the mom myth.

Here's another confession: I wasn't the best bride.

In fact, I was such a bad bride that I was super concerned about being a bad mom. I wasn't bridezilla, I just wouldn't repeat the wedding planning process again. I was never very good at getting all worked up on explaining the details of things to other people. I was also extremely superstitious that if I mentioned too much or hoped too much, that it would snow on my lovely January wedding. And by snow, I meant blizzard. And by blizzard, I had this horrible image of all of my family being snowed in the church together. Luckily it didn't. House of the Lord or not, the world is not prepared for that.

This thought process, however, did seem to transfer into my pregnancy. I spent the better part of nine [let's be honest here, ladies, it's ten months]. At any given point, you would not find me smiling, lovingly rubbing my belly and swaying with a dreamy look on my face, as if to suggest I could not wait until my lovely perfect baby arrived. I was terrified. At least while Batman was still gestating, he was somewhat protected. I couldn't drop him, puncture him, or injure him in any way. However, I did not lament these feelings to anyone. I was superstitious. I did not want to jinx myself or the impending parenthood that awaited BD and me. I had parents tell me on a daily basis that my life would change, that I had never known love like I was about to experience, that I could kiss sleep goodbye [i.e., Saturday, August 7, 2010 is the last time I had 8 consecutive hours of sleep], that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. In turn, I would share some of my concerns with these people. By that, I mean I would say "If I could give birth with my panties on, I would...I have no desire to have people all up in my business."

Cue parenthood. More specifically, the mom myth.

Discretion went out the window. In it's place, I have superhuman mom strength. I haven't quite developed the eyes in the back of my head, but I totally have a sixth sense about things now. Unfortunately, these skills have not transferred to my husband.

Case in point, I left him alone a few weekends ago while I attended a photography class. Because we were expecting guests later that evening, he was charged with prepping the house. Prepping, in my language means, vacuuming, Clorox wiping, Windexing, taking out the trash, and, if there's time, steam mopping. On a good day, I can do all of this in 30 minutes or less. You can imagine my disappointment when I arrived home to nothing. Not a single thing was done. BD blamed this on the fact that Batman was too heavy to hold and vacuum at the same time. Mind you, this is the same man that carried our treadmill down the basement stairs by. his. self. At one time, he also held the local record for eating the most enchiladas at the Don Pablo's in Rookwood.

Yet, there is something about a 20 pound infant that renders him helpless. The jury is still out in terms of strength transference. Even now, after this post has sat in my blog drafts with the hopes that I would be able to confess to having eyes in the back of my head, I am still the sole possessor of said mom strength.