But I don't want to be a Soccer Mom!

Noah Shand at his 1st soccer practice

As a news reporter I've been called a lot of things, many of them not fit to print. Right now I answer to some kinder names, among them Mama, Mommy, Moooooommmm (said with hands on hips and eyes rolling- and he's only 3, Lord help me!), Meemee (when a certain 15-month-old really wants my attention), and on those very rare occasions when I'm able to converse with a bona fide adult, Mona. But there's one name I was called recently that made me shudder. It shook me up and made me stop in my tracks. It rocked me to my very core. That 4-letter word which actually contains 9 letters and comprises 2 words was none other than Soccer Mom.

Now you should know that we live in a soccer town. It's a place where every Saturday morning the town with no real traffic develops a major traffic jam, as hundreds of uniform-wearing, cleat-clad kids, their parents, and their parents vehicles descend upon the fields with one "goal" in mind: soccer. When we first toured our town with our realtor, it was yet another thing we loved. There was even a soccer supply store on Main St., for goodmess sakes! At the time I was pregnant with our first child, and my husband (a former soccer player) and I happily moved to Soccer Town with dreams of the day we'd join the Saturday herds.

A few weeks back we sealed the deal: I signed our 3-year-old son up with the local recreation league and picked up his uniform. "Congratulations, you're now officially a Soccer Mom!" the woman behind the desk called out cheerfully as we turned to leave. Frozen, my brain tried to put together the words "Thank you," but think it came out more like "Whabba wifup." Soccer Mom? Me? I think not.

I tried to brush it off but the frustration began to eat at me, so I took the issue to the modern day therapist's couch: Facebook. "Mona just picked up Noah's soccer uniform and his first practice is Saturday," I updated, "but so help me if you call me a Soccer Mom I will kick your teeth in."

So why does one term, one combination of sport and relationship evoke such a visceral response? At the suggestion of one of my therapists (OK, a Facebook friend), I decided to explore. Wikipedia defines the term as "a middle-class, suburban woman who spends a significant amount of time transporting her school-age children to their sporting events or other activities," (OK, I don't see anything terribly wrong with that) and goes on to talk about the rise of the Soccer Mom as a political force circa 1995 (still OK... power to the moms!), including various permutations like the post-9/11 Security Moms (now we might be pushing it) and the Sarah Palin-inspired Hockey Moms (not my cup of tea, and certainly not my kind of tea party, but OK).

Urban Dictionary is not quite as kind, including in its definitions of Soccer Mom "The downfall of human society," "a waste of body cells," and "usually seen screaming at people from behind the wheel of her SUV." Wow.

While that is certainly extreme, but to be completely honest the real issue for me is that Soccer Mom is a little too close, maybe even synonymous with another term I've been unable to accept: Stay At Home Mom. Believe me, I don't think there's anything wrong with staying at home, in fact quite the opposite. When I was working I convinced myself that I wasn't missing much at home, but now that I actually am home (and only working part-time, mostly at night and on weekends) I realize how wrong I was. It's simultaneously incredibly difficult and incredibly rewarding, but it just isn't how I ever pictured myself. Despite having lived and worked in 6 different countries and nearly every part of this one, the move to Soccer Town and Stay At Home Momville has been the most difficult so far. Try as I might to hang with the SAHM crew, a little voice inside keeps screaming "But I'm not like you!" I've playdated, pampered my inner chef and gone (book) clubbing with the ladies, but the voice is still there. And I'm pretty sure the other women have voices of their own screaming "But she's not like us!" Anyone who says the Mommy Wars are over needs to come spend a few days in my 'hood. But maybe if we stopped screaming at each other from inside our heads and started talking about it out loud, we'd make some progress toward a ceasefire.

As a coping mechanism, I think I've started to subconsciously reject anything that smells of that unfamiliar world. Baking cookies? Gross. (Even though I do in fact love to bake.) Driving an SUV? Disgusting. (Even though I drive the SUV's first cousin, the crossover.) Carting my kids around to activities in the hopes of enriching their minds and bodies? I don't have time! (That's of course because I have to drive my son to preschool and then go to Story Time at the library with my little girl.)

So does Mom + Soccer = Soccer Mom? Does Mom + Home = Stay At Home Mom? And even if that's the math, do the labels matter? In an ideal world, I'd say no, but that's not where we live. For now I'm working on accepting where I currently am, instead of dreaming of being somewhere else. And I don't want to be late for soccer.

Growing Pains

I'll never forget the day: April 4, 2008. He was about nine months old and after weeks, maybe months of coaxing, pleading and prodding, Noah finally looked right at me and said it: Mama. Is there any sweeter music to a new mother's ears? It was his first "real" word and just like every other milestone in a child's life, with the obvious joy came the bittersweet, undeniable fact: my baby was growing up.

He's said it at least a million times since that morning. When he runs into my arms after a long day, they are the two most joyous syllables I've ever heard. Mama. When he's crying and needs comfort after falling down and scraping his knee, there's a raw vulnerability that nearly brings me to tears. Mama. At 6am when he decides he's ready to jump start the day, there's an innocent eagerness that makes me smile in spite of the fog of fatigue clouding my brain. Mama!

But out of the blue this past week, 2-year-old Noah changed the tune of my favorite maternal melody. As I dropped him off at daycare, he wriggled out of my arms, bolted for his waiting group of friends, and called out "Bye, Mom!" with a cursory wave in my general direction. "Mom?" I thought? Where did that come from? Surely not out of my baby's mouth?

And that isn't the only change. Over the past several weeks, my sweet little boy has gone from stringing five or six words together to keeping up his end of a full-on, all-out conversation. His clothing size is no longer measured in months, but years. He's gone from eating crayons to actually coloring with them. And we're even inching close to the Holy Grail of toddler milestones: ditching diapers for big boy pants. Has anyone seen my baby boy?

Doctors say when children go through growth spurts it puts pressure on the joints that can cause a great deal of pain, but most medical textbooks don't address the issue of parental growing pains. They are the aches that come as you realize your child has reached a new level of independence and will never need you in the same way again. It's the game of tug-of-war that pulls at your heart: pride in the accomplishment and a twinge of sadness as you welcome a new stage while simultaneously knowing there's no going back.

This past weekend my baby boy spent his first ever night away from home- a trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house. It's an experience I never got to have as a child so while I was thrilled for him, I still couldn't hold back the tears as I packed up his little Elmo suitcase. And once he left, once the unfamiliar sound of silence took over the house, I was more than a little bit lost.

I realize now that for the past two years I've subconsciously defined myself through my children. New Mom. Working Mom. Busy Mom. Mom of Two. Somewhat reluctant Stay at Home Mom? But as our children grow ever more independent we're forced to confront ourselves as ourselves. When you strip away the "Mom" or "Mommy" or "Mama" what remains? In my case, it's loneliness.

With the hectic noise of daily life it's been all too easy to drown out the truth, but somewhere between leaving my job, moving away from friends and family and a series of seemingly endless sleepless nights I've found myself isolated from pretty much everyone and everything I once knew. I haven't had the time or the inclination to make new friends (not the easiest task when you're in your mid-30s and one of the only "Career Women" on the block) and my husband and I have forgotten what it's like to talk about anything other than the kids. As difficult as it is to constantly be Mom, right now it's even harder to be Mona, and that's not healthy. So as my children slowly develop their independence, I'll have to find time to work on my own. No one ever said growing up was easy.

The Closet Monster

"There's a monster in my closet!" My poor parents probably heard that come out of my childhood mouth a million times, most often between the hours of 10pm and 6am. That's when shifty shadows and creepy noises seemed to radiate from that most frightful corner of the room, the hours when that flimsy door seemed to offer little protection between me and the creature that surely lurked within. Fortunately, my son shows no signs of having inherited my closet-o-phobia; it's actually one of his favorite places to hide (particularly when it's time to get dressed, take a bath, go downstairs, or do basically anything aside from play). But unfortunately, I'm yet to outgrow my own fears. In fact, at age 36 I've discovered a whole new monster in my closet, a terrifying beast that taunts me not just at night, but round the clock. It's a monster called "Identity Crisis."

It's not hard to spot my monster. A quick peek inside my closet and you'll find an entire rack of dry clean only tailored suits, dozens of crisp blazers, 16 pairs of brightly colored running shorts and one lonely, ill-fitting, slightly frumpy pair of blue jeans. Sure, there are a few knit shirts, some half-hearted attempts at khaki, but overall the mood does not exactly scream "Casual Friday," much less "stay at home mom." And neither do I.

Even as a child, I didn't really "do" casual. I guess you can blame it on my mom, an Egyptian immigrant and university professor with one elegant shoe firmly planted in the Old World. She believed strongly that little girls should look the part and provided a full wardrobe of frilly dresses, skirts in appropriate lengths, matching hair bows and barrettes. I don't think she's ever owned anything denim and certainly did not provide any for her little girl. Today I no longer wear pigtails or knee socks, but I have to admit my mother's approach to getting dressed is one I haven't completely thrown in the wash.

I also inherited her Type A personality, and started working full-time before graduating from Northwestern at age 20. My first "real" job was at Chicago's O'Hare Airport working as a customer service representative for Air France, and I'll never forget the feeling of leaving my college sweatshirt behind, and slipping into a pair of high heeled shoes, a straight black skirt and a freshly pressed white shirt. Strange as it may sound, I had found my comfort zone. The professional world was where I belonged, both in dress and in mind. And it's where I've happily spent the better part of the past two decades... until now.

With my baby girl just four weeks old it's not surprising those suits don't fit right now, but that's not what really worries me. Assuming I do eventually step away from the ice cream carton, I'm relatively certain my waistline will one day make a reappearance (Ben, Jerry and I have a really good thing going, and I'm not quite ready to call things off). But will they ever fit my life again? Will my life ever fit them? After my first child was born there was no question- I knew I would return to work and I did just that, 12 weeks later. But now with two it's a much harder decision. Between the cost of daycare, the struggle of getting two kids out of the house, the double guilt of leaving them all day, and the decidedly un-family-friendly career I chose, I can feel my former life slipping farther and farther away. As I sit here with unwashed hair and a t-shirt that apparently double as a burp cloth I find it hard to even remember the stylish news reporter with TV-ready makeup who once occupied this space. Is she gone forever, or just on hiatus? It's not a question I can answer right now, and until I can I think it's time to try and push the monster onto a back shelf and do some shopping. Identity Crisis is bad enough- I don't need to add Fashion Disaster to my closet as well.

Rest

"Rest up now while you still can!" This is one of the most common pieces of advice (sometimes solicited, sometimes not) I hear now that I am 9 months pregnant with baby #2. Although "So WHEN are you due?" (translation: "You are HUGE!") is a close second. It's such a simple and seemingly obvious recommendation, but for some reason it just isn't working for me.

Here's a typical night: Heave exhausted body into bed at 10pm, read until eyelids begin to droop. Just when I'm sure sleep is inevitable, turn out the light and spend 5 minutes arranging intricate combinations of pillows to counterbalance giant protruding belly, aching back, numb legs, and sore hips. Endure 10-15 minutes of prenatal dance party as baby rebels against the mere thought of sleep. Just when everything (and everyone) has calmed down and Mr. Sandman has been cleared for landing, that all too familiar feeling strikes: Bathroom time. 5 more minutes to disconnect from the pillow network, summon the strength to lift gigantic belly off the bed and trod off to the toilet, with sincere apologies to Thomas the Tank Engine for stepping on his head. Lather, rinse, and repeat the whole episode approximately 5 times throughout the night. And don't forget to throw in a few rounds of raging heartburn, a toddler who still occasionally cries out in the middle of the night, and a snoring cat and this is what it's like to "Rest up" these days!

I actually find myself looking forward to the sorts of sleepless nights that come with baby's arrival. Yes, I remember full well what those middle of the night nursing sessions are like, the seemingly endless diaper changes and the bouts of colic that only surface when the clock strikes midnight. But in my experience, that sleep deprivation served a purpose, whereas my current insomnia only serves to add baggage to my undereye suitcases and frustration to my mind. I find myself dreading bedtime and praying for the sun to rise. So while I greatly appreciate the advice, I'm going to hope that better rest is still to come... the kind that only comes when you finally get to hold that sweet child in your arms and truly understand what all the ruckus has been for. Then we'll start stocking up on rest in preparation for the teenage years.

The Alarm Clock

6:42am.

That's the earliest I allow myself to get out of bed in the morning these days, though I'm often up far before that.  Why 6:42?  6:30 seems too early for a non-working person, and 7am feels like the middle of the day in my world, so it's a compromise.

It's only been a little over one week since I left my job, and my body refuses to adjust.  Normally (if you could call the life of a working mom "normal") my morning routine was clearly defined:  up before dawn, check email, read the papers, scan the news, squeeze in a workout, prep dinner for the family, get dressed and ready, get Noah dressed and ready, and out the door by 8am.  Whew!  Now, I lie in bed, stare at the alarm clock waiting for it to hit 6:42.  

Don't get me wrong, there's plenty I could and should be doing with my time (aside from watching digital numbers advance).  Baby #2 is due any day and I've yet to wash a single onesie or put clean sheets on the crib.  And everyone tells me I should be resting... because Lord knows that's a word that will soon be removed from my vocabulary.  But right now I feel like I'm mourning the loss of a different word... "job"... and the identity attached to it.  

When I was working I longed to be home with my sweet baby boy.  I came home every night covered from head to toe in a thick coat of Mommy Guilt.  What major (or minor) milestone in his precious life had I missed while chasing down the story of the day?  Would he grow up feeling abandoned and neglected by his mom who spent half the day away?  Now that I'm home I find myself craving the hectic pace of the newsroom, the structured chaos of working up against daily deadlines,  the camaraderie of the team.  I know I'll never regret taking time off to be with my children, but there's another side of me that feels incomplete, and I feel guilty even admitting to that (darn that Mommy Guilt again!).  So where is the balance?  I'll start looking for it again bright and early tomorrow morning.... maybe I'll live on the edge and stay in bed until 6:43.