This post has nothing to do with weight loss and its a tad long. I had some interesting conversations lately that have made me think about raising a boy. More specifically, about a woman like me raising a boy.
I think my upbringing and life experiences are similar to a lot of women my age. Almost every girl I know played sports and didn't go to college to get her Mrs. degree. We might be the first post-feminist generation of women who believe they can do anything and live in a society that basically does too. There have now been two female Secretaries of State, many female athletes make as much or more than their male counterparts, Forbes lists includes quite a few women, there have been three women Nobel Prize winners in science in the last few years, and women make up more than half of all college students. We almost had a female president. I know there are still statistics that show we have a way to go, namely that women still make a lesser percentage salary-wise then men. It is my belief that the statistic reflects two things: there still is a glass ceiling for women (though not as severe as 30 years ago, or even 20 years ago) and that women are choosing to have children and a career. Trust me, I am not saying that women should stay home or be penalized in their jobs for having children (I would love to see a mandatory 6 month maternity leave), but the cold hard fact for most women who choose to work and have kids (yes, I know some women don't have the choice because of needing the income) is that you can't have it all, not when you have small children. Your husband can stay home or you can leave your child in daycare for long days or you can cut back work hours. Something has to give. And I think my generation may understand this better than the previous few and are starting to accept that reality.
Having a kid, especially as a woman, means sacrificing something. In general, it means sacrificing a list of things for at least a few years, if not more. (you know I love lists)
1) A portion, or all, of your disposable income
2) Spontaneous anything
3) Your favorite hobby (not forever, and it might be something you eventually do with your child, but if you love skiing all day in fresh pow, sorry, you got a few years until you can do it regularly again)
4) Your body. (Unless you are one of those obnoxious supermodel/actress/really wealthy types, your body will be different for a substantial amount of time)
5) Any shred of selfishness. (Now, I am not into a "give every little bit of yourself martyr" style of motherhood. I think that taking care of yourself is key to being a good mom. BUT most of what you want comes second to what your kid needs when they are little)
6) Some of your friendships. (friends without kids don't want to spend their weekends sitting quietly at your house. And that's ok. Real friends will be there again when you resurface for air. In a few years)
7) Getting wasted--if your pregnant and then breastfeeding. (I'm going to sound like an alcoholic here, but getting a good buzz on just isn't an option for many, many months. And its sort of sad. In the winter when you are up at the mountain, getting a good buzz on mid afternoon, sitting in the Arizona sunshine...oh wait, you aren't going up to spend your day skiing in the first place)
8) Sleep (I have gotten 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep 4 times in the last 3 months. My "long" stretches are 4 hours. That's just how it goes. It sucks, and my mental game is WAY off, but that's ok. I expected this and I'm not working. Yet)
9) Adventures. (Other than the adventure of parenthood. Aaaahhhhh......ew. I can't even pretend to buy into that touchy feely crap)
10) Weekends. Babies and young kids don't know the difference between Tuesday and Saturday. Their schedule remains the same. Sleeping in doesn't exist. Neither does a long day of reading the paper/watching NFL games all day.
So yeah, things change.
The biggest surprise about this so far is that I don't seem to mind giving this stuff up. I thought I would be bitter or upset that my life is so altered, but so far, I'm ok with it. I didn't expect to feel this way because for me the big sacrifice I had to make was the job I loved. I came into hotshotting late but I really liked it. That is a weird sentiment about the hardest job I have ever had (other than the job of parentho--you know what, no. Still can't go there), a job that I often thought to myself "Jesus Christ, I hate everything right now. I just want it to stop. I want to sit down." But I loved it for that aspect too. I won't go on about the job right now, I could probably write a whole book about it, but just know that letting go of that as my career to have kids was a difficult and bittersweet decision. (for those of you who don't know about that job, it requires you to be away from home for often 20 days at a time, for 6 months in a row with only 2 days home between trips. Not an ideal job for a parent of a baby, especially a mommy. It is one of the reasons Norm switched over from hotsthotting to engines. The other being that your knees can only handle hotshotting for so long. All the old fire guys walk around like the rusty Tin Man)
So here I am, the mother to a little boy. What is my issue with that? Well I guess my issue is figuring out how to be my version of a mother and not any contrived notion of it. The things I've seen and done, and my reaction to a lot of them, doesn't scream "mommy material" to me. Is that because I've got a standard in my head that doesn't matter? Because my mother, and my friends' mothers, would not approve of my behavior so therefore how can I be a good mother, setting a good example? Want an example? Of course you do.
When I was on the crew (hotshot crew), two of my favorite guys had an adventure in Las Vegas and I think the story is hilarious. Other women I know find it offensive. (whenever this story is told and a girl puts on a 'that's disgusting, I don't approve' face, I always think to myself "Jesus, I thought this story was tame compared to others I have. Great, this only proves I am a dirtbag") On our way home from fires in California or Oregon, we often stopped in Vegas for the night because "we couldn't make it all the way home". The next morning was full of remorse and a little self-repulsion for the two guys and a lot of humor for the rest of us. But I'll back up and start the story from where we were last all together. Usually in Vegas, the night ends with a 3 am trip to a strip club. It just does, and if you are hanging out with dudes that just got out of the forest after 2 weeks, you either accept it and go along for the ride, or go to Denny's and have a sandwich and fries. I have done both. So we are at the Sapphire, one of those ridiculously expensive and huge strip clubs in Vegas (no joke, the water bottles cost $10 and it's 70,000 square feet. That's a lot of titties. As a quick aside, it is always funny to go to the bathroom, as a woman, at a strip club. It is the strippers' break room. The counter space is filled with their necessary professional equipment--aka the entire glitter line from Bath and Body works, wet wipes, deodorant, hair brushes, tooth brushes, and Red Bulls. They are hanging out, talking about their kids or the manager and they are all smoking. EVERY woman in there is a half naked cranky stripper...except me. It is the least friendly women's bathroom on the planet.)
The two guys in question here...we will call one "The Baby" (I actually referred to him by that handle in my head) and the other "Spanky". The Baby was a fresh faced little country boy who showed up on the crew my second year. He was 18 and about as worldly as my cat. He could hardly believe anything we said (most of his responses were "Nuh uh!" or a nervous giggle) and he had a hard time, initially, adjusting to the life. He was sweet and I loved him unconditionally, much like a baby. Hence the name. Spanky was my best friend on the crew. He's the type of person you want sitting next to you in every situation because he always makes it a little better. Neither one of them was a) good with women b) cosmopolitan or c) sober.
So back to the strip club. I was pretty much over the situation after I went to get some water at the bar found out that they didn't "have" tap water and that a bottle of water costs more than a beer (obviously I drank a Miller Lite for $7 instead. Lite beer is mostly water...). Another guy and I decided to split a cab and order room service hamburgers and that was the end of my night. The Baby eventually got kicked out of club and Spanky was there to defuse the situation and get him into a cab, ostensibly to get him to the hotel and to bed. It was around 4 am. Somewhere in between the strip club and the hotel, a conversation started about getting a rub and tug. Now the Baby had been talking about doing this all afternoon but no one was taking him seriously and no one wanted to be in on that particular "adventure". But now, after at least 8 hours of drinking and facing the Baby's youthful enthusiasm, Spanky gave in and agreed to go.
This is where, in my opinion, the night takes a hilarious turn. Their cabbie knows a place and once they get there, they deal with a no nonsense middle aged woman who charges them and leads them through a series of quasi-humiliating procedures (they go to one room, take off their clothes, get lead to a second room and get hosed off, go back to the first room and get rub/tugged. Leave your wallet, phone, and clothes behind in a sketchy place in Vegas? Like I said, not all that worldly). By the way, Spanky only really agrees to this, he says, because the Baby offered to pay for the whole thing. To the tune of about $250. (In my mind, paying $250 for something you can probably do better yourself is not worth it. Better spent on a pair of shoes....) So the Baby gets done and waits in the "lobby" for Spanky. And waits. And waits. Apparently Spanky's whiskey dick was so intense that the first lady working on him gave up for fear of carpal tunnel, and they had to call in the no nonsense lady in charge. Speaking in baseball parlance, they brought out the closer.
The next morning, when we dragged the story out of them, I laughed so hard I almost peed. A lot of guys started into the two of them with "are you sure it was an Asian woman? It was dark in there and you were drunk" and others added "you know, a lot of sex workers in Vegas are transgender..." By the time everyone got done hounding them (and the Baby realized that in one night he had spent $700), the two guys were very quiet. Did I feel bad for him? Yes, a little. But mostly I thought it was hysterical and a good "learning experience".
So what does this suggest about me as a mom? I don't know. But there's a nagging doubt that thinking this is funny is not a good sign.
