How to Make a Meatpie and Other Myths for a Dedicated Mom.
Making meat for your baby meat is not an easy task – you need love, patience, and all the pots you have. However, it is a natural source of satisfaction and happiness.
First things first, broil is a piece of meat that may have several Italian shoes. Then collect about 60 varieties of fresh vegetables and proceed to peel, remove, cut, and roast. Next, beat the mashed potatoes from the beginning. Because your baby is about to start licking, get Cuisinart (which you may not have used yet), remove lost hair, and remove dead bugs from their container: try to find a blade without the risk of amputation. Throw all the ingredients you have prepared on its hungry stomach and press PULSE. And when it’s all over and it’s fun, feel the shock of this “meaty love” milkshake you made for your son.
When the afternoon comes and you knock, feed your son some tablespoons of this tender affection in a downtown restaurant while ignoring the view of people who have no newborn. Try not to be surprised if your toddler shuts down the meat milkshake with speed and precision – leaving you picking up pieces of meat on your board in the bathroom. How did it get there on earth? You will wonder and be heard. And why does it still look the same way when it comes in? Here again, try not to express your happiness in the shocking faces of childless people, as, unlike the carriers of the Carrie film, they are sprayed with creamy, beefy puke.
The meat pie is just one example of what happens when I don’t work. The slave crawls, like a ghost, into his mother’s body. And when I work, the mother-in-law raises her eyebrows, hands over her hips, and moves the trigger. Working and being a mother is a destructive dance. The question is how can I know both?
My job as a trade director can make me one of the lucky few, I think. When I work, I work hard. But there are days when Owen spends most of his time sleeping. My job takes a month and this is wonderful torture. When I am not working, I am at home and reconnecting as a lost couple; we kissed passionately forcing my husband to say, “That looks strange.”
The transition between mother and worker is not without its challenges.
Here’s what happens when I’m WORKING:
About six months ago, I took Owen to a music class. I was in the middle of an important job but skipped a precious hour that was stolen. We were sitting in a circle, in an echo-y, a blonde dance studio (with my shy and sticky son), while another mom and son duo entered. Owen rolled his eyes and said, “Mama?”
This woman looked just like me — dark hair, big eyes, a red jersey like mine. With a smile. They insulted other mothers.
Then Owen did something! He stood up, approached her, and shouted, “Mother!” Her small voice suddenly became loud, coming out of the hall. Laughing a little, a little embarrassed, I pulled her by the arm – “No sweetie, I’m your Mom.” She shook her head. He pointed at her. “Mom!” He climbed on his lap and buried his head in his chest, his pillow, in his full chest — my chest had long since melted into dripping candles. He was a better version for me, soft, round; available. The other mother’s son was busy blowing air in the back of the room, saying it was okay and hugging my son.
It was a lonely journey back to my orange mat on the floor. Singing the theme song “Lone Ranger” with the band, Acappella is also impossible if your heart is broken. She cried when I took her out at the end of class.
That night, I called my pediatrician, called Google “rebirth,” and cried in the shower.
One day, Owen and I walked into Washington Square Park, where we came upon a film crew. I met Reggie, a camera assistant in my group.
“Shooting what?” I asked him.
“Puma’s sale,” he said.
“Hmmm. Puma. I once did Puma work. ” I tried to be inaudible, god forbid, I was jealous.
After saying goodbye, I could not help but think of the wonderful work I could do for Puma. People said it was Puma’s best advertisement. So, was it natural for me to do all the Puma work well? I mean, Puma Corporation, how could they do work in my yard without me? With one eye on my son and one across the park from the film crew, I struggled to relax and ignore the green pain in my stomach.
Then a little Afro boy came to the park with Thomas the Train and my son played soccer. My son wants to train as much as I can for jobs. And Tiny Afro was not shared. Owen lifted himself and threw himself on the floor repeatedly as if he were jumping on the bed. He hit his head on a rock. They shouted, “Thomas! My Thomas!” and he did the same thing that two-year-olds do.
And as he blinked, with a fever running down his neck, I suddenly threw myself down and cried out, “MY WORK, MINE! My-oh-mine-oh-MY! ” I have trodden the winepress alone; I hit the head on a rock.
And I shouted. I screamed at all the jobs I was going to do and all the jobs I wasn’t going to do. I shouted and looked at my baby’s face when the babysitter appeared. I yelled at my mother’s face, the way she raised her eyebrows when I told her I had won another job. I yelled at the unscrupulous producers who asked me during the break, “Will you go … pump?” I screamed for very few hours a day. I cried out for guilt and the desire for prominence, love, and death. I screamed and yelled and slapped. Then there was silence.
There is something to be said about anger. My son and I looked at each other, lying on the pavement near the slide, glittering stones in the sun. We both sniffed, rubbed our eyes in frustration, and realized that we probably needed snacks and hugs.
We got up slowly and went to each other. I adjusted my red raincoat. I helped him get in his cart. I wiped both noses. And as we passed by the surprised parents and mothers, passing the Puma advertising center and staff, it occurred to me that nothing was perfect and there would be none.
My son and I went home and had lunch. Since I was unemployed and had an entire afternoon in front of us, I decided to make a meat pie, sort of. For this, we’ve done it together, with the outpouring of hot dogs and string cheese, and the remaining spaghetti.
It might be the most fun thing right now.
For more adorable insight into “mom life”, read our blog.
Photo: Matthew Hranek
POSTED IN: TALK · TAGGED: ESSAY, FIGURING IT OUT, MEAT PIE