My Monkey

...And speaking of, Hayes is completely obsessed with Curious George. As if watching multiple episodes a day isn't satisfying enough, Hayes has perfected falling silent to tap me on the shoulder, point his finger into the air and then suddenly begin yapping like a monkey to get my attention--all at totally random moments throughout the day. And it always takes me a minute to catch on because in the moments that he's not busy mimicking a curious monkey, he's my mile-a-minute-loud-mouthed little monster-child. Uh oh! Why does this sound like creepy adolescence foreshadowing? God help me.

Random Thought #461,895,146

I don't want to presume anything but I think it's likely The Man with the Yellow Hat has a thing for Professor Wiseman...Or is it just me? I mean, he buys her gifts, visits her at the office and writes speeches in honor of her genius. {Maybe that last one doesn't count since she really is a genius}. And really, on a practical level, what woman could resist a guy who can manage to be so organized with a monkey around the house?

Actually, I was told by a very reliable source that she heard they once dated.

Alpha Who, Alpha What?

Perusing a magazine the other day, I came across an article about the “new breed of do-it-all moms,” the alpha mom. According to the article, these moms are tuned in and on-the-go because they follow trends and know what’s hot in parenting. The article mentioned that these moms lead the pack, are incredibly influential, and blah, blah, blah… Oh! And the so-called alpha mom also has her own cable TV channel appropriately named Alpha Mom TV.

Now, I wasn’t in a snotty-mean-girl kind of mood to begin with. But the measure of animosity I felt by the time I reached the bottom of the page turned me into that girl.

Why the hateration, you ask? Well, because people who refer to “mom” as an identity are annoying. Being a mom is a role just as much as being an activist, an artist or a father is a role. It is part, not the whole, of who you are. So activists are allowed to advocate for noble causes and go against the grain if they feel so led. Artists are allowed to believe in the freedom of expression and wear short skirts if they feel like doing so. And fathers are allowed to rear children and be total flirts if they so choose. However, a woman who is also a mother finds difficulty truly being anything but a mom. When was the last time you heard about a mommy aggressively challenging anything, baring her mid-thigh on purpose or telling a man she doesn’t know very well that she finds him handsome. And what would you think of her if you did? Both men and women in our society are allowed to be what they choose, the way the choose—except for moms... and maybe some religious fanatics {but that's a topic for someone else's blog}. And what’s worse is that moms get chastised for not being at all times exactly what we all think a mom should be.

Someone asked me once why I blog. I mention in my “about me” that I like being a mom but hate being identified as one—and I mean it. While I’m not a militant, a flirt, and don’t wear mini skirts on ordinary days, the truth is that I don’t like playdates just because I have a two year old. I don’t look like a mom just because someone calls me one. And I don’t care about what’s hot in parenting because I just don’t. So you can’t call me an alpha mom {…and you better not} but I am no less a mom. And besides that, I am so much more—just like everyone else.

Aaagh!

Here’s the thing about being called mom: Somehow you become the one person responsible for keeping it all together while making it look natural. And on the off day when you don’t meet every expectation, the guilt forever haunts you.

I learned this lesson painfully.

Hayes “played mass” for the first time at carnival this year. For weeks, we looked forward to the costume, the parade and dancing across the stage at the Brooklyn Museum where the festivities culminate. On the day, Hayes’s grandfather showed up at 6am to deliver the costume that he had stayed up into the wee hours perfecting. And we were out the door by 8:30 to join the other masqueraders for the parade. Hayes resembled a West Indian genie in his super-cute costume. And I was a good mom prepared for the occasion. I had a smart lunch packed, a loaded camera in my bag and cash for Italian ices—and we ran through it all. But nothing beat Hayes winding and waving across the stage in front of the hundreds of party people. And I, a.k.a. good mommy, was in the front row taking pictures non-stop. I couldn’t wait to call friends and family who could stand to hear me gloat about my amazing son. And I did. We all looked forward to finally seeing the photos. I ran to the one-hour photo shop. I couldn’t possibly wait an entire day to see my little genie immortalized on photo paper.

When I returned for the pictures, I got bad news: The film was blank. The entire roll of Hayes in his costume parading down the street and dancing across the stage as if he were born to entertain the masses was blank. I have no record of the occasion except for my own memory, which will one day fade, and this one, lonely photo taken by a friend on her camera phone.



Cute. Sad. Painful.