There are an insurmountable number of horrors that no one tells you about when you become a mother. For me, those ACK!! experiences seem to all center around my body.
WARNING: if there are guys or women who have yet to give birth reading this, turn back now. There are confessions and musings forthcoming that will scar your psyche. Check back soon for "The Viking's Adventures in Preschool."
The crying, the whining, the sleeplessness, the expense... I was ready for it all and none of it changed my life in a major way. I've changed 760 million diapers and wiped body fluids off of just about every surface in the tri-state area. Never missed a step... kept right on, keepin' on. However... the day I learned what an episiotomy was, and that hemorrhoids never actually go away (they just shrink), I was literally struck dumb. Slack-jawed and blinking, I was reviled and crushed by the realization that my child was basically shredding me from the inside out. Then there was this gem:
It is the part of my first labor and delivery that lives most vividly in my memory - the minute that the Tornado sucked in his first breath, and I felt his warm and slimy body miraculously, tangibly, amazingly MINE, the moment was shattered as Dr. Sprong said to me from between my knees, "I'm going to be a while here. You tore right down to the hemorrhoid." If anyone has said anything to me before or since that was as devastating or horrifying, I can't friggin remember it. The next moment, I saw a huge sweeping arm gesture as Dr. Betsy Ross began to embroider my lady bits. Seven stitches...
Coming up on 36 years old with my baby-bearing days blessedly behind me, I can tell you poppets, that I haven't felt this good about my clothed body in 15 years. Hours at the gym and a painful break-up with Sara Lee have resulted in a depth of self-love I didn't know was possible. After spending a lifetime as a chubby gal and then growing two babies, take it from me that losing 50 pounds and wearing size 10/12 looks great any which way but naked... I'll spare you the sob-story about my pitiful ta-tas and skip right to my gut. It never occurred to me that losing weight would exacerbate the puckered, wrinkly appearance of the stretch marks that slash my midsection. Sit-ups and jump switches and ellipticals be damned... NOTHING is going to fix my tore-up tummy. Ever. I thought I'd started to come to terms with it, to appreciate that like all things that come with age, this was but another badge of honor - earned with the blood, sweat and tears of motherhood.
Well, I've come to learn that no one can set fire to a firm conviction or a positive spin on a situation like my kids... A few days ago, The Viking waltzes into the bathroom as I'm buttoning my pants and wonders, "How come your belly is older than your face?"
I quietly walked past him and breathed slowly in through the nose and out the mouth, into the kitchen where I threw away 3/4 of his Easter candy. I'll blame it on the dog with a clear conscience when he wants to know where his gummy fish are... little shit.
I guess all those precious "little moments of Grace" I've shared in the past are sufficiently tempered with little moments of Gross... as it should be. Nothing's perfect. Reflecting on the Viking's question over the last several days, here's my answer:
My dearest Viking,
At 3 years old you asked me why my "belly was older than my face." You asked me not out of malice, but curiosity and once I exacted what felt like fair retribution for your insensitivity (trashing roughly a pound of gummi worms, Swedish fish and fruit snacks) it was easier to see that clearly. You're forgiven, of course but I reserve the right to embarrass you and otherwise torture you through your childhood and adolescence for the havoc you have wrecked upon my body, as well as my nerves. (There will also be all of the standard curses invoking the Universe to gift you with a child EXACTLY like or worse than yourself.)
My belly looks hell because somewhere along the line I decided I needed to be your mom. I wished and prayed and hoped for your brother and then for you because apparently I'd decided I'd been getting way too much sex and sleep. I guess I just couldn't live one more minute without having a small, surly, wet, sticky, drooly, stinky, heavy, squirmy, snotty bobble-headed mass of flesh to drag around and serve every minute of every day. I thought to myself... "I've had it with movies, long, hot showers, and music sung by people. Bring on the singing dinosaurs and staying in the same shirt for three days because it has the fewest spit up stains. God damn it! I want babies. Who needs friends? I've got too much time on my hands."
My belly looks like a topographical map because I felt like things just wouldn't be worth saying if I didn't have to say them three fucking times. I said to myself, you know who'll need you to say, "Stop running!" 6 times before wiping out and looking stunned about it? -KIDS! We should have TWO!! I can't cough without peeing because I grew two humans with my very own body who used my bladder for a trampoline in utero
My belly looks older than my face because I traded serenity and sex appeal for the incredible experience of feeling little sea monkeys bonking and pushing around inside me, and for the smile that spreads across my face with each peel of delighted laughter that reaches my ears from your precocious mouth. I have no hope of sunlight ever tanning my tummy because I was compelled to birth not one but two of the most precious pains in my arse I'll ever know.
That's why...
xoxo,
Mom
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Here's to Basketball, Boot Camp, and Being Braver Than We Believe...
As I’ve mentioned in other posts, the Big Picture is not a focal point in my life. I almost always miss it. I desperately wanted both of my children but rarely let my musings of what life would be like as a mom go beyond strollers, onesies and finger paints. It amazes me still that each time I get to a new place with The Tornado, I think - how did I not see this coming? How could I have not realized that all the experiences I feel like I just barely survived as a kid would be mine to manage once again but from a far more excruciating standpoint - as the person charged with guiding him through it? Fuckin’ Hell…
My Tornado is a sporty kid, and now I have to figure out who I am in the world of youth sports parenting. My own sports dreams began and faded with Mary Lou Retton the moment I realized what I looked like in a leotard. A hockey game will keep my attention as will highlight films of those 400 pound line backers trucking people, but that’s the extent of my interest in professional sports. Recently, I’ve realized I have no wisdom… no experience to offer my boys in this area and I’m sick about it. I’m the Sassmaster, fer fuck’s sake… every other time in my life that I haven’t known something for sure, I could skim a few paragraphs and bullshit the rest. I can’t bullshit basketball. I can’t even wanna give a shit about basketball most days. I do love to watch the Tornado play, though… at least until recently when my calm, cool cucumber was sent off the court by the ref after getting too physical with the other team and repeated fouls.
Next practice he was a bit snarly during the scrimmage too. As I watched two teammates repeatedly avoid passing him the ball (that almost never makes it from his hands to the net), and listened to them berate him for not covering his man well enough, I noted the sparkle fade from his eye and the crestfallen slump of his shoulders with a walnut sized lump in my throat.
Knowing what my reaction would have been at 8 years old, I’ve been waiting for the moment he tells me he’s all done playing basketball. It still hasn’t come… in fact this is the conversation we had after practice on Monday:
Me: I heard some of the stuff the other guys were saying to you at practice tonight… What was that like for you to hear them get on your case?
Tornado: Meh…no big deal, but they’re kind of jerks. They think they’re the best.
Me: I noticed that too… when you make mistakes on the court or your team doesn’t win, do you feel like you want to keep trying?
T: Sometimes I want to quit but I just keep telling myself “Don’t give up, don’t give up…”
Me: Wow… you know what? When I was a kid, I would have told Nana and Gramp I was never going back to basketball. In fact, I didn’t play softball, soccer or keep dancing because I wasn’t super good right away and I was too frustrated to work at getting better. I quit all the time. It makes me feel so proud that you don’t want to give up because it took me until I was a grown up to realize that it’s worth it to work hard to get better at stuff. You’re pretty great.
T: You mean you messed up at that stuff and then just stopped doing it? Why?
Me: ‘Cause it was hard… and I didn’t have much self-confidence when I was a kid. I thought I wasn’t good enough if I didn’t get it right away.... You know how you said that inside you kept telling yourself “don’t give up?”
T: Yeah…
Me: (sheepishly) when you play games, I say over and over again while I’m watching you, “I love you, don’t give up… I love you, don’t give up…” I say it so much and so loud inside myself that I hope I’m sending it right from my heart to yours. Do you ever feel that? Do you feel a little tingle?
T: I think so (his voice is neither convincing nor disbelieving… doesn’t sound like he thinks I’ve gone bat-shit crazy. Cool!)
I realize at this point that while I can’t advise him when it’s too early to cross the center court line (Hell, if I didn’t have such a good command of the English language, I wouldn’t even know where to look for the center court line…) I can help him avoid my quitter legacy. I can love him through the crappy games, and I can show him that his tenacious heart has reaching affects, so I say:
Me: You know, your Don’t Give Up attitude has inspired me… Remember last week when I went to Boot Camp class* and it was so hard and my whole body hurt all week long?
T: (laughs) You got butt cramps when we were sledding…
Me: Right! And I said to myself - Well I’m never doing that again! But if you aren’t giving up, then neither am I. I’m going back to Boot Camp…
Fast forward to tonight… I am waiting in the hallway for Boot Camp class praying that the Viking has a poop accident before class begins so I don’t actually have to go in there. Everyone heads in and I look back at the window where I can see the Tornado flash me the I Love You sign…
Completely unable to give up at that point, I take a deep breath and go in to have my arse handed to me. Well, tonight I’m still vertical whereas last week, I’m convinced my horrified body induced a migraine after class just so I would have to stop fucking moving… Tonight, I worked hard, but struggled less than last week. In the car, I said to the Tornado, “Well, I did it! I went back to Boot Camp and I didn’t give it up! What do you think?”
His response was: “Hey! It’s kind of like I’m teaching you…”
Yep… Every single day.
My Tornado is a sporty kid, and now I have to figure out who I am in the world of youth sports parenting. My own sports dreams began and faded with Mary Lou Retton the moment I realized what I looked like in a leotard. A hockey game will keep my attention as will highlight films of those 400 pound line backers trucking people, but that’s the extent of my interest in professional sports. Recently, I’ve realized I have no wisdom… no experience to offer my boys in this area and I’m sick about it. I’m the Sassmaster, fer fuck’s sake… every other time in my life that I haven’t known something for sure, I could skim a few paragraphs and bullshit the rest. I can’t bullshit basketball. I can’t even wanna give a shit about basketball most days. I do love to watch the Tornado play, though… at least until recently when my calm, cool cucumber was sent off the court by the ref after getting too physical with the other team and repeated fouls.
Next practice he was a bit snarly during the scrimmage too. As I watched two teammates repeatedly avoid passing him the ball (that almost never makes it from his hands to the net), and listened to them berate him for not covering his man well enough, I noted the sparkle fade from his eye and the crestfallen slump of his shoulders with a walnut sized lump in my throat.
*It’s noteworthy to mention that although I am a person who most often finds great joy in children, I was calculating how much force it would require for an “accidental” hip check to send the rat-faced one sprawling…
Knowing what my reaction would have been at 8 years old, I’ve been waiting for the moment he tells me he’s all done playing basketball. It still hasn’t come… in fact this is the conversation we had after practice on Monday:
Me: I heard some of the stuff the other guys were saying to you at practice tonight… What was that like for you to hear them get on your case?
Tornado: Meh…no big deal, but they’re kind of jerks. They think they’re the best.
Me: I noticed that too… when you make mistakes on the court or your team doesn’t win, do you feel like you want to keep trying?
T: Sometimes I want to quit but I just keep telling myself “Don’t give up, don’t give up…”
Me: Wow… you know what? When I was a kid, I would have told Nana and Gramp I was never going back to basketball. In fact, I didn’t play softball, soccer or keep dancing because I wasn’t super good right away and I was too frustrated to work at getting better. I quit all the time. It makes me feel so proud that you don’t want to give up because it took me until I was a grown up to realize that it’s worth it to work hard to get better at stuff. You’re pretty great.
T: You mean you messed up at that stuff and then just stopped doing it? Why?
Me: ‘Cause it was hard… and I didn’t have much self-confidence when I was a kid. I thought I wasn’t good enough if I didn’t get it right away.... You know how you said that inside you kept telling yourself “don’t give up?”
T: Yeah…
Me: (sheepishly) when you play games, I say over and over again while I’m watching you, “I love you, don’t give up… I love you, don’t give up…” I say it so much and so loud inside myself that I hope I’m sending it right from my heart to yours. Do you ever feel that? Do you feel a little tingle?
T: I think so (his voice is neither convincing nor disbelieving… doesn’t sound like he thinks I’ve gone bat-shit crazy. Cool!)
I realize at this point that while I can’t advise him when it’s too early to cross the center court line (Hell, if I didn’t have such a good command of the English language, I wouldn’t even know where to look for the center court line…) I can help him avoid my quitter legacy. I can love him through the crappy games, and I can show him that his tenacious heart has reaching affects, so I say:
Me: You know, your Don’t Give Up attitude has inspired me… Remember last week when I went to Boot Camp class* and it was so hard and my whole body hurt all week long?
*Boot Camp is an hour long foray into exercise Hell where a smallish, peppy instructor requires you to jump, squat, push-up, and repeat until you can't function past the tremor that wracks your whole body...*
T: (laughs) You got butt cramps when we were sledding…
Me: Right! And I said to myself - Well I’m never doing that again! But if you aren’t giving up, then neither am I. I’m going back to Boot Camp…
Fast forward to tonight… I am waiting in the hallway for Boot Camp class praying that the Viking has a poop accident before class begins so I don’t actually have to go in there. Everyone heads in and I look back at the window where I can see the Tornado flash me the I Love You sign…
Completely unable to give up at that point, I take a deep breath and go in to have my arse handed to me. Well, tonight I’m still vertical whereas last week, I’m convinced my horrified body induced a migraine after class just so I would have to stop fucking moving… Tonight, I worked hard, but struggled less than last week. In the car, I said to the Tornado, “Well, I did it! I went back to Boot Camp and I didn’t give it up! What do you think?”
His response was: “Hey! It’s kind of like I’m teaching you…”
Yep… Every single day.
And there it was… another moment of grace, all shiny and warm and ours :-)
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Road to Hell is Paved in Plaid...
I don't know where this will end up going but I promised myself I'd sit down and write tonight. Christmas is over and the last entry I made here was well before Halloween. I have been temporarily waylaid in my writing endeavors by my Nook and what may or may not be a worrisome obsession with historical romance novels. I also have this strange drive to own up to things I fear being judged about. So sorry, but this is another one of those Confession Posts... You know what I weighed at my heaviest and what size my pants were, if you've been following this so you might as well know - I read smutty romance novels. I've no idea what sort of stigma I've feared when I first started reading my beloved trash novels, but I assume it has to do with the S.E.X. This may end up being a dozen paragraphs aimed at convincing myself there's nothing wrong with me... Hopefully, while I wrestle with my worry for my soul, you'll be mildly entertained.
As I type, I'm looking at the home page of my Nook, and there are more bare chests on the screen than in a Chippendale's calendar. My particular vice is Highlanders. Sword wielding, Scottish rogues swathed in plaid and bent on takin' a feisty lass six ways from Sunday in the Highland heather... I know it's cheesy. I know it's essentially soft core porn. I know it ought to be embarrassing that it's been months since I've read anything with a plot line more diverse than "burly guy with huge schlong meets strong-willed woman and after much difficulty in realizing their feelings through their intense desire to rut at every turn, get married and (usually) have a baby." Part of me knows I should be mortified by my e-book library, but a larger part of me says, "Fuck it. It's not crack. I can quit anytime I want to... Ummmm...Right after I find out if Lachlan will convince Lady Catherine of her true identity before or after giving her a good tumble..."
The good old Catholic guilt left over from endless Sundays of sermons and catechism nags at me a bit and I worry that maybe I'm going to Hell for reading smutty novels in my spare time, but I'm trying to keep in perspective that the only things that have fallen by the wayside in the wake of all the kilted loins and heaving bosoms has been this blog and maaaaayyybe one or two loads of laundry. Perspective is everything - I have questionable taste in literature, at the moment but I've never thrown a bag full of puppies in a river. I'm pretty sure there's still a high likelihood of Pearly Gates in my future.
But then again... just in case my own shame over this guilty pleasure doesn't eat away my insides, Barnes and Noble are happy to finish the job by suggesting titles in my account shop based on previous purchases. So when you go to my Shop Home, it might as well boom, "Hey Dirty Girl! Since you bought all that previous filth, may we suggest The Rough Riders series?" I have standards! It seems trite to point it out but, at least I have not been led so far down a path of iniquity that I've embraced crap like this: ,
What's even stranger than the super specific title, by the way is that it's a series... Other titles include Mated to a Cajun Werewolf and A Cajun Werewolf Christmas. I'm not going to consider my dalliance in trashy novels problematic until I'm trying to figure out how to bury titles like those deep in the internal memory of my Nook...
Further enabling me is my partner in crime. A good friend and fellow Dirty Girl - my Sister in Smut. She also loves the purr of a Scottish burr and alternately scoffs at and delights in ridiculous phrases such as, "tasted deeply of her honeyed center," and "his throbbing member." We GET how cheesy it is... we just don't care. It makes for a good cackle in the hallway when we trade notes about how late we were up reading, or that after 90+ titles we still read things that shock us. Smut is LENDABLE when you have a Nook and we take turns purchasing trash with titles like Seduced By the Highlander and Loved By a Warrior. There are endless text message threads between us, usually sent between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. that look like this:
"ACK!! I just read the word, 'cock!' Whatever happened to 'turgid member' or 'throbbing manhood'??? This is a line I was not ready to cross...."
or
Me: "Bahahahahaha! Just read: "spilled his scalding seed..." response: "Eeeeewww.... I think I need to take a shower now." Me: "heh heh... mission accomplished."
And now that seventeenth century curses are seeping into our everyday vernacular:
"Satan's arse! What a fookin' boring staff meeting today, was it not, lass?"
And even though my partner in crime makes me feel less like a deviant dork, I still feel compelled to guard the contents of my Nook or I would be able to answer questions like "What are you reading?" without panicking and squeaking out lame shit like, "a book..." The fear of judgement also comes from my understanding that the fairytale-princess bullshit spoon-fed to little girls that I so despise is alive and kicking (or fucking, more precisely) in the books I've been unable to put down. I really am a sucker for a sappy love story. Admittedly, the soft-core porn aspect is just icing on the beefcake. Take out all the sex and these books are just a Disney movie waiting to be merchandised. So what's worse, I'm forced to ponder? Someone thinking I'm a sex-starved deviant or someone realizing that I swoon over the corny love stuff?
I have decided to give myself over to this little addiction for the time being and be grateful I'm off the Nutty Bars. It's win-win, really. I'm thinner, healthier, and hornier and The Dad gets the benefit of it all. Thank goodness the Tornado has agreed and (LOVES) to hear me read aloud from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone the last few weeks. At bedtime when I read to the kids, I can feel clean again :-) until such time of course, as I settle onto the couch with my Nook - my Portal of Sin, and I lose myself somewhere in the 1600's between Glencoe and Inveraray to 6 feet+ of sinewy muscle wrapped in tartan, brandishing a claymore with his other hand on his sword. {If you got that joke - Welcome to the club, Dirty Girl}
It's comical and campy and perfectly decadent but I guess that's the definition of a guilty pleasure, right?
I think I'm good for now, but if you see my kids wandering the streets unattended, or you notice that I appear to have left off bathing or brushing my teeth, please confiscate my Nook.
As I type, I'm looking at the home page of my Nook, and there are more bare chests on the screen than in a Chippendale's calendar. My particular vice is Highlanders. Sword wielding, Scottish rogues swathed in plaid and bent on takin' a feisty lass six ways from Sunday in the Highland heather... I know it's cheesy. I know it's essentially soft core porn. I know it ought to be embarrassing that it's been months since I've read anything with a plot line more diverse than "burly guy with huge schlong meets strong-willed woman and after much difficulty in realizing their feelings through their intense desire to rut at every turn, get married and (usually) have a baby." Part of me knows I should be mortified by my e-book library, but a larger part of me says, "Fuck it. It's not crack. I can quit anytime I want to... Ummmm...Right after I find out if Lachlan will convince Lady Catherine of her true identity before or after giving her a good tumble..."
The good old Catholic guilt left over from endless Sundays of sermons and catechism nags at me a bit and I worry that maybe I'm going to Hell for reading smutty novels in my spare time, but I'm trying to keep in perspective that the only things that have fallen by the wayside in the wake of all the kilted loins and heaving bosoms has been this blog and maaaaayyybe one or two loads of laundry. Perspective is everything - I have questionable taste in literature, at the moment but I've never thrown a bag full of puppies in a river. I'm pretty sure there's still a high likelihood of Pearly Gates in my future.
But then again... just in case my own shame over this guilty pleasure doesn't eat away my insides, Barnes and Noble are happy to finish the job by suggesting titles in my account shop based on previous purchases. So when you go to my Shop Home, it might as well boom, "Hey Dirty Girl! Since you bought all that previous filth, may we suggest The Rough Riders series?" I have standards! It seems trite to point it out but, at least I have not been led so far down a path of iniquity that I've embraced crap like this: ,
What's even stranger than the super specific title, by the way is that it's a series... Other titles include Mated to a Cajun Werewolf and A Cajun Werewolf Christmas. I'm not going to consider my dalliance in trashy novels problematic until I'm trying to figure out how to bury titles like those deep in the internal memory of my Nook...
Further enabling me is my partner in crime. A good friend and fellow Dirty Girl - my Sister in Smut. She also loves the purr of a Scottish burr and alternately scoffs at and delights in ridiculous phrases such as, "tasted deeply of her honeyed center," and "his throbbing member." We GET how cheesy it is... we just don't care. It makes for a good cackle in the hallway when we trade notes about how late we were up reading, or that after 90+ titles we still read things that shock us. Smut is LENDABLE when you have a Nook and we take turns purchasing trash with titles like Seduced By the Highlander and Loved By a Warrior. There are endless text message threads between us, usually sent between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. that look like this:
"ACK!! I just read the word, 'cock!' Whatever happened to 'turgid member' or 'throbbing manhood'??? This is a line I was not ready to cross...."
or
Me: "Bahahahahaha! Just read: "spilled his scalding seed..." response: "Eeeeewww.... I think I need to take a shower now." Me: "heh heh... mission accomplished."
And now that seventeenth century curses are seeping into our everyday vernacular:
"Satan's arse! What a fookin' boring staff meeting today, was it not, lass?"
And even though my partner in crime makes me feel less like a deviant dork, I still feel compelled to guard the contents of my Nook or I would be able to answer questions like "What are you reading?" without panicking and squeaking out lame shit like, "a book..." The fear of judgement also comes from my understanding that the fairytale-princess bullshit spoon-fed to little girls that I so despise is alive and kicking (or fucking, more precisely) in the books I've been unable to put down. I really am a sucker for a sappy love story. Admittedly, the soft-core porn aspect is just icing on the beefcake. Take out all the sex and these books are just a Disney movie waiting to be merchandised. So what's worse, I'm forced to ponder? Someone thinking I'm a sex-starved deviant or someone realizing that I swoon over the corny love stuff?
I have decided to give myself over to this little addiction for the time being and be grateful I'm off the Nutty Bars. It's win-win, really. I'm thinner, healthier, and hornier and The Dad gets the benefit of it all. Thank goodness the Tornado has agreed and (LOVES) to hear me read aloud from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone the last few weeks. At bedtime when I read to the kids, I can feel clean again :-) until such time of course, as I settle onto the couch with my Nook - my Portal of Sin, and I lose myself somewhere in the 1600's between Glencoe and Inveraray to 6 feet+ of sinewy muscle wrapped in tartan, brandishing a claymore with his other hand on his sword. {If you got that joke - Welcome to the club, Dirty Girl}
It's comical and campy and perfectly decadent but I guess that's the definition of a guilty pleasure, right?
I think I'm good for now, but if you see my kids wandering the streets unattended, or you notice that I appear to have left off bathing or brushing my teeth, please confiscate my Nook.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Margarita's Always Greener...
I can't deny from time to time that I miss my pre-mom life. And yes, even as the words are formed in my head and transferred to the screen, I remember the countless hours I spent face down, sobbing on my bed, devastated by another negative pregnancy test... But, as thoroughly as I wished for my children, there are moments on any given day when a person sitting quietly in a cafe with a book, or an FB status about someone's travels to places I can just barely afford to read about, gives me a deep pang of longing for more than 5 minutes of solitude.
At the end of the summer I drove my mother and my two children five hours up into the Maine woods. I had the first of such pangs during the drive north when a woman who looked about my age passed me in a light yellow Thunder Bird with the top down. There was no car seat in the back and I suspected that the seats were free of juice and stale Goldfish and no one had ever left a crusty layer of boogers on the door. I also imagined that she could choose what was on the radio and how loud it was playing...
I smirked to myself remembering the National Lampoon's Vacation scenes on the highway and I realized I was having a Clark Griswold moment, as I couldn't take my eyes off the woman and the Thunder Bird. I didn't want to fuck her though, I just wanted to BE her...
She got off at the Salisbury beach exit and I imagined there was a beach chair and a bag full of books in the trunk, with a bottle of wine and a hotel room key on the seat next to her. By the time I was wondering if her husband was meeting her there later or was waiting in the room with chocolate covered strawberries, I was practically up the ass of a mini van with a Baby On Board sign dangling in the rear window.
OK... so I'm not sliding out of my convertible into the arms of my husband bound for a weekend of books and sexcapades at the beach... but I'm also not driving a mini van (ACK!!) with a squalling infant in the back. I counted my blessings and my mood lightened just a tad. I would love to tell you the pangs of longing for the other life dissipated in a matter of hours but it was the beginning to 3 days in the Maine woods with my mother, my kids, no electricity and a potty-training toddler with a combined total of 12 hours on the road. On the way home, I thought, if I saw that bitch right now, I'd key the T-Bird and dump the contents of the potty chair into the backseat.
The other more recent instance of Nobody's Mommy Envy happened this weekend after 24 hours of almost constant rain that was accompanied by a soundtrack of:
THUMP, BUMP, THWACK, SCREECH, CRY,SCREAMING mommydragonlady, sniffle, sulk. Repeat...
On days like this, the soundtrack is on constant rotation unless I give in and decide to ignore the hours of television creating that slack-jaw, zombie-fied peace and quiet that makes your sense of Mom-worth plummet. Fortunately I was able to drown out the nagging horror of nine hours of television with two cocktails and five hours of "Girl Time" with one of the most fabulous women I know, on Saturday night. Raise your glasses and toast to "putting it all out there, " poppets! Now say a silent prayer of "thanks and blessings" for The Dad who, while irritated by my lack communication through those 5 hours, knows I deserve them.
The setting of "Girl Time" was a restaurant/bar I had frequented some 15 years earlier during the "Thou Shalt Barely Remember" phase of my life. My sense memory brought things back so clearly and almost instantly - the clink of glassware, noisy atmosphere stuffed with bodies and the delightful smell of beer and grilled food. I thought, "Oh... I have missed this." You know, leaning over to your girlfriend to drunkenly yell something like, "My underwear is so far up my ass right now!" just as the music dies a bit and the 87 people within hearing distance are now fully apprised of your wardrobe malfunction. FUN, right? OK, so not so much stuff like that, but who are we kidding? One more shot of Cuervo and the moment is gone forever except in the memories of the 87 strangers snickering all around you...
What I was momentarily missing were the pre-mommy days when wiping up the vomit was not MANDATORY, but completely at your discretion (especially if it wasn't YOUR apartment.) The days when sippy cups were for not sloshing your cheap wine all over the dorm as you staggered from floor to floor "studying." I momentarily missed the days of taking 3 hours to get ready for Saturday night, all for your bangs and make up to be completely effed up as many hours later from dancing until your feet were going to fall off...
Two minutes later, my margarita was in my hand and all frothy at the top. It tasted like 21 felt in my 35 year-old memory: sweet, tangy and devoid of responsibility to anyone other than myself. The night wore on and my girlfriend and I talked and talked and I never once looked at a clock until 11:30.
Before we left, I was in the bathroom while a group of younger women were re-applying make-up and examining their reflections for a hair that may have escaped the flat iron, or checking the appearance of their asses in their skinny jeans. I smiled to myself thinking about getting ready at my house earlier in the evening. I had almost climbed the walls by 5:30. Just before dinner there was a spill, an injury, and a meltdown over twisted underwear (not mine, though it is fair to say that by the time I got into the shower, my panties were most certainy in a bunch.) I snuck into the bathroom and got into the shower but had forgotten to lock the door. Before I even had my hair lathered up, the sliding door opened to reveal a naked Viking telling me he was going to come in too. Defeated, but still focussed on the prize of the evening - my 7:30 departure time, I stepped aside and let him in.
We spent the next 20 minutes washing up and then fillng the tub with warm water and talking about our favorite super heros. The Viking delighted in filling his cup and dumping the water on my back and hair as I sat with him in the tub, my arms wrapped around my knees which were drawn up to my chin (where they previsously didn't reach because 40 pounds of chub was in the way). I was delighted that we BOTH fit in the tub, and there would be no need for axel grease to free me from the porcelain. After that, he sat on the sink and handed me items that fascinated him from my minimal make-up arsenal, "Mom, what IS this?" "Do you like to have this one next?" "I is be so good at helping."
Someday, all too soon I'm going to be longing for these days... the ones right now, with sticky finger-prints on my cell phone, thumping, wrestling, giggling boys and the weight of a small body relaxing into me as I slide into bed (at 1:30 a.m), completely happy I've come home to a house where I am Mom, Queen of Everything, Finder of Lost Crap, Fixer of Twisted Underwear and Reader of Books with Pictures and Goofy Sound Effects.
At the end of the summer I drove my mother and my two children five hours up into the Maine woods. I had the first of such pangs during the drive north when a woman who looked about my age passed me in a light yellow Thunder Bird with the top down. There was no car seat in the back and I suspected that the seats were free of juice and stale Goldfish and no one had ever left a crusty layer of boogers on the door. I also imagined that she could choose what was on the radio and how loud it was playing...
I smirked to myself remembering the National Lampoon's Vacation scenes on the highway and I realized I was having a Clark Griswold moment, as I couldn't take my eyes off the woman and the Thunder Bird. I didn't want to fuck her though, I just wanted to BE her...
She got off at the Salisbury beach exit and I imagined there was a beach chair and a bag full of books in the trunk, with a bottle of wine and a hotel room key on the seat next to her. By the time I was wondering if her husband was meeting her there later or was waiting in the room with chocolate covered strawberries, I was practically up the ass of a mini van with a Baby On Board sign dangling in the rear window.
OK... so I'm not sliding out of my convertible into the arms of my husband bound for a weekend of books and sexcapades at the beach... but I'm also not driving a mini van (ACK!!) with a squalling infant in the back. I counted my blessings and my mood lightened just a tad. I would love to tell you the pangs of longing for the other life dissipated in a matter of hours but it was the beginning to 3 days in the Maine woods with my mother, my kids, no electricity and a potty-training toddler with a combined total of 12 hours on the road. On the way home, I thought, if I saw that bitch right now, I'd key the T-Bird and dump the contents of the potty chair into the backseat.
The other more recent instance of Nobody's Mommy Envy happened this weekend after 24 hours of almost constant rain that was accompanied by a soundtrack of:
THUMP, BUMP, THWACK, SCREECH, CRY,
On days like this, the soundtrack is on constant rotation unless I give in and decide to ignore the hours of television creating that slack-jaw, zombie-fied peace and quiet that makes your sense of Mom-worth plummet. Fortunately I was able to drown out the nagging horror of nine hours of television with two cocktails and five hours of "Girl Time" with one of the most fabulous women I know, on Saturday night. Raise your glasses and toast to "putting it all out there, " poppets! Now say a silent prayer of "thanks and blessings" for The Dad who, while irritated by my lack communication through those 5 hours, knows I deserve them.
The setting of "Girl Time" was a restaurant/bar I had frequented some 15 years earlier during the "Thou Shalt Barely Remember" phase of my life. My sense memory brought things back so clearly and almost instantly - the clink of glassware, noisy atmosphere stuffed with bodies and the delightful smell of beer and grilled food. I thought, "Oh... I have missed this." You know, leaning over to your girlfriend to drunkenly yell something like, "My underwear is so far up my ass right now!" just as the music dies a bit and the 87 people within hearing distance are now fully apprised of your wardrobe malfunction. FUN, right? OK, so not so much stuff like that, but who are we kidding? One more shot of Cuervo and the moment is gone forever except in the memories of the 87 strangers snickering all around you...
What I was momentarily missing were the pre-mommy days when wiping up the vomit was not MANDATORY, but completely at your discretion (especially if it wasn't YOUR apartment.) The days when sippy cups were for not sloshing your cheap wine all over the dorm as you staggered from floor to floor "studying." I momentarily missed the days of taking 3 hours to get ready for Saturday night, all for your bangs and make up to be completely effed up as many hours later from dancing until your feet were going to fall off...
Two minutes later, my margarita was in my hand and all frothy at the top. It tasted like 21 felt in my 35 year-old memory: sweet, tangy and devoid of responsibility to anyone other than myself. The night wore on and my girlfriend and I talked and talked and I never once looked at a clock until 11:30.
Before we left, I was in the bathroom while a group of younger women were re-applying make-up and examining their reflections for a hair that may have escaped the flat iron, or checking the appearance of their asses in their skinny jeans. I smiled to myself thinking about getting ready at my house earlier in the evening. I had almost climbed the walls by 5:30. Just before dinner there was a spill, an injury, and a meltdown over twisted underwear (not mine, though it is fair to say that by the time I got into the shower, my panties were most certainy in a bunch.) I snuck into the bathroom and got into the shower but had forgotten to lock the door. Before I even had my hair lathered up, the sliding door opened to reveal a naked Viking telling me he was going to come in too. Defeated, but still focussed on the prize of the evening - my 7:30 departure time, I stepped aside and let him in.
We spent the next 20 minutes washing up and then fillng the tub with warm water and talking about our favorite super heros. The Viking delighted in filling his cup and dumping the water on my back and hair as I sat with him in the tub, my arms wrapped around my knees which were drawn up to my chin (where they previsously didn't reach because 40 pounds of chub was in the way). I was delighted that we BOTH fit in the tub, and there would be no need for axel grease to free me from the porcelain. After that, he sat on the sink and handed me items that fascinated him from my minimal make-up arsenal, "Mom, what IS this?" "Do you like to have this one next?" "I is be so good at helping."
Someday, all too soon I'm going to be longing for these days... the ones right now, with sticky finger-prints on my cell phone, thumping, wrestling, giggling boys and the weight of a small body relaxing into me as I slide into bed (at 1:30 a.m), completely happy I've come home to a house where I am Mom, Queen of Everything, Finder of Lost Crap, Fixer of Twisted Underwear and Reader of Books with Pictures and Goofy Sound Effects.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Slices of a SassMaster Summer
The Viking is potty-trained and the Tornado can blow a bubble with gum and make fart noises with his arm in two distinct dialects. I (poorly) organized a team for the Relay for Life and raised over $1000 for the American Cancer Society. Next year, yeah Felty, I said NEXT YEAR... there will be more organization and more $$$ raised. And there will be more team members who stay the whole 24 hours... and we may re-name the team if we can think of something snappy that ends in Bitch Ass...
I read 15 books and watched 7 seasons (150+) episodes of Grey's Anatomy... Don't judge me. Or do... and then bite me...
Rememer Tab??? It still tastes awesome, FYI. Every once in awhile I'll come across it and decide to risk the tumor to savor a little bit of my 80's childhood... roller skates, Tab, Smurfs, Shrinky-Dinks, Tiger Beat magazine and Martha Quinn on MTV... {sigh and a smile}
Here's what I know after 13 weeks of summer vacation:
- Netflix streaming into my home through our computer is like a crack dealer that sets up shop outside an NA meeting... Another episode??? Well, YEEEEAAAHH... pssshtt. It's only 2 a.m. I totally have time to get straight before the kids wake up. ANOTHER episode?? Well... {running shaky hands though hair}... Oh crap... God, grant me the serenity to accept that McDreamy does not exist in real life, and the courage to put down the remote and crawl into bed. Amen.
- There is nary a tree nor bush nor potted plant (sorry, Nana) between our house and the majority of Western New England that has not been pissed on by the Viking.
- The "Poop Bag" is the wise and sacred tool of achieving the Deuce when potty training. Ours was a Captain America gift bag filled with all kinds of irristable and scintilating swag for the 2 1/2 year old super hero enthusiast, including tattoos, stickers, figurines, sunglasses, cups and water bottles, cars, playdough and anything else I could find that was under $5. *RULES* 1. you can only look in the Poop Bag if you're sitting on the potty trying to poop. 2. there is no PLAYING with anything in the Poop Bag until you've earned it. 3. everyone in the house/campground/restaurant/church/parking lot must be willing to shout "WOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!" when you produce the Deuce. I could have trained him to crap in his hand and wear it on his head for all the amazing stuff I was bribing him with. AND! he wipes the toilet seat when he sprinkles, adding "for mom can have a dry butt." Ah, chivalry...
- The Tornado can elicite a sound from the Viking that no one else on the planet can. And it goes right up my spine and reverberates in my skull until I foam and shriek like a rabid monkey and send everyone to bed. FOREVER!!
- You CAN eat an ice cream cone from McDonald's for breakfast, lunch and dinner and still lose 1.6 pounds because they're only 4 Weight Watchers points.
- This logic does NOT apply to Russell Stover sugar free chocolates. They are delicious and only 1 point each but more than two will leave you in the fetal position on the bathroom floor and likely out of toilet paper. Don't say I didn't warn you!
- 13 weeks is exactly the amount of time it takes to make me want to eat my own children and begin longing for the repreive of
warpingteaching other peoples'.
Here's to Sucktember and whatever it brings....
Monday, May 9, 2011
Chubby Girl Running
May 7, 2011
Dear YMCA patron on the third elliptical machine from the far wall, situated directly behind my lard ass today,
First, allow me to compliment your black socks... and your incredible self-control. When I randomly decided to bust into a jog on the treadmill in front of you, you managed to stay firmly astride your machine despite the wild shock waves that set my flabby behind to shaking like a Jell-O mold riding the spin cycle. If you laughed out loud, I didn't hear you (but then again, at the time Papa Roach was screaming in my ear: "say what you want/take your shots/you're setting me free with one more kick in the teeth") Perhaps it's that kid who lives inside my head, left over from a hundred anguished gym classes that was trying to tell me I'd die from running in front of people... but I had to shut her up today, so I bit the bullet and hammered on the speed button until it was run or be flung backwards into pile at your very feet, Ms. BlackTubesSocksandNikes... and run I did. For 3 whole minutes! My knees are very angry with me and my self esteem is conflicted. (On the one hand - I did it!! On the other - ACK! what a horrific feeling back there!) But you looked none the worse for wear as you casually avoided eye contact with me when I turned to dismount the machine. It occurred to me after my 3 minute foray into lunacy that you could be really messed up back there if you'd ever experienced an earthquake... I looked carefully while I grabbed a paper towel and disinfectant spray for signs of a PTSD episode, but you seemed composed and determined to keep climbing a hundred miles to nowhere with your textbook and your, ummm socks. On my way to collect the Tornado from karate class upstairs, I reasoned that the worst part of your gym visit today was still ahead of you, as I noticed Smelly Gym Guy headed for the machine right next to you - my silent advice was breathe shallowly and power through...
xo,
SassBob Jigglepants
Dear YMCA patron on the third elliptical machine from the far wall, situated directly behind my lard ass today,
First, allow me to compliment your black socks... and your incredible self-control. When I randomly decided to bust into a jog on the treadmill in front of you, you managed to stay firmly astride your machine despite the wild shock waves that set my flabby behind to shaking like a Jell-O mold riding the spin cycle. If you laughed out loud, I didn't hear you (but then again, at the time Papa Roach was screaming in my ear: "say what you want/take your shots/you're setting me free with one more kick in the teeth") Perhaps it's that kid who lives inside my head, left over from a hundred anguished gym classes that was trying to tell me I'd die from running in front of people... but I had to shut her up today, so I bit the bullet and hammered on the speed button until it was run or be flung backwards into pile at your very feet, Ms. BlackTubesSocksandNikes... and run I did. For 3 whole minutes! My knees are very angry with me and my self esteem is conflicted. (On the one hand - I did it!! On the other - ACK! what a horrific feeling back there!) But you looked none the worse for wear as you casually avoided eye contact with me when I turned to dismount the machine. It occurred to me after my 3 minute foray into lunacy that you could be really messed up back there if you'd ever experienced an earthquake... I looked carefully while I grabbed a paper towel and disinfectant spray for signs of a PTSD episode, but you seemed composed and determined to keep climbing a hundred miles to nowhere with your textbook and your, ummm socks. On my way to collect the Tornado from karate class upstairs, I reasoned that the worst part of your gym visit today was still ahead of you, as I noticed Smelly Gym Guy headed for the machine right next to you - my silent advice was breathe shallowly and power through...
xo,
SassBob Jigglepants
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mama Says... Get This Book!
For Mother's Day, here's quick post about a book you must have if you are trying to be the best mother you can be to a little boy. If I were on the ball, I'd have had this posted yesterday, so you could read it on Mother's Day, but I was a bit busy - wiping bums, faces (different cloth), tables, floors, and the inside of a 20 year-old pop up camper that we're gutting and re-furbishing. I also had to feed people and play with them and yell at them to pick up socks. I was hiding in a tent with the Viking getting ready to ambush imaginary robots and "Black Knights." I was called upon to find all of the following: a box of 1/2" screws, Velcro, Liquid Nails, the Viking's sword, the Tornado's Pokemon cards and the right channel to enable to Wii to function. I read a few pages on my Nook, recovered the seat cushions for the pop-up, removed sand from heads, ears and two diapers and I killed 314 ants today... roughly. If your other name is "mom," your day was probably similar. I tried really hard to reflect on what my life as Mom means to me, today. But whatever it actually means to me - it just IS me... and maybe that's all I need to know right now. Every attempt at reflection was shattered by a request or "Check this out!" or a spill or something crawling...
So I got nothin'. And besides. I'm not sharing anything the mamas who read this have not already lived day after painfully delightful day. So I'll leave you with this:
Mama Says: A Book of Love for Mothers and Sons
is a gorgeous book with words and a message so simple and touching that it never fails to put a little lump in my throat. Each page illustration shows a mother and son from a different world culture, and the prose is written in that culture's language, as well as English.
The last sentence of this book is "I listened to what Mama said, and now I am a man."
Gets me every time...
Happy Mother's Day, mamas.
So I got nothin'. And besides. I'm not sharing anything the mamas who read this have not already lived day after painfully delightful day. So I'll leave you with this:
Mama Says: A Book of Love for Mothers and Sons
is a gorgeous book with words and a message so simple and touching that it never fails to put a little lump in my throat. Each page illustration shows a mother and son from a different world culture, and the prose is written in that culture's language, as well as English.
The last sentence of this book is "I listened to what Mama said, and now I am a man."
Gets me every time...
Happy Mother's Day, mamas.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)