives in Houston and the world is warm all the time. The rest of North America is jealous. J and Whit played well together. By played well, I mean nobody drew blood and usually only one of them was crying at a time. They've been only children for the majority of their lives...so who can blame them? These were the three musketeers. I would like to tell you the little one (4 months old) cried the least in 4 days. Best friends and wine and errands together and life. It was so nice for so short of time. In my perfect world we share a cul-de-sac, back yard barbeques and life within 300 miles of each other. Dreams.







We left south Texas 5 hours north for the great city of Aledo. Never been there? Missing out. The future Bogdanoff compound will be located there. My maiden name is Bogdanoff. Matt used to joke that I only wanted to get married to get rid of Bogdanoff. I disagree. Bogdanoff's are beautiful Russian people who like good meat, great conversation, an obtuse amount of food at all functions and a quirky gene that can only be maintained by the surname Bogdanoff. I use to think atleast one of my Bogdanoff family members would be considered "normal" in society, but that has been rescinded as I get older. Everyone should be so lucky to know or love a Bogdanoff, they are the best family in the world.

My first "little" cousin was getting married. We are the youngest cousins on my mom's side and the oldest on my dad's. Daniel was the first of 11 up-and-gcoming young adults to pursue life long happiness. This was the first of many happy, chaotic and food-driven gatherings that we call Bogdanoff Weddings. (My son took this picture, I'd say not bad)
My two "little" cousins are still J's size in my mind. I have fond memories on the beaches of San Diego with their chubby, tan little bodies with sun-bleached hair. They are now becoming men, and that's strange. But good men, and that is sweet.

And of course what would a road trip be without a visit to a giant nose? Science museums are a win for children of all ages. And their children, too. We should have seen how many Bogdanoffs could fit into the nose... Next wedding.

Then began the 14 hour trip home with this joker (see blue hat below). The plan was to have my mother come home with us from Texas to watch J for a birthday weekend away. My grandmother was ailing and my mother stayed with her, and Papa (my dad) stepped up to the plate.

Papa is primo supreme being of the universe to my child, up there next to Elmo, DJ Lance Rock and the ice cream guy at Chick-fil-A. Time with J and Papa involves a lot of playing outside, teaching things (like how to clean car windows at the gas station) and plenty of peeing outside. While we were visiting at my parent's house over Christmas my son walked me over to a bush in their backyard and proclaimed, "This is the bush me and Papa pee on." My mom started laughing embarrassed, and told J that was suppose to be a secret. And then apologized for my father. My father does not apologize. I love him either way.

Matt and I took a birthday trip to Chicago, which I'm sure will make a later post.

March was a good month.