Wednesday, September 30, 2009
It's Swine Time
It's swine time! My son has been confirmed, and now my husband is convinced that he has it, although his only symptoms seem to be lethargy, whining, being pathetic, and inability to do anything besides eat and use the remote control. He did, however, take a nap today. But why he felt the need to fall asleep drooling his germs all over my side of the bed, I have no idea. I would have rolled him over to his side, but he would only tell me, that as usual, I am mean to him when he is "sick". I am on day 4 with my son, and Florence Nightingale has left the building. When Ethan asked me to pull a tissue out of the box for him because "my hands are too tired", is about the same time I snapped. In the last 2 years I have had 5 surgeries (one during which I was accidentally punctured in an organ, and one during which they paralyzed my vocal cord), been diagnosed with a lung disease, and almost died from pulmonary embolisms. Let me tell you something people...I still wrote funny stories about being sick, did laundry, cooked for my family, and ran errands. In fact, I was so jolly during one of my long hospital stays that a few nurses took their lunch breaks in my room because it was "the fun room." So, I have about a 4 day maximum on patience for my sick child, and a zero day allowance for my husband. I really have no tolerance for a 40 year old man who whines about his "sore throat." Take it from me...wash those hands, spray the Lysol and pray to God your husband's stay well. And if you hear police sirens in the 'hood in the next day or two, turn on the evening news, 'cause it might be me finally losing my mind.
A Trip to Hollister
Today my friend Stephanie and I went into Hollister. What is going on with this store? It is so dark that I can barely see any of the clothes. The music is so loud you can't talk. I felt like I was drunk, slipped a roofie, and wandered off during a rave party and got lost in the walk-in closet of a rich frat boy. I was sure that I was going to be sexually assaulted at any moment, but I could never ID the perp because I was blind as a bat in there. For one brief moment, a small ray of light somehow made it's way into the store and bounced off my watch, shinning a bigger beam of light onto a top, allowing me to actually see that it was cute, and I decided I would try it on. After bumping into 2 walls and tripping over a plant, I finally made my way into the dressing room. Shockingly, it is also dark in there, except for one bright spotlight that shines in the middle of the floor. At this point I felt as if my roofie had taken full affect and I was on some stage, topless, against my will. It was all verydiscombobulating. When I was finally able to get the top on and see myself in the mirror, I realized something: These clothes are made for tiny teens with no boobies, because my girls were not about to be contained in this "cute" top. I looked like I had been attacked by the aforementioned frat boys, and my clothes torn half off. Suffice it to say, I learned today that I am too old for all the teen stores that have taken over our mall. I also learned that you shouldn't let your young daughters go in there either. If you wouldn't drop them off on frat row, don't drop them off at Hollister.
Beagle Stalker
I am being stalked by a beagle. This dog won't leave me alone. I would call the number on his collar, but do you think he has one? Hell-to-the-no. This annoying dog has been at my house at least once a week for a couple of months. He goes to my back door and scratches it, howls, goes to the front door, repeat. One night, he got quiet so I thought he left, but I got up to get more wine, er, I mean, water, and he spotted me through the window and started to bark. That was the night I spent crawling around on my floor like a Navy Seal, albeit, a tired, slightly buzzed, deep pore cleaning facial mask wearing, navy seal. Last week I saw him coming in through a tunnel under our fence. I heard that he lived a few yards back from mine, so he must have made an elaborate series of tunnels to reach my door. I have dubbed his yard Shawshank, and mine Zihuatenejo.
The One About School
Are you a yahoo mom or a boo-hoo mom? My friend Lisa told me that her daughter’s school uses those terms. They say that at back-to-school time, every mom is either a yahoo mom or a boo-hoo mom. It’s no secret that I fall into the yahoo category. That very first day of pre-school I was a definite boo-hoo-er, but those days are long gone. Nowadays I am a jump up and down, heel clicking, high-fiving, cartwheeling mom. I do however know many moms who are of the boo-hoo variety, and I have to admit something: I cannot relate to you. You are as foreign to me as one of those naked tribal women from New Guinea with the long bracelet giraffe necks and giant coasters in their lips. At this time of the year, I am hungry for the structure of school for my son and the free time for me. Does the fact that I want to go to the grocery store alone and get a break from the constant Pokemon chatter make me a bad mom?
Summer is hot. Summer is long. Summer is hot and long. Sure, the first month or so is great, but by July we’ve seen it all, done it all, and my ears have heard it all. By August, I am drinking a bit too much wine, and I am desperate for some time alone. When you can’t even go to the bathroom without getting barged in on or getting a note slipped under the door, you know it’s time for a break.
My friend Jennifer and I were recently talking about the desire to go on a Mom Vacation. She is a yahoo mom like me, and we are both in desperate need of a mommy break. When we found that all of our trip ideas were too expensive, we came up with a solution: Women’s Prison. Not the kind you see on Cinemax After Dark, where you get shanked in the shower or become someone’s “special girl”. We are talking about The Martha Stewart kind of prison. The one where you get to watch TV, read, take arts and crafts classes, play board games and socialize. It would be like one long slumber party. Women only. Sure your kids can visit, but you will be separated by glass. A few added benefits to this whole prison idea are the fact that you don’t need to worry about makeup, and you get to wear those roomy jumpsuits. Casserole night in the big house? Go crazy! You want extra dessert? Go for it! Those jumpsuits have room to grow! After that vacation, I mean, unfortunate incarceration, we’d both be revitalized and as good as new. My willingness to go to prison for a kid break, should let you know just how much of a yahoo mom I really am.
Maybe yahoo and boo-hoo are hereditary. I am fairly sure that my mom was a yahoo-er as well. What makes me think so? Hmmmm…..maybe it’s the fact that from the first day of summer until the last, we were pushed out the front door immediately after breakfast and not allowed back in until dinner. On extremely hot days when my sister and I were starting to hallucinate, getting nearer and nearer to severe heat stroke or death, we would try to quietly sneak back into the house. Unfortunately, my mom had the same bionic ear as my idol Jaime Sommers, so we never made it past the screen door, even after using half a can of Crisco on the hinges. We also slept in a tent in the backyard quite a bit in the summer. At the time I thought my mom was being cool, but now I realize that she had simply found a way to keep us out of the house at night as well.
As kids, of course, we all loved the summer and hated school. As a matter of fact, the first time I skipped school I was only in the 6th grade. I told my parents goodbye and went to the bus stop, then dove into a bush when I saw the bus coming. My friend and I made our way back to my house by diving into a series of shrubs, rolling and crawling around like elite navy seals on a top secret mission. We snuck into my basement and hid there all day, surviving off of a freezer full of popsicles. We repeated the entire sequence in reverse at 3 o’clock, and then walked in through the front door proclaiming our exhaustion after a long day at school. That was the beginning of a long string of school skipping that only increased in excitement and creativity, and would last until high school graduation.
So, my son dreads his return to school and I crave it. Is that so wrong? There must be more of my kind out there. If everyone else is a boo-hoo mom, then my faith in womankind will be shaken to its core. I know that some of you are probably secret yahoo moms, but due to the fear of being branded a “bad mom” you are pretending to be a boo-hoo-er. I say drop the charade and be proud of your yahoo status. Next week let’s party like it’s 1999! And next summer, about mid-July, when we are all fed up with the noise and the word for word re-enactments of every iCarly episode ever made, let’s get together and commit a crime. Maybe a drunk and disorderly group situation is all we need to get a vacation in the Martha Stewart “Hotel”. I’ll supply the wine, and my fair share of the “disorderly”. Bring a friend…the more the merrier. Yahoo Mom’s unite!
Summer is hot. Summer is long. Summer is hot and long. Sure, the first month or so is great, but by July we’ve seen it all, done it all, and my ears have heard it all. By August, I am drinking a bit too much wine, and I am desperate for some time alone. When you can’t even go to the bathroom without getting barged in on or getting a note slipped under the door, you know it’s time for a break.
My friend Jennifer and I were recently talking about the desire to go on a Mom Vacation. She is a yahoo mom like me, and we are both in desperate need of a mommy break. When we found that all of our trip ideas were too expensive, we came up with a solution: Women’s Prison. Not the kind you see on Cinemax After Dark, where you get shanked in the shower or become someone’s “special girl”. We are talking about The Martha Stewart kind of prison. The one where you get to watch TV, read, take arts and crafts classes, play board games and socialize. It would be like one long slumber party. Women only. Sure your kids can visit, but you will be separated by glass. A few added benefits to this whole prison idea are the fact that you don’t need to worry about makeup, and you get to wear those roomy jumpsuits. Casserole night in the big house? Go crazy! You want extra dessert? Go for it! Those jumpsuits have room to grow! After that vacation, I mean, unfortunate incarceration, we’d both be revitalized and as good as new. My willingness to go to prison for a kid break, should let you know just how much of a yahoo mom I really am.
Maybe yahoo and boo-hoo are hereditary. I am fairly sure that my mom was a yahoo-er as well. What makes me think so? Hmmmm…..maybe it’s the fact that from the first day of summer until the last, we were pushed out the front door immediately after breakfast and not allowed back in until dinner. On extremely hot days when my sister and I were starting to hallucinate, getting nearer and nearer to severe heat stroke or death, we would try to quietly sneak back into the house. Unfortunately, my mom had the same bionic ear as my idol Jaime Sommers, so we never made it past the screen door, even after using half a can of Crisco on the hinges. We also slept in a tent in the backyard quite a bit in the summer. At the time I thought my mom was being cool, but now I realize that she had simply found a way to keep us out of the house at night as well.
As kids, of course, we all loved the summer and hated school. As a matter of fact, the first time I skipped school I was only in the 6th grade. I told my parents goodbye and went to the bus stop, then dove into a bush when I saw the bus coming. My friend and I made our way back to my house by diving into a series of shrubs, rolling and crawling around like elite navy seals on a top secret mission. We snuck into my basement and hid there all day, surviving off of a freezer full of popsicles. We repeated the entire sequence in reverse at 3 o’clock, and then walked in through the front door proclaiming our exhaustion after a long day at school. That was the beginning of a long string of school skipping that only increased in excitement and creativity, and would last until high school graduation.
So, my son dreads his return to school and I crave it. Is that so wrong? There must be more of my kind out there. If everyone else is a boo-hoo mom, then my faith in womankind will be shaken to its core. I know that some of you are probably secret yahoo moms, but due to the fear of being branded a “bad mom” you are pretending to be a boo-hoo-er. I say drop the charade and be proud of your yahoo status. Next week let’s party like it’s 1999! And next summer, about mid-July, when we are all fed up with the noise and the word for word re-enactments of every iCarly episode ever made, let’s get together and commit a crime. Maybe a drunk and disorderly group situation is all we need to get a vacation in the Martha Stewart “Hotel”. I’ll supply the wine, and my fair share of the “disorderly”. Bring a friend…the more the merrier. Yahoo Mom’s unite!
The One About Manners
When I was little, my mom told me to always keep my nose clean. To most people, this means “stay out of trouble”, but when my mom said it, she meant to literally keep my nose clean. See, unlike you people with the “normal” childhood’s, I grew up being told that if you leave the boogies in your nose, they turn into tiny boogie eggs that hatch little birds. If you don’t make sure your nose is clean, those little things will hatch and fly right on outta there. It could happen at any time: While you are talking to a boy you like, while you are giving a book report to your class, while you are in the lunch line. IT COULD HAPPEN AT ANY TIME! Since I lived in utter fear of the “hatchings”, I made sure my nose was boogie-free at all times.Fortunately, I was taught the proper use of a Kleenex (the finger-wrap rule) while extricating the incubating boogie eggs. I must mention, that I was about 8 years old when this took place, and even then, did not withdraw the eggs in public, because certain things are private. Or so I thought.
Recently, my friend Lisa told me that everywhere she went that day, she saw people in their cars picking their noses. We all see the occasional nose picker at a stoplight, but she saw them everywhere. According to her, these people were definitely NOT following the finger-wrap rule. I also have my doubts that they were fearful of the boogie birds. These people were just digging away, oblivious to everyone around them. Are people not aware that even though they are ensconced in their vehicles, they can still be seen? Cars, people, are not like the cloak of invisibility. Window tinting reduces the suns harsh rays, but still lets your picking shine through for the entire world to see.
After Lisa told me about “National Nose Pickers Day”, I was talking to my friend Kim. Kim works as a nutritionist for the Health Department in a location that I will keep a secret, although I will tell you that it rhymes with Bozarks. Being that Kim is super-competitive, she told me that she could one-up Lisa, and one-up Lisa she did. She had a client come into her office, dig around in her nose for a while, then wipe the boogies on her desk. Right in front of her. Now, since Kim is a bigger germaphobe than I am, I was shocked that she didn’t kung fu the crap out of that woman like I would have. Instead, being the professional that she is, she simply said “You just wiped a booger on my desk and you’d better put it back where it came from.” This story appalled me, mostly because the thought of my best friend being brutally attacked by freshly hatched boogie birds was truly terrifying.
But that’s enough about boogies, because I soon realized that gross manners extend far beyond your garden-variety nose picker. Kim had another client who sneezed while sitting in her office. When the woman got up to leave, Kim immediately noticed that the chair was pretty wet. The woman said, “My bladder just ain’t what it used to be” and walked out. I am telling you right now, if I accidentally peed in someone’s office chair, I would either be way more apologetic than that, or else I would come up with some kick-ass lie. I don’t know what it would be, it might involve alien abduction or a brain-eating virus, but I do know that I am not admitting to peeing in a chair until I have tried out all my other options first.
On another yucky note: a few days ago, I was sitting in my Doctor’s waiting room, and a woman came in with crappy music blaring from her ear buds so loudly that I was starting to lose it. The “child” or “devil spawn” in her stroller was repeatedly sticking her tongue out at me, and also at an adorable old couple sitting next to me, and spit was flying everywhere. The mom wasn’t noticing this because (a) the music proclaiming that her “milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard” was loud enough to cause ear damage to everyone in the waiting room, and (b) she had her nose in her armpit. She was in public, surrounded by people, and she was pulling her sleeves out of the way and sticking her nose deep into her pits to see what was happening. If the face she made after the smell test was any indication, some bad stuff was going on up in those pits.
Now, I will be the first to admit that I have had my own bad manners moments. A few years ago I was lucky enough to attend the Emmy Awards. I had a lovely gown, lovely jewelry, and I was feeling good. Unfortunately, I later found out that I was shown on the “Emmy Live From The Red Carpet” show on “E!” fanning my steaming armpits. In my defense, it was very hot out there, I didn’t know there was a live camera pointing at me, and I was DEFINITLEY NOT sniffing them. I was only cooling them off. However, when you get your 15 minutes of fame, you don’t want 60 seconds of them to be you, in your pretty evening gown, fanning your pits.
Another thing about me, which some may see as bad manners, is that I am lacking a filter. As my husband says, “you should really think every sentence over a few times before you let it come out of your mouth.” I also talk about things with my friends that Miss Manners would most definitely not approve of. For example, every time I talk to my friend Stephanie, the first 5-10 minutes of our conversation is about bloating, cramping, pooping, and the general maintenance and welfare of our entire gastrointestinal and female areas. It’s just what we do. We are close friends, and sometimes it’s good to have a little support with these important topics. It may be gross to some of you, but at least we’re not talking about it on our Bluetooth’s while in line at Target.
Another thing about me, which some may see as bad manners, is that I am lacking a filter. As my husband says, “you should really think every sentence over a few times before you let it come out of your mouth.” I also talk about things with my friends that Miss Manners would most definitely not approve of. For example, every time I talk to my friend Stephanie, the first 5-10 minutes of our conversation is about bloating, cramping, pooping, and the general maintenance and welfare of our entire gastrointestinal and female areas. It’s just what we do. We are close friends, and sometimes it’s good to have a little support with these important topics. It may be gross to some of you, but at least we’re not talking about it on our Bluetooth’s while in line at Target.
Most of us do not have perfect manners, and if I ever meet someone who does, while I would admire their restrained behavior, we would never become friends. On the other hand, I would never want to be friends with the booger-wiper or chair-wetter either.There is definitely a middle ground with manners. If you want to jam your finger up your nose, save it for the privacy of your own house. Watch your American Idol and dig away. If you have a pee-pee problem, it’s time for a diaper or it’s time to stay home and tinkle on your own damn furniture. If you are unsure about your pit hygiene, buy extra strength deodorant, and maybe carry a travel size with you. Please.
As the mother of an 8-year-old son, I can tell you that some nasty stuff is going down at my house at any given moment of the day. I know you will think I am making this up, but while I was typing this paragraph, my son ran into the study and said, “Toot power! Bombs away!” dropped a stink bomb that made my eyes water, and then ran to the living room. Have I told him a million times that I don’t like that? Yes. Does he do it anyway? Of course. I have learned to let it go, as long as he only does it at home when we are company-free. But I guarantee you that the first time we are at Target and he turns into Super Toot Man, he is in big trouble. Unless, of course, there is a booger-picker or pants-wetter in our midst, in that case “toot power” may just chase them off.
The One About The Hamster
The One About The Hamster
True story: In 7th grade I had a friend that I liked very much, but after spending the night at her house, I knew I could never do it again. Her house was a freakin’ mess! I thought I was gonna have a heart attack the first time I set foot inside. I had palpitations, I was sweaty, I was sure I was going to die at the tender age of 13. I really wanted to go home, but I couldn’t think of a believable excuse, so I stuck it out. Weeks later, they discovered they had a hobo living in their basement. An actual hobo. How long was he there? Who knows, but I will tell you this…I wasn’t surprised. I was only surprised that they EVER found him there, with all the crap in that house.
At the root of my discomfort at the hobo house, was this: I come from the household of a neat mother. No, not “neat” as in “cool” (sorry, mom). “Neat” as in anal-retentive cleaning machine. There were a lot of rules and regulations about the condition of the house. My mom never sat down, she was always cleaning. I once lost my beloved hamster, Ricky Schroeder, only to discover his lifeless, yet clean body in a freshly washed load of towels.(Note: this was a case of involuntary hamsterslaughter. My mom did not do this on purpose.I think that Ricky, also being raised in a clean environment, was seeking out the washing machine in a misguided attempt to become even cleaner, and therefore more acceptable to my mother) In a related incident: My sister and I wanted a dog, and we got one…twice.Each of them made it until spring, at which point they disappeared in some spring cleaning-related purge. I was lucky to have survived 18 years of spring cleanings. I think I only made it because I too, was a neat person. I still don’t know how my younger sister made it through…she was a mess, and she is lucky she wasn’t dragged to the curb in a hefty bag.
Sometimes, when a person is forced to be neat in their childhood, they rebel and turn into a giant mess the minute they get a little freedom. I was not this person. I stayed neat, and I mean “neat” as in “cool” as well as clean and organized. You may also think that losing 2 dogs, 1 hamster, and almost 1 sister during spring-cleaning bonanzas, would have soured me on the whole ritual. It did not. I don’t think I am alone when I say that something about the change of weather makes me want to clean some things, and throw out others. I think part of the reason is that we start to count down the days until our kids will be home for the summer. That number sends us into a panic…..I ONLY HAVE 94 DAYS TO GET THINGS DONE BEFORE MY FREE TIME IS OVER!!
This is the time of year when I start deep clean everything, and I go through closets, drawers, toy boxes, etc…and get rid of everything we don’t use. Every spring I come across so many McDonalds/Chik-Fil-A toys that I need therapy to rid myself of the feeling that I am a terrible mother who never cooks for her child. I go through my closet and realize that I have way too many “skinny outfits” that, unless I get a tapeworm, I am never gonna get back into. I gather all this stuff into a pile for Goodwill or eBay, and vow not to accumulate as much next year. I clean and purge, purge and clean, and get ready for a summer with no giant “To Do” list hanging over my head. It is hard work, but it feels good when you are done.
Please note, however, that I have one warning: If you’ve finished with thehouse, and are still hopped up on your cleaning high, don’t start trying to clean the garage. I have attempted this a few times, and I find at least half the crap I had thrown out the previous spring, tucked away in a dark, cobwebby corner. Men, it seems, like to keep EVERYTHING. They hide it away just in case they ever “need it for anything”, as my husband says. They know this is unacceptable, which is why they hide it. Since it is in a detached garage, and no longer in my house, I let it slide. But I tell you this right now…If I ever find a hobo in that garage, my husband is in trouble.
The One About IBS
The One About IBS
When I was a kid it seemed like my dad was always in the bathroom, taking, what he referred to as, his “daily constitutional”. For years I just assumed that the man had some serious stomach problems. When I grew up and had a child of my own, I finally put all of the pieces together: Bathroom time was my dad’s private time. He knew that no matter how clingy and annoying my sister and I were, the bathroom door is a line that is just too frightening to cross. He was nothing short of a genius. When I grew up and became the stay-at-home mother of a very needy child, I decided to implement this tactic into my own life. From the time my son was about 9 months old, until he was 3, my husband thought I had a severe case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The minute that my husband would come home from work, I would clutch my stomach and say, “Thank God you’re here! I have an intestinal emergency!” I would then run off to the bathroom, where I had a stash of magazines and books, and get to work on my “alone time”. I would sometimes be in there so long, that my husband would come knocking on the door asking if I was okay. “Things are bad, honey,” I would say. “They’re really bad. Back away from the door. I don’t want you to see me like this! Save yourself!” Over the course of those 3 years, I must have read at least 100 magazines cover to cover, as well as the complete works of Joyce Carol Oates and Pat Conroy. My bathroom was my own personal library, complete with peace and quiet.
When we become parents, we suddenly have no privacy. No alone time. Nada. It’s kind of funny, because before my husband and I had a child, I always wanted to go, go, go. I couldn’t stand hanging around the house all weekend doing nothing (like my husband wanted to do). When we were on our honeymoon in Hawaii, I had every waking minute planned. I even typed up my own itinerary, complete with where we would eat each meal, and every activity we would do. We were constantly hiking, kayaking, or sightseeing. One day, I had scheduled for us to go to a private beach I had discovered in one of my guidebooks. We drove miles through sugar cane fields, and then hiked even further, until we reached the most beautiful, private beach. We spread out our towels and sat down. We watched the waves roll in for about 5 minutes, and then I said “Ok. Enough of that. Let’s go.” And we left. That was about as much sitting still that I could handle. Fast forward. We are parents. Our son is 6. We go to Belize without him for a week. What does our week consist of? Sitting in the same beach chairs every day. Drinking beer. Cat naps. Reading. This is vacation for me now. Doing absolutely NOTHING.
As parents, we don’t get enough down time. Everything revolves around our kids. I don’t even get to watch TV in my own house anymore. If my son doesn’t have control, then my husband does. There is no more “me time”. Recently, my husband wanted to go on a camping trip. While I usually go along, I have been on strike since the last one. Since I have a bladder the size of a jellybean, I have to use the potty way more often than is acceptable for tent camping. On our last trip, at about 2 am, I had to hike a path through the woods to get to the bathroom, and spotted, what I believe to be a coyote salivating over me. I then proceeded to barricade myself in the bathroom for what seemed like eons, thinking that my loving husband would sense my absence, wake up and send a search party for me. Of course, that didn’t happen, since his bladder is the size of an entire bag of jellybeans, and able to hold about 20 gallons, allowing him to sleep for up to 12 hours without waking. Realizing I was on my own, I did the only thing I could think of. I stole the 3-foot long bar that holds the many rolls of toilet paper, and I bravely headed back to our tent. I wanted to run like the wind, but since I knew that would only make more look more delicious to the wildlife, I walked, assuming that I would use the toilet paper bar as a deadly weapon, and along with my karate moves, kick some coyote butt if the opportunity arose. Thankfully, I made it back to the tent. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night for fear that the coyote’s were circling my tent, planning to scratch a hole in it and drag me out like Meryl Streep’s baby in that movie about the dingo’s. This was the last time I camped. This time my family could go without me. This time, I told my husband, I was going to stay home and have some “me time”. I was going to have a slumber party.
I know that I am 37 years old, but I am not too old for a good old-fashioned slumber party. I invited a few friends over, knowing that they would jump at the chance, since they are all in need of some “me time” as well. We started the day by floating around in the pool, without being splashed on and without being on lifeguard duty. We then moved inside for food, where we got to eat without having to make a kiddie plate first. We also had drinks without worrying about having to drive home, pay a sitter, and remain coherent enough so that nobody calls child services on us. We also played the Wii, without anyone whining about how it is their Wii, and we are too old to play it. We played Rock Band until 2 am, without worrying about having to get up at the crack with a child who just can’t physically sleep past 7 am. It was Heaven.
I have learned to cherish my “alone time” as well as my time with other grown-ups. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it is awesome. Now that my son is 8, it is getting easier. If I want to read a book, I can go to the other room and read a book. Of course I will still get interrupted every other page, but at least I get to read without pretending that I have severe diarrhea. That is progress. And by the way, don’t tell my husband about the reading in the bathroom story. As a matter of fact, don’t tell any husband’s about the reading in the bathroom story. Other over-worked moms out there may want to set up their own bathroom libraries, and we don’t want to ruin it for them. Let’s keep it our little secret.
When we become parents, we suddenly have no privacy. No alone time. Nada. It’s kind of funny, because before my husband and I had a child, I always wanted to go, go, go. I couldn’t stand hanging around the house all weekend doing nothing (like my husband wanted to do). When we were on our honeymoon in Hawaii, I had every waking minute planned. I even typed up my own itinerary, complete with where we would eat each meal, and every activity we would do. We were constantly hiking, kayaking, or sightseeing. One day, I had scheduled for us to go to a private beach I had discovered in one of my guidebooks. We drove miles through sugar cane fields, and then hiked even further, until we reached the most beautiful, private beach. We spread out our towels and sat down. We watched the waves roll in for about 5 minutes, and then I said “Ok. Enough of that. Let’s go.” And we left. That was about as much sitting still that I could handle. Fast forward. We are parents. Our son is 6. We go to Belize without him for a week. What does our week consist of? Sitting in the same beach chairs every day. Drinking beer. Cat naps. Reading. This is vacation for me now. Doing absolutely NOTHING.
As parents, we don’t get enough down time. Everything revolves around our kids. I don’t even get to watch TV in my own house anymore. If my son doesn’t have control, then my husband does. There is no more “me time”. Recently, my husband wanted to go on a camping trip. While I usually go along, I have been on strike since the last one. Since I have a bladder the size of a jellybean, I have to use the potty way more often than is acceptable for tent camping. On our last trip, at about 2 am, I had to hike a path through the woods to get to the bathroom, and spotted, what I believe to be a coyote salivating over me. I then proceeded to barricade myself in the bathroom for what seemed like eons, thinking that my loving husband would sense my absence, wake up and send a search party for me. Of course, that didn’t happen, since his bladder is the size of an entire bag of jellybeans, and able to hold about 20 gallons, allowing him to sleep for up to 12 hours without waking. Realizing I was on my own, I did the only thing I could think of. I stole the 3-foot long bar that holds the many rolls of toilet paper, and I bravely headed back to our tent. I wanted to run like the wind, but since I knew that would only make more look more delicious to the wildlife, I walked, assuming that I would use the toilet paper bar as a deadly weapon, and along with my karate moves, kick some coyote butt if the opportunity arose. Thankfully, I made it back to the tent. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night for fear that the coyote’s were circling my tent, planning to scratch a hole in it and drag me out like Meryl Streep’s baby in that movie about the dingo’s. This was the last time I camped. This time my family could go without me. This time, I told my husband, I was going to stay home and have some “me time”. I was going to have a slumber party.
I know that I am 37 years old, but I am not too old for a good old-fashioned slumber party. I invited a few friends over, knowing that they would jump at the chance, since they are all in need of some “me time” as well. We started the day by floating around in the pool, without being splashed on and without being on lifeguard duty. We then moved inside for food, where we got to eat without having to make a kiddie plate first. We also had drinks without worrying about having to drive home, pay a sitter, and remain coherent enough so that nobody calls child services on us. We also played the Wii, without anyone whining about how it is their Wii, and we are too old to play it. We played Rock Band until 2 am, without worrying about having to get up at the crack with a child who just can’t physically sleep past 7 am. It was Heaven.
I have learned to cherish my “alone time” as well as my time with other grown-ups. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it is awesome. Now that my son is 8, it is getting easier. If I want to read a book, I can go to the other room and read a book. Of course I will still get interrupted every other page, but at least I get to read without pretending that I have severe diarrhea. That is progress. And by the way, don’t tell my husband about the reading in the bathroom story. As a matter of fact, don’t tell any husband’s about the reading in the bathroom story. Other over-worked moms out there may want to set up their own bathroom libraries, and we don’t want to ruin it for them. Let’s keep it our little secret.
The One About Running
The One About Running
I was raised by runners. When I was young, I remember my parents being super-fit, going running, keeping diaries about their running, all that crap you only do when you are a prisoner to the endorphin high. Since my parents were runners, you are probably thinking that I am a runner as well. If that is what you’re thinking, you are way off base. I don’t believe in running. In fact, I am fundamentally opposed to it. It is against my religion. I am pretty sure it causes cataracts or diarrhea. The only time I condone running, is if something really badass is chasing you. Even then, I prefer the strategy of “playing dead” instead of running. If it works against big scary bears, I am sure it will work against a mugger.
I have always been anti-exercise. I could never see any purpose in getting up early and putting on special clothes, just to make myself sweaty and sore. I mean, seriously…why would you do that? Now that I am a 37 year-old mom, I am beginning to understand why. So you don’t turn into the stay-puff marshmallow mom.
Before I had my son, I was one of those girls who people wanted to feed. I am 5’10”, and I was about 125 lbs. I looked hungry. Strange thing about young age and metabolism though: I ate EVERYTHING, and then some. I just couldn’t gain weight. I watched my friends work their butts off to stay in shape, and I never understood it. Fast forward to mommy-hood, add 8 years, 20 pounds, and a lot more stress. Now I understand. If I don’t work-out I will outgrow not only my clothes, but also my house. Once I finally realized that this was my new reality, I got off my lazy butt and started to do something about it.
One thing I did was get a nutritionist. Her meal/snack plans have helped a lot. I tried my best to convince her that Peeps, Snickers Bars and Margaritas had high nutritional value, but she said I was an idiot, and I think she is probably right. I try to eat 3 meals and 3 healthy snacks every day. I also drink a mid-afternoon protein shake that I make in the most awesome infomercial item ever made: The Magic Bullet. On top of the eating thing, I also exercise. I still don’t love it, and I have never experienced that endorphin thing, but I do it anyway. I try to do things that are fun, so they don’t feel as much like exercise. I like to ride my bike, go for walks, hula-hoop, and do my Wii Fit. I also like to get on my treadmill. I don’t run, but I walk briskly at a 10 incline, which is like going up a hill. I do this while I watch the Today Show. Where In The World Is Matt Lauer? Well, I picture him at the top of my make-believe hill, holding strawberries and massage oils, and I climb my ass off (literally).
-Photo From US Weekly-
The One About Organizing
The One About Organizing
Okay, so I used to be anal. Not the dirty kind, but the very, very clean kind. I liked everything to be organized and as close to perfect as possible. Martha Stewart was my God, and I was her minion. I couldn’t be stopped: I cooked, I cleaned, I organized, I threatened the life of my husband, or anyone else who dared to mess with “The Museum”, as our neighbor’s lovingly (?) called our home. I had lists, and files, and containers, and labels, and charts, and on and on and on. I had it all. I had organization. This was my drug. Then in 2001 I had a baby.
I had accepted the fact, that things might be in disarray for a month or two after bringing this noisy, poopy, pukey creature and all of his accessories, into my museum. I thought that once we settled in, everything would be as it was before. I was wrong. I was really too busy to even notice how bad it was, which may have been a blessing. I am sure that there were little hints here and there. For example, I started making frozen meals for dinner on a regular basis. If I dropped anything on the floor, I just kicked it underneath something else. Instead of folding laundry, I employed the SFBTB method (straight from basket to body). I could no longer watch Martha because it made me want to hurt her and all of her bitchy perfection. I didn’t actually have my wake-up call until 2 different events took place. #1) I took my 4-year-old son to the zoo, and made it to the parking spot, before realizing the he wasn’t wearing any pants or shoes; and #2) I went to Target with a pair of underwear stuck to the back of my shirt, via static cling. And they weren’t even cute underwear; they were “time of the month” underwear. After these 2 evens occurred in close succession, I realized I needed to dig deep and find my less bitchy, slightly more relaxed, inner Martha once again.
I started slowly: Tuesdays and Thursdays were my “organizing days”. I would make a list on Monday, of what I wanted to tackle that week, and I would spend those days getting something organized. Sometimes a closet, sometimes a cabinet, just a little at a time. The more I did, the better I felt. It is amazing, but that guy on Oprah with the glasses and the accent is right: If your house is cluttered, your life will be cluttered too.
Now, my son is almost 8, and I am back to my old efficient self, minus the Martha worship, and the OCD. I keep everything labeled and organized, so that our lives will run smoother. My friends also hire me to do the same for them. Nobody wants to be digging around in the mornings looking for clean clothes, doing homework in the car on the way to school, realizing you have nothing to pack in your kids lunchbox except for a squishy apple and a breath mint. Being organized can clear your head, and give you more time to spend with your family. Plus, nobody wants to drop their kid off at school with no pants or shoes on.
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