MANIACs do it in heels. Mothering, that is. Well, sometimes anyway. “Be careful carrying him in those shoes!” my mother warns as I strap my son into the car. “Don’t worry, I’m a pro,” I assure her.
The last time you heard from me was in a three-part “Husband Upgrade” series for MANIAC, the last installment of which detailed all the reasons why motherhood wasn’t for me. (e.g. I don’t want to be one of those annoying moms, I don’t want to sacrifice my career, kids are gross, etc.). Well, accidents happen.
Here I was, going about my business finishing a doctorate in Religious Studies at the University of Pittsburgh when I found myself sitting on the toilet staring at a plus sign on the end of the stick. It was hard to determine whether it was really a plus sign or if all the blood had flushed from my face and I was having some sort of nightmarish baby bump mirage. My hand was shaking as I stared at that stick. I had heard of false negatives, but not so much with the false positives. Alrighty then. We’re doing this.
It didn’t take long for my husband and I to embrace our happy (?) surprise, and life doesn’t allow for much reflection on these matters. We were on a runaway baby train, and we needed to get ready for a wild ride. As an aside, however, you know those women that talk about how much they loved being pregnant and how beautiful it all is? They lie. (Either that, or my son’s now apparent, freakishly large noggin digging into my ribs for months in the womb tainted the experience.)
As the stranger inside of me grew, I tried to imagine how my life would be upon his arrival to earth. When I would have moments of quiet, I treasured them knowing I would never be bored again. Knowing of the impending chaos made me grateful for the peace, but still didn’t prepare me for the throw up. So much throw up.
Despite the job hazards, I am committed to being a mom with her own identity. I am unwilling to shelve, or worse eliminate, my interests, goals, and dreams. This determination is not without frustration. It would be easy for me to just surrender my aspirations, slip into a velour tracksuit, and sit at the mall play area with the other moms. I’m in love with the kid after all (I knew I was in trouble when I convinced myself his poop smelled like cinnamon. I have since been told it, in fact, does not).
When I was pregnant, people routinely asked me what I was “going to do” about school. What does that even mean? Not once did anyone ask my husband what he was “going to do” about his job. I could assume this is because getting a Ph.D. might be seen as frivolous, while he is gainfully employed. However, I assume it is because I have a vagina and he (thankfully) does not. What I’m “going to do” is finish my doctorate and then force you to call me Dr. Meister at all times, that’s what.
Regardless of whether one decides to work or be a stay-at-home parent is not the point. Both are noble options that offer different challenges. The expectations on women are quite high. We’re asked to maintain, at minimum, the appearance of having it together and then behave as if it’s easy and that we’re loving every minute of it (Do you know how many Facebook statuses I read by women that include the phrase, “life is good”? A lot.).
So why wear the heels then? Isn’t that just contributing to this idea that women must remain stylish and be number one mommies simultaneously? Well, I like heels, darn it. I like the way they make me feel, and I like the way they look with my crisp mom-jeans. Plus, they draw attention away from the giant puke stain on my cashmere sweater and the smell of “cinnamon” I got on my velvet blazer.
