Poppy Mom

Changing Table Epiphanies

This morning, while changing Clara Jane's first diaper of the day, I had myself a big ol' epiphany.

I realized that, for the first time since her arrival, I truly feel comfortable as a mother. During the first six months of her life, I mainly felt like a bumbling idiot who had no idea what she was doing with a child, no idea how to parent and not much faith that things would get much better for several years, at least.

Luckily, I was wrong. As I changed her diaper, we talked. We giggled. We played. And I realized something: this is fun.

Obviously, it was only a wet diaper. I can't see having such an epiphany during the daily Diaper o' Doom.

I've reached a point where being a parent doesn't feel so much like a job that I got because I embellished my resume. It's starting to feel normal.

A little later, Clara Jane and I were playing on my bed. I was still in my jammies. While we lay there, Clara Jane's hand found the embroidered dragonfly on my jammie top. Then her fingers wandered to the fluttery edge of the cap sleeve on my left arm. She gave a tug, and stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, pulling her open mouth towards my upper arm.

Yes, folks, today my child discovered my tattoo.

I have two bright (well, not as bright as they should be; they need to be re-inked) orange poppies on my upper left arm. I love them and don't regret getting the tattoo. In fact, I wouldn't mind getting a few more. I got the poppies in 1997, when I was 24 years old. It wasn't a rash decision. It took me almost a year to find the perfect design. There was only one artist I wanted, and I was willing to wait well over 12 hours for his services on the day I decided was going to be The Day.

While Clara Jane busied herself trying to rip the poppies from my flesh, it occured to me that someday, she'll ask about the tattoo. And someday, she's going to be aware that I had a life long before she entered it. A life in which I wasn't so well-behaved. A life in which I'm still not very well-behaved.

I know the tattoo isn't a big deal. There are lots and lots of moms in my age bracket who are also sporting tattoos. They're pretty common and routine these days. But it's still something Clara Jane will ask about, and it's still something from my younger, wilder days.

All through this motherhood business, I've been trying to figure out where I belong. I'm not the wild child I used to be, nor do I bear any resemblence to the suburban soccer mom prototype (but really, does anyone?). Truth be told, I'm pushing 32 and don't feel a day over 13 most of the time. I'm just wondering how I'm going to teach my child to be an adult when I'm nowhere near figuring it out for myself.

Once Clara Jane got bored with trying to peel away my brightly-colored flesh, we headed out to run some errands. I paid close attention to my actions to see where they fit on the continuum in my mind that runs between Suburban Mom and Degenerate Mom.

1. Breakfast at IHOP in the Official Outpost of the Soccer Mom - Chesterfield, Missouri: SUBURBAN

2. Using my daughter as a distraction while I smuggled my IHOP coffee mug into her diaper bag: DEGENERATE

3. Going to Michael's to purchase supplies for my child's scrapbook: SUBURBAN

4. Making a scrapbook page for her with the lyrics to Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues: DEGENERATE

5. Going to Slackers and buying a used Air Supply album: SUBURBAN (and possibly a loud cry for help)

6. Plopping my child on the counter and saying in her voice "Hey, Mister! You got any Clash albums?" to the 12-year-old skate punk clerk: DEGENERATE (and another cry for help)

Three "suburbans". Three "degenerates". I guess that puts me in the middle of the road. Yep, doing the same things that all moms do.

All moms steal from IHOP, right?

Posted by Robin at August 19, 2004 04:38 PM | TrackBack