Mommies Paradise

Mr. Daddy says that I have strange dreams, or that I am just strange (either way…). He doesn’t ever have dreams that he remembers, so that explains that.

Whenever I have a dream about That Baby, it seems so absolutely real. Real in the way that oceans are real and fire is real and your tongue stuck to a flag-pole in the snow is real. When I was pregnant I would have these crazy dreams that I misplaced the baby. Or that I gave it to someone to hold and then I drove away in my 1960’s VW Van (not sure why the van). Once I dreamed that I gave birth to the baby and then just misplaced him. And I woke up thinking OH NO!, I am not fit to be a parent… I lost the baby immediately after giving birth! After I had That Baby, I dreamt that I took him to the grocery store and someone kidnapped him (most horrifying) and of course as dreams go, either I wasn’t able to notify anyone or if I did they couldn’t help or see me. And my mother just kept looking at me (in the dream) and shaking her head as if to say “See, I told you to keep an eye on that baby. Hmph.” *sigh*

Recently I had a dream that I took That Baby with me to pick up an order of adult toys to fill orders for the website, and then I left the baby at the distributors offices. I just left him there, in an office surrounded by dildos and vibrators and people who sell those things in bulk. Don’t get me wrong, these are really great people in real life, and apparently dream life too. During the dream, I kept thinking that I should really go back and get him but that I really needed a nap first. Also, I kept calling my mom and saying things like “How is That Baby? Are you two having a good time together?” like I was trying to hide the fact that I had left him with strangers and was somehow going to put the blame on HER if something happened to him. (Yeah, no baggage here kids!) I did go and get him and I acted like “Oh my god! Did I leave him here???” The craziest part is that in the dream, I spent so much time worrying, fretting and covering up my horrifying judgement that I never even got to take the damn nap!

The following day I kept my son close, like a long lost love letter, and eyed suspiciously anyone who even glanced in his general direction. With the promise of some serious scrapping if they should come any closer.

Rest assured, I did get up that morning and fly to his room. I showered him with hugs and kisses and he giggled and giggled and layed his perfect apple head in my neck and made kissing noises back at me because at 14 months he knows that hugs and kisses are the greatest thing in town! Aren’t they?

Prior to getting pregnant, I was an actor. An aspiring working actor. Whether or not I was near success or not is barely important since it is so subjective. I felt like I was on the verge of something big, building up steam, gaining momentum, “this” close to… to… getting paid! Yeah. I mean really Paid!

Then my monthly visitor skipped my uterus entirely and went to some other uterus that belonged to some responsible woman down the road, who could count. Bitch! And suddenly there I was, looking at my scrambled eggs and thinking “Why do these taste like little pieces of buttered rubber?” SURPRISE! You win a brand new fetus! And there it was. And there we were. And that was it. Sure, we had choices but we chose That Baby. As usual, I imagined great things… in spite of pregnancy! I imagined continuing to run/jog into my 29th week of gestation - I read on a website somewhere that some insane monster of a woman did that- I imagined going on auditions and even *gasp* getting into a new play immediately which would be over at my third month into this little adventure, I imagined. I imagined. I imagined. I went into dry heaves in the bathroom at work. I went into dry heaves in my car, on the freeway on the way to my first round of commercial auditions while pregnant. And there it was. And there I was. And that was it.

I had “morning” sickness for six months. (”Morning” is a relative term. My “morning” sickness started at 11:00 a.m and went into the night.) When it did ease up slightly in the third month I began to look slightly pregnant and didn’t fit into my clothes. I had to let my agent know that I was starting to LOOK pregnant so that he could tell casting directors when he submitted me for work. I didn’t hear from him again until my last month of pregnancy, when I was on bed rest. The irony with this casting silence is that when I was called into auditions prior to being pregnant, I was always asked to go as the ‘young mother.’ Now that I actually was becoming a young mother, pregnant and all, no one wanted to use me. And I would become enraged when I would see a “pregnant” woman on a commercial and she would clearly have a pillow shoved under her shirt to give the “impression” of pregnancy!

Of course, the style mags will tell you, “It is hip to be pregnant!” Eeeee! “All the big stars are taking on the role of a life-time — motherhood!” Eeeee! “Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you can’t be stylish!” EEEEEEE! Having babies is the in thing with the people in-the-know. Hm. I was under the impression that people had been having babies for years. At least for the last … uh, uhhhh… well… FOREVER! Apparently, it wasn’t cool until just recently. And apparently not cool enough because I still didn’t get any calls.

I imagined that after That Baby arrived, I would be up and at ‘em by the time he was six weeks old. I imagined the same body from before, same hair from before, same sunny disposition as before, same… I imagined. Sarah Jessica Parker was posing NUDE, for Christ’s sake, six weeks after she gave birth! AHHHH. Who are these people???? I was not. Posing nude that is, for ANYONE!

I called my agent about a year ago and told him I was ready to get back out there! I was not however the same body, the same hair or the same sunny disposition. Just recently things have started to pick up as far as audition quota is concerned. It has taken a year to get back out there — and I am nowhere near where I was before.

And now I take a partner to auditions. That Baby. I remember several years ago I was at an audition when a woman showed up for her audition, with her baby. A much younger baby than mine. And she had to leave it with the casting assistant while she was in the studio. The assistant didn’t seem to mind, but I remember thinking, “Oh NO. What is this girl doing?! Who would bring their baby to an audition? Hmph! I would never do that!” Funny that. Who indeed. I want to cry when I think of that girl now. I want to cry from guilt for thinking such absolutely ignorant and intolerant thoughts. I want to cry because it is so hard in this industry to have a family at all. I want to cry because whenever I go into an audition and I have left That Baby under the eyes of the casting assistant and other strangers, I am afraid. And when I sit in the waiting rooms in every casting office in town with That Baby in tow, I see other women (presumably) without children, looking at us and thinking those very same things.

Ultimately, I guess I tell this story because I find it frustrating. The business that I love, the craft that I would wrench my heart out for, the medium used specifically to tell stories of the human condition, is specifically resistant to the most human of conditions. Pregnancy or childbirth. And with that, one of the essential aspects of the woman’s condition.

Ricky: You can’t be in this show or any other show.
Lucy: Give me one good reason.
Ricky: I’ll give you one good reason. You’re a mother.

I have discovered that when people think about being a parent, they come up with a mental list of things they will never do or say when raising their kids. When people actually have a child this list tends to shorten, and shorten, and… shorten until the only items on the list include #27 - Don’t feed That Baby hot dogs and #1 - Don’t be abusive (really kind of an item that shouldn’t need to be listed but is listed just to keep accountability). Bad things on my list included toaster waffles, frozen chicken strips, and instant oatmeal. But I gave in! I couldn’t help myself! I am lazy, I am an incompetent mother - crucify me! Maybe I am just too tired to make my own waffles and chicken strips! I don’t have the patience to make oatmeal. Maybe I don’t know how! But, but… haven’t other children had these things to eat? Did they survive? Are they in weight loss counseling centers learning how to change their life and eat right for a change? That Baby seems to be faring alright even with the toaster waffles and frozen chicken strips. But, maybe that is why he stinks so much… Hmmmm.

If I only had me to answer to, that would be fine. But parents never only have themselves to answer to. There are always so many other people who want to get involved. People who didn’t actually waddle around for nine agonizing and uncomfortable months to finally give birth to That Baby. People who get to leave after they have spent “quality” time with That Baby, and go home to peace and quiet and just possibly, other adults.

I was raised the daughter of hippies. We NEVER ate chicken strips and toaster waffles didn’t exist. It wouldn’t have mattered since toasters require electricity to work and apparently hippies can’t be bothered with electricity, or running water. We ate rice cakes, tofu and veggie tacos. Yummy.

Now, enter That Baby’s grandmother (my ex-hippy mother)…. who joined me at the grocery store recently. As I stocked up on boxes of toaster waffles with blueberries (blueberries are good for you, right?) I glanced at my mother who looked like her upper lip smelled.

Me: What?
Mom: What What?
Me: Why do you look like something smells funny?
Mom: I just never fed you that stuff?
Me: (really asking for it now) What stuff?
Mom: That fake food! (Hmph!)

FAKE FOOD? What the hell is “Fake Food?” This food exists! I can even touch it. What the HELL!!!? Don’t help lady! Grrrrr!

“…That baby…” as in “Why won’t That baby sleep?” or “Why does That baby stink to high heaven?” or “Is That baby going to take a nap?” or “Does that baby stink… again?” or “When is that baby going to sleep?” You must see a pattern.

Maybe it is because That Baby is my first baby but I spend a lot of time wondering when That Baby’s mother is going to come over and change That Baby’s really stinky, gooey diaper and then get That Baby to go to sleep. Ultimately, That mother never shows up. Then I deliriously recall nine months of carrying around that alien in my uterus and the “glorious” delivery of said alien, and I am left holding the bag, or the toxic diaper as it were, eyes watering and drooping from fumes and fatigue.

So we continue to refer to the baby as That Baby since to us, he is the ONLY Baby. Mr. Daddy says we shouldn’t call him That Baby in front of his family. They might not understand and look at us funny. I say they already don’t understand and already look at me funny so what’s the difference?

In the morning, when the sun is coming in the window just right and shining on the crib which holds That Baby, and he looks at me with those huge blue eyes and the curious blonde curls surround his face like a halo… well, it is suddenly okay that his diaper is holding some toxic fumed excretion that I will need tongs and a hose to remedy.