On the Radio

I finally started a painting! I am aware that this is not a proper topic sentence, but the heck with it. It's Saturday night and I'm living large. (If living large means going to bed before 11 with perhaps one beer in my system). I decided to motivate myself while Ian took Ainsley for her first trip downtown, on the El no less. Apparently Ainsley is more bold than I am. I always prayed she would be. Anyways, I put on my "painting playlist" that I made sophomore year of college for watercolor. This was necessitated by the fact that Wendell (my amazing if not eccentric and fashion challenged college painting professor)only kept cassette tapes of Van Morrison in the studio. Now despite the fact that I was raised on Van (oh the Rogers family pajama dance party memories)I can only handle so much, especially when crunch time rolled around and I would be in lock down mode for hours at a time. As if by magic the melodies of the indigo girls and feist shot creativity through my veins. Granted at the end of my hour or so spurt Ian asked "are you in a green phase?" Little does he know the grand plans in my head for scrolling landscapes of texture and color. So what if right now my two 2'x 2' creations consist of greens blobs of paint and the occasional sporadic brush stroke. It's a start, and it feels oh so good.

While I'm sure my venture back into the world of painting is fascinating at the least I had another thought that crept in my mind while washing dishes for the THIRD time today (no Ian, I'm not complaining, you took Ainsley on a 2 hour vacation from me, if I were you, I'd think I was owed dishes for a month). How has being a mother changed me. I know, BIG question. But I thought it, and I want to explore it, so here I go.

I think I have been most surprised by how motherhood has not changed me. I still whine, a LOT Ian would say. I still cry for no good reason. I am still petty at times, and cranky, and hopelessly lazy. For example, the other morning I argued (ok, more like bantered) with Ian that I should be allowed to call in sick. "Hello, Ian? Yes, I'm not feeling so well today. I'm going to have to lie low and recover. Please call in my sub." Then I would proceed to lie on the couch in my pajamas eating junk all day and watching new episodes of Kendra and HGTV that would magically appear on our non-cable television. It's only fair right? Wrong, apparently. While the rest of the word gets to call in sick, us stay at home mom's get to work through the pain. By this time I'm supposing you've concluded that I am not in fact sick, just plum tuckered out and in desperate need of a break, which brings me to how motherhood has changed me, or at least my life.

Let's take a slice of a day in the life for example.

I pee with Ainsley sitting on the floor next to me, occasionally having to clench and lunge after her as she tries to climb into the tub. I shower with her sitting in her tub seat at the foot of the bath, again, trying to climb over the tub. I check my email with her standing up holding on to my thigh, attempting to eat the power cord that is of course plugged into the wall. I eat lunch frantically trying to keep my sandwich away from her grasp only to discover she somehow found a handful of her leftover o's and is now choking on them. After I smack her back a few times and the o's present themselves I put her down for a nap which lasts, if I'm lucky, 45 minutes. Just long enough for me to watch an episode of Felicity and knit 10 lines of a sweater for Ainsley for the fall until I hear the sweet cry of awakeness. These are the moments that I hadn't imagined pre-mom. It never crossed my mind that I would share bathroom time, that I wouldn't be able to take a nap when I was exhausted, that after not napping or sleeping the night before I would then go for hour long walks just to get Ainsley to stop crying.

Everything that I do, ok 90% at least, is for that baby. And I mean that in the best way possible.

Before Ainsley (we'll say B.A. for short) motivation was wanting at times. I had to be living in squalor for a good week before I'd clean my dorm room, out of socks for days before doing laundry. This may seem like small beans, but now, laundry is a regular activity staple of the Vaagenes household (especially since starting the use of cloth diapers...it's not so bad, really), and I've actually begun cleaning to the point of mild OCD status. For example, today when getting out of the shower I noticed that the walls were covered with dust and I could hardly see my reflection in the speckled mirror. 1 hour later you could have eaten out of our toilet. Ok, I still wouldn't recommend that, our bathroom is one of those "vintage" deals that always looks filthy no matter how much you clean it, but the thought (and bleach) was there. Most of my guilt comes from not cleaning enough for Ainsley, especially now that she's crawling. If I see dirt on her knees at the end of a good on the ground play session I feel the urge to say a few hail Mary's, and I'm not even Catholic. Perhaps I'm being dramatic, but drastic shift in me from B.A. to now in the cleanliness department warrants it.

More than just cleaning, I've had to grow up a lot. I never realized how selfish I used to be B.A. I don't say this so much negatively, as observantly. I think most early 20's people are, and rightly so. There's only you to think of, why not? Even after I got married, while I obviously love Ian, I don't know that I ever really rid myself of that part of me that was all for me. While I still definitely have moments of frustration that I can't just do what I want when I want to, I realize that there is something so much more important than writing an email RIGHT NOW or being able to finish just one 10 minute segment of pilates without Ainsley trying to crawl up my leg. I am raising a person. Well, Ian and I are raising a person. She is this little crawling, cooing, sponge that soaks up all that we do or say. While we still have the occasional rainy day when Ainsley is educated more by Ellen and PBS than I would like to admit, I take pride in the fact that I keep that little girl busy. No matter how tired I am or "not in the mood" I motivate for her.

It's amazing how much you can find to do in one little Oak Park apartment. We sings songs about objects in the room, take trips to the back and front yards, play with kitchen utensils and traverse pillow and blanket obstacle courses.

I never thought I could spend so much time with one person and still remain so completely in love (no offense Ian, you know we'd kill each other if I sang you songs about lamps and tables). I think the love that I feel for her is what has changed me the most. But it wasn't as sudden as I had expected. Perhaps it's the whole being huge and pregnant for 9 months, giving birth thing that keeps the love from swelling immediately, or perhaps it was always there and just more gradual to unearth. Ian had this moment of "aha" love when Ainsley was born. The santa-hat wearing midwife placed our little bundle on my chest and she yawned, and Ian cried, or so I'm told. I was too busy worrying about the afterbirth and if she had all her fingers and toes. I had guilt about this for a while, until I realized that this is what being a mom is all about. Feeling the love all along while simultaneously freaking out about at least 3 other things.

The one thing that I am completely confident of is my love for Ainsley.

While painting today a Regina Spektor song came on that struck a chord.

And then you take that love you made, and stick it into some, someone else's heart pumping someone else's blood, and walking arm in arm, you hope it don't get harmed.

I realize this song was written about a lover, not a child, but I think Regina may have gotten it wrong. While Ian has my heart, it is in a very different way that Ainsley has mine. I made a choice to love Ian, with Ainsley I have no choice, I love her, it is fact, and all I can do is raise her the best way I know how and hope, and pray, that she grows up to be a strong, independent, loving, caring woman.
I live for her, I breathe for her, I clean the bathroom floor for her. She has my heart. This little 16 pound person who is not me. It is hard, excruciating at times, but I would have it no other way.