The last of the Isis family’s Thanksgiving house guests have departed for their home states and Little Isis and I are sitting peacefully at the kitchen table, having tea and doing homework while his sister naps. We decided this year that we were going to try to have our most hilarious Thanksgiving to date. We started with mimosas, spent the day playing and puttering in the kitchen, ate until we wanted to pop, and watched ten hours of monster movies. All in all, I would call it a success. Late last night, after the alcohol stores had been replenished by one of our guests, I invented a new drink for him. I call it the “Happy Thanksgiving.” This monstrosity was inspired by the fact that he requested a martini after braving the subfreezing temperatures to restock our liquor supplies. He returned, only to request a martini and learn that I had no vermouth.
It contains gin, which I don’t drink because it makes me mean, rosemary infused simple syrup, and is garnished with a couple random leftover cranberries and a chunk of white meat. He drank it like a champ and claims it was not disgusting, but I suspect he was only being polite.
Also invited to Thanksgiving was my dear friend and partner in crime, @I_is_for_Indian. At about 11am on Thanksgiving Day I received a call from my children’s Auntie Indian telling us that her arrival would be delayed because “[our friend] is in labor and it’s my job to get the placenta and then deliver it to the lady that will make it into pills. And she’s vegan. Can you be a vegan and a cannibal at the same time?”
Then this morning my other friend, who is also a new mom, posted a link to this article on Facebook: The Hardest Part of Being a New Mom is Not Knowing What You’re Doing. Thinking about these two women and their angst over caring for their babies just right makes me think back to the time when my children were infants and how damned easy it was in comparison.
Granted, I won’t deny any mother of an infant or toddler her right to commiserate over sleepless nights and spit up and toilet training but, in retrospect, having an infant was the easy part. I may have stressed over some trivialities, but babies aren’t making memories. Mistakes that you make don’t require you to add money to the account for their future therapy bills. You feed them, you change them, they sleep. Repeat. Sometimes I can’t roll my eyes hard enough at the perfection we want to strive to achieve.
I realize now that I am reaching the part where I *really* don’t know what I’m doing. Over Thanksgiving, Little Isis heard some of our guests discussing the shooting in Ferguson and asked me why a policeman had shot a boy and why a fake professor had lied about the boy and how would he know if I am a fake professor. I read in a lot of these mommy blog posts about how hard it is when your baby can’t communicate what’s wrong, but sometimes it’s harder when they can. Today, I tried my best to reassure him that getting a 98% on a test still meant he did a good job and that I wasn’t disappointed in him. I told him that all that mattered to me was that he did his best and found things that he enjoyed, but he can be good at k3rning himself. He also had some questions about sex and how many times one must have sex in order to have a baby. Their little problems get more nuanced as they get older and their ability to understand how fucked up the world is improves exponentially. Sometimes I look at him and know that there’s some amount of bullshittery swirling around inside of his head that is going to bubble up to the surface when it is good and ready. All you can do is sit and wait. I hear teenagers are infinitely harder..
As I finish typing this, Little Isis is sharing his future parenting philosophies. He’s telling me that his goal is to be a calm parent who tells his children a lot how much he loves them. I am apparently also going to live with him in a room that is right next to his children’s room with a door so that they can visit me. That makes me happy and makes me think that something must be going right. Except for the part where he told me that “I will also have some medics check on you every day to make sure you’re alive because you’ll be very old and when you die I’ll give you a humongous funeral.” That part’s kind of screwed up.
The one thing I know for sure is how very thankful I am for these two little wackaloons.