Saturday, May 12, 2012

A day for me? Seriously?

And not for her? WTF? 

I've never been one for labels for myself. Or, actually, I've never been one for labels that I haven't chosen for myself.

As long as I can remember I've 'reserved the right'. That's right, just reserved whatever there was to reserve as far as anything to do with my identity goes, and told everyone else telling me what to be or do to go screw themselves.

I'm easy and uncomplicated like that, you see. 



'Mother' as a label I chose. After nine years of marriage - during which I'd roll my eyes when anyone called me 'wife', and instead chose to describe myself as a 'trophy wife past her prime' (Ironically, I think. I reserve the right to be hipster-ish without anyone daring to call me a hipster. !) - I chose to become a mother to Babe. A mother to a child with Down syndrome, but really just Mother to Babe

She was in my belly. Kicking at several different organs.


Mother in Finnish, Danish and Spanish.

Those are the three the Babe's currently attempting to master. For those of you wondering, the process is at AAUUUYYYIIINNNGGG+raspberry (loudly and followed by a little gagging sound) at the moment. Scientifically speaking of course. 

You'd think that after being on semi-permanent vacation/ married/ doing charity/ shoe-shopping in a maniacal fashion/ 'studying'/ reading/ teaching/ drinking far too much wine/ pretending to be a photographer/ being the foreigner for nine whole years, I'd had more grasp on what parenthood actually required and what it would really be like to be someone's mother. 

But no.

I seem to be bit of an expert when it comes to Down syndrome and parenting a child with Down syndrome (okay. Not an expert per se, but at least I know something), but plain 'parenting a little being'....

No fucking idea.  

But almost exactly seven months down the path lined with dirty diapers and Dr. Brown bottles, the Babe's still alive (high five folks, who would have thunk it?), joyfully kicking at my c-section scar (the feeling's just returning to it) whenever I pick her up, smiling at me when I sing her preferred lullaby - Mercedes Benz by Janis Joplin - to her, taking baths with the kind of gusto that leads me to believe that she thinks I might never give her a bath ever again, munching on mashed avocado as if she knew the first time I ever tasted one (and avos are on my 'I'd survive on these five foods for years in a zombie - werewolf apocalypse' list) was when I was 19 years old, smelling all cutesy and new all the time, and just generally being all happy and content.

Even with me for a mother.  

Still, I'd like it to be publicly considered that I no longer have a high-maintenance multicolored mohawk, but an easy to do ponytail friendly do instead.

That has got to count. Like a lot. 

I think I deserve breakfast in bed. You know, for no one dying before their time and child-friendly hair. 

Just saying.

Mothers rock. Word.


  1. Enjoy your first mother's day! Hope breakfast in bed wasn't avocado. Those stains are the mutha of all fookers to get out. Well, except from banana.

  2. Nobody has any idea because the minute they think they have a handle on being a parent, the child goes and changes. 14 years down the line, I still have no idea. And my mum would say the same thing 36 years on.

    Oh, and the ones that say they do, are lying. Or deluded. Or on something. Lucky bastards.


The Viking came home from a business trip packing a pink castle, a whole heap of princess and prince dollies and a carriage pulled by a unicorn. Life's good until someone swallows a crown or a glass slipper. I won't ever answer your comment, but I'll sure appreciate it while I'm sifting through shit looking for that crown. Yah.