Delusions of Control

Okay, maybe I have some issues.

Like, I used to be a bit of a control freak.

This is something one can only identify in hindsight of course. Ground zero isn't exactly the most objective vantage. But, for example, I liked having NOTHING visible in my car to distinguish it from factory-fresh. I liked having exactly two shampoos and two soaps to choose from in the shower. In coordinating containers, if possible. I folded my underwear.  I thought this was normal. And in truth, take kids out of the equation, and it still falls within acceptable bounds.

It wasn't until I had children that I realized how much I liked a starched environment. Mostly because any semblance of that type of control had summarily vanished with my waistline.

It's not just me. Women clue into this soon after giving birth - usually sometime during the first 200 straight waking hours, and generally coinciding with the departure of the last of the stream of baby-admirers. We're left alone with the little dictator, someone else's flabby body, none of our working friends, and a husband who has turned into a frightened stranger.

Usually, we push it back into the proverbial backburner that is our brain. Or chalk it up to hallucinations.

The first year I existed in "survival mode." Not just in catering to the whims of a remarkably unreasonable (but very cute) little boss, but also breaking down and rebuilding all my expectations into convenient family-oriented  nutritionally correct airtight zip-lock labeled and alphabetized packets. You know - so I could find them easily.

Luckily, I got to sort through these existential questions while basking in the smitten glow of new motherhood. On the other hand, I also had to do it on about seven minutes' sleep per night, which is probably why it took me so darn long.

My goal: To (somehow) gracefully transition from a formerly organized, thinking, results-oriented, panty-hose clad adult, to the slovenly maternal slave wench I am today. And to find the "fun" in there somewhere. Because it's FUN, darn it.

Well it is kind of fun. Except for the vomit.

My husband experienced this nine million volt shock in due course. I'm sure he's not the first man on Earth to think he can solve the problems of a sobbing new mother with some patent remark such as "You're a WOMAN. You should know these things."

Correction. I'm sure he's not the first one to realize that NOTHING a new Dad says can turn out well. Nothing.

"Honey, can I help?"
DO YOU HAVE BOOBS? NO! GET OUT. AND DON"T YOU DARE FALL ASLEEP!

"You look wonderful. You're such a great mother!"
I'M TIRED AND I SMELL LIKE SOUR MILK AND YOU'RE A BIG FAT LIAR!

"Have you seen my car keys?"
OH SURE - TAKE A NICE QUIET DRIVE. YOU INSENSITIVE CLOD!

I think that delusions of control plague fathers just as much, if not more than moms. We at least have, to put things in proper perspective, the head start of loss of lifestyle and control that ARE the pregnancy and birthing processes. My husband was clearly overwhelmed by this new person who increased our home population by 50% in a single instant. He was pretty much used to having things the way he liked them, or at least being able to discuss it.

When a kid shows up, all bets are off. You want to sleep? Tough. No discussion. You want to enjoy a nice conversation with your spouse, possibly over a good hot meal? You lose!

Life as a gong show contestant. Men are not used to this.

I was one of the lucky ones. I went into motherhood with the conviction that it was the right time for me. My children were planned, wanted, and welcomed. But no one can be truly prepared for the changes that motherhood brings. The loss of control. The physical exhaustion. The crummy hours.

I thought the transition would happen instantaneously, like the gush of love I practically drowned in the first time I heard my baby cry.

No, I had to work on it a while. A long while. In fact, I may have actually taken a few erroneous turns at Albuquerque.

But after all, it's worth it. And it's good practice for the ultimate loss of control: letting them go.

So who needs coordinating shampoo bottles anyway? And what's a little happy meal shrapnel in the car - as long as you can still find the gear shift?

And as for the remote control. I've given up on that, too.