bitching mama

             I like to vent, air out those things that bug me. After that, I’m good. At least for a while. I used to bitch a lot about my academic position: the long work hours, the petty politics during departmental meetings, committee meetings, faculty meetings (and oh, there were more meetings). The students who didn’t do the work, or the students who did do their work, but who were unwilling to open their minds. Most of all, I bitched about the lack of time for my own research and writing; I was supposed to have a third for each: teaching, scholarship, and administrative work. Instead, I put in 150% on teaching, at least 75% on administrative work, leaving no time for what I in the end was dying to do, even with 70 work hours per week.

            I bitch a lot now too that I’m a mama slash freelance writer, working non-stop from at home or the library. But unlike when I bitched about my academic job, I now get tons of unsolicited advice and unwelcome critical questions and glances. You’re still breastfeeding? You’re still sleeping with your child? You spend an entire hour putting her down for sleep at night, and also often for her nap? You don’t let her cry? You haven’t vaccinated her? You haven’t had a date yet? (Our daughter was almost a year and a half by the time we had our first and so far only real evening date, when my husband’s mom came out to visit for a week). I could go on and on.

            The general gist is that people seem to think we give too much, sacrifice ourselves too much, and all for our baby. At the same time, however, they comment on how safe and content our daughter strikes them to be, so happy and interested in others. I like to think our parenting style has something to do with that. Sure, we give tons. Yet we could give more. I can still and do often feel guilty. Especially when I feel annoyed and irritated by the time it takes me to calm her down for nap and bedtime (because she still needs me for that. But then on the other hand, that’s precious bonding time for the two of us). All the nighttime parenting, which reads as follows: her sucking and biting on my boob, frustrated when it doesn’t completely soothe the teething pain, climbing and punching and squeezing my body, me not able to go to the bathroom, for if I leave the bed, she’ll cry. Or, I get out of bed and go pee with her in my lap, as I pee, and wipe myself. This all is interspersed, of course, with very dear hugs, kisses, strokes and cuddling. There are even times when she does play with my hair quite tenderly, instead of pulling so hard I think I’ll get another bold spot.

And that’s when I bitch (when I think I’ll go bald, I mean, or at least grey). But it doesn’t mean I want anything differently. As opposed to when I bitched about my academic position. That job I was really unhappy with. This job I love to death. Even when I bitch the most about it.

            This seems a difficult thing to get for many. And I just can’t quite get why. Because it seems to be something we all do: bitch and vent before we go on, without changing or necessarily wanting to change the way we do things.

            I just think it’s kind of interesting. To observe. That’s all.