All The Girls Walk By, Dressed Up For Each Other
For my 29th birthday, I decided it would be a good time to grow the hell up and start wearing a watch. Mike, who in case you didn't know works in the beauty/fashion industry now, informed me that I should get with the program and get a big hunk of a watch. Already appreciating the revival of gold tone for some time, I let it be known that a big gold boyfriend watch would suit. Anything to replace the Scoop watch that was one link away from death in my purse. By the way, how the hell does that brand get away with being pricey?
So birthday dinner came with a cute little tin and the watch that was exactly what I had imagined. I was happy to get a gift and happy to know that I wouldn't puke upon seeing the price on our bank statement. One thing that threw me off was the worry on Mike's face as he gave it to me. After the usual, "Do you like it?" came an onslaught of other possible watches I could exchange this one for. "I was looking at this Marc Jacobs one and I thought you may like the Michael Kors or Coach one too but then I remembered we have to pay the floor guy so I hope you're not upset that this wasn't too expensive." Hello? My favorite pair of shoes just came from Salvation Army for $2.50. Did you forget who you married?
I worked with a guy who once asked me what brand of jeans I was wearing (I think they were Mossimo). I can't remember much more than his reaction - puzzled - followed by him pointing to his ass, "These are True Religion." I didn't know what white stitching meant then and that made him even more confused. I later saw him on a double date - his girl, and her left and right Valentino heels. It made sense then. He was just trying to make conversation based on what he thought most women liked. Was my oblivion paired with my penny pinching unattractive to him?
Mike - who asks for Fred Perry polos every Christmas because he is too cheap to buy them for himself -really threw me off with this temporary interest in expense. I was puzzled by his worry before I realized that he just wanted my gift to be special. I started thinking about how life would be for us if the brand Fossil really did piss me off. Not to toot my own horn too much, but by surrounding myself with supportive, like-minded women-friends, I really feel like the world is my fashion cornucopia and Mike, my handsome pilgrim - reminding me to simultaneously make my own way while embracing the occasional current fashion kernel. I'm not knocking nice things, or the people who spend money on them, I just appreciate the challenge of finding your wife the perfect b-day gift for under 100 bucks. Way to go, Honey.
For my 29th birthday, I decided it would be a good time to grow the hell up and start wearing a watch. Mike, who in case you didn't know works in the beauty/fashion industry now, informed me that I should get with the program and get a big hunk of a watch. Already appreciating the revival of gold tone for some time, I let it be known that a big gold boyfriend watch would suit. Anything to replace the Scoop watch that was one link away from death in my purse. By the way, how the hell does that brand get away with being pricey?
So birthday dinner came with a cute little tin and the watch that was exactly what I had imagined. I was happy to get a gift and happy to know that I wouldn't puke upon seeing the price on our bank statement. One thing that threw me off was the worry on Mike's face as he gave it to me. After the usual, "Do you like it?" came an onslaught of other possible watches I could exchange this one for. "I was looking at this Marc Jacobs one and I thought you may like the Michael Kors or Coach one too but then I remembered we have to pay the floor guy so I hope you're not upset that this wasn't too expensive." Hello? My favorite pair of shoes just came from Salvation Army for $2.50. Did you forget who you married?
I worked with a guy who once asked me what brand of jeans I was wearing (I think they were Mossimo). I can't remember much more than his reaction - puzzled - followed by him pointing to his ass, "These are True Religion." I didn't know what white stitching meant then and that made him even more confused. I later saw him on a double date - his girl, and her left and right Valentino heels. It made sense then. He was just trying to make conversation based on what he thought most women liked. Was my oblivion paired with my penny pinching unattractive to him?
Mike - who asks for Fred Perry polos every Christmas because he is too cheap to buy them for himself -really threw me off with this temporary interest in expense. I was puzzled by his worry before I realized that he just wanted my gift to be special. I started thinking about how life would be for us if the brand Fossil really did piss me off. Not to toot my own horn too much, but by surrounding myself with supportive, like-minded women-friends, I really feel like the world is my fashion cornucopia and Mike, my handsome pilgrim - reminding me to simultaneously make my own way while embracing the occasional current fashion kernel. I'm not knocking nice things, or the people who spend money on them, I just appreciate the challenge of finding your wife the perfect b-day gift for under 100 bucks. Way to go, Honey.
SeaWorld
Pro - God bless them for putting a baby changing station in every single male bathroom on the grounds. Mike and I try to adhere to a ping-pong style of wiping Penn's dirty butt. Sometimes there are exceptions like Mike having 2 poops in a row and me sliding in on his turn to offer some relief (I think it's fair to say 5 pees is still better than 3 poops) but when we are out in public, it is usually a one sided match. I am the only butt-wiper because there is no place for Mike to comfortably go. No one wants a 6"4' man in the ladies room, even if he is stunningly attractive like my husband. This last outing to SeaWorld was the first and possibly last time for a while that Mike and I will be able to trade off. This is my formal offer of a plea bargain to the public restroom people... Give moms a break and we will be more apt to keep the poop bomb diaper out of your public trash can.
Con - A tortilla, shredded iceberg lettuce and pale pink tomatoes will never constitute a suitable "veggie wrap". I know that overpriced theme park food is one step above eating at the hospital, but how can you live with yourself by offering a vegetarian option whose only two ingredients, one of which is technically a fruit, have the lowest nutritional value off all vegetables? It's 2011, SeaWorld. I'm not asking for seitan cutlets or stuffed acorn squash but even slow food chains such as Chili's, home of b-b-b-Baby Back Bibs (frozen on arrival) offer a black bean burger option. I'm guessing your average vegan doesn't jump up one morning and decide to drop 80 bucks on an all year pass to Anheuser Busch's corporate step-child, SeaWorld, but times have changed (and people have seen Food Inc.). Not all tourists are satisfied with a 20 dollar turkey leg and an 8 dollar Diet Pepsi. Although the turkey legs remind me of being 7 and going to the Renaissance Festival (which was a one time thing, don't judge), Pepsi, in any form is never acceptable. Step up your food game.
*Captivity was a con until I saw some tore-up Sea Lions who were once stuck in a dam and facing "euthanasia". SeaWorld was the only place that would take them in. It's not the best life, but they're trying.
After watching Penn point at fish in a restaurant aquarium for 2 hours straight, we decided it would be a good idea to take him to SeaWorld. I have one pro and one con to offer - aside from the obvious amazement in Shamu's new baby and the necessary evil that is Florida tourism*
Pro - God bless them for putting a baby changing station in every single male bathroom on the grounds. Mike and I try to adhere to a ping-pong style of wiping Penn's dirty butt. Sometimes there are exceptions like Mike having 2 poops in a row and me sliding in on his turn to offer some relief (I think it's fair to say 5 pees is still better than 3 poops) but when we are out in public, it is usually a one sided match. I am the only butt-wiper because there is no place for Mike to comfortably go. No one wants a 6"4' man in the ladies room, even if he is stunningly attractive like my husband. This last outing to SeaWorld was the first and possibly last time for a while that Mike and I will be able to trade off. This is my formal offer of a plea bargain to the public restroom people... Give moms a break and we will be more apt to keep the poop bomb diaper out of your public trash can.
*Captivity was a con until I saw some tore-up Sea Lions who were once stuck in a dam and facing "euthanasia". SeaWorld was the only place that would take them in. It's not the best life, but they're trying.
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| Penn in the Soak Zone |
Thrift's Not Dead
My brother’s girlfriend makes me sick. She only washes her face in the shower, sleeps in her mascara and wears it out the next day, never looks bad and never has a zit. She also never pays more than $1.99 for any piece of clothing. She has mastered the art of thrifting years after I gave up on “The Sal” as she calls it. She’s younger than me and has more energy to dig, but I have a hard time understanding how she still finds anything much less the amazing outfits she shows up to Christmas in.
Teresa (the GF) insists that half-off Wednesdays at the Salvation Army in Tampa have taken over her wardrobe, saved her wallet, and also quenched her thirst for shopping. I need all of the above and I am ready for her to prove me wrong. Since I have showed an interest again, she has already dropped off 2 blazers and 4 silky awesome work shirts she picked up for me (under 20 bucks). I am dedicating this blog post not to entertain or to vent, but to hold myself accountable to revisiting something I once loved to do. Let’s see what we can find.
My brother’s girlfriend makes me sick. She only washes her face in the shower, sleeps in her mascara and wears it out the next day, never looks bad and never has a zit. She also never pays more than $1.99 for any piece of clothing. She has mastered the art of thrifting years after I gave up on “The Sal” as she calls it. She’s younger than me and has more energy to dig, but I have a hard time understanding how she still finds anything much less the amazing outfits she shows up to Christmas in.
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| Teresa in a blouse from 1974 and mascara from last night |
My days of digging tapered off as I stopped wearing vintage ad tees & jelly bracelets. I found that each trip to Goodwill produced less finds unless I wanted a Barbara Streisand LP or a Florida Blood Services “I donated” XXL t-shirt. Where did all the gems go? The vintage petticoats and wool pencil skirts? They went to another retailer of course. Today, some eager twenty-something’s job description includes the following: drive to every thrift store in town, snag a dead retiree’s 1960’s Chanel Peacoat, pay $3.99, snap a pic, sell it on eBay for $150.00 and repeat. Sometimes they find stuff, sometimes they don’t. What they do find, they keep me from wearing! Since they have picked up the pace, I have deemed thrift stores a moderate waste of time. I don’t have the energy to put forth. So what are my options if I want to be classically clad and not drop anything bigger than a Lincoln?
Teresa (the GF) insists that half-off Wednesdays at the Salvation Army in Tampa have taken over her wardrobe, saved her wallet, and also quenched her thirst for shopping. I need all of the above and I am ready for her to prove me wrong. Since I have showed an interest again, she has already dropped off 2 blazers and 4 silky awesome work shirts she picked up for me (under 20 bucks). I am dedicating this blog post not to entertain or to vent, but to hold myself accountable to revisiting something I once loved to do. Let’s see what we can find.
nanny [ˈnænɪ]
While scouring the internet for possible nannies, (I know, doesn’t seem like the safest place to start, but the only recommendation I had so far came from my daytime drunk neighbor whose 6 year old daughter told me to ‘shove-it’) I came across a website that offers background checks, a rating system, as well as hashing out all of the first interview questions like schedule and cost. After paying $30, I posted a listing and waited for women to “apply” for the grind that would be watching my son full time while Mike and I work. After sorting through 37 applications, I came out with about 10 people I was interested in meeting. There were some pretty obvious no’s – like Tiff, the 21 year old cosmetology student who “thinks she could be great with kids” and Barbara, whose activity section started with “videos” and whose picture suggested she hadn’t left her couch since Christmas 1986. “Although I see the appeal, Barb, we are going to have to agree to disagree that you and Penn splitting a pound of bacon counts as a healthy lunch. Love your gem sweater though.”
After narrowing down the candidates based on first internet impressions, I spent about a day questioning my methods. Was I dismissing perfectly good caregivers based on their creepy picture or disregard for email etiquette? I decided to give one reply a second look.
I exchanged a few emails with Beth before she would give me her address – good. She had two young boys of her own – a plus. She considers herself very active – great. We agreed to meet at 4pm on Friday and feel each other out. Did she need to call and confirm that I would be there? Nope. If I say I will be there at 4pm, barring a shark attack or severe case of random uncontrollable vomiting, I will be there at 4pm.
Friday rolled around and at 3:30, Mike, P-man and I were ready to go. Embracing the year 2010, I sent a quick text to let Beth know that we were on our way. Here’s how that went:
Me: Hi, Beth. It’s Lesley. I wanted to let you know we are on our way. See you at 4.
Beth: aww, we r nt home n u didnt call 2 confirm call me 2 nite.
Me: Sorry. I thought we were set on 4. I am making the decision tonight but I will let you know if anything changes. Thanks for your time!
Beth: k. gud luk with it.
My first thought of, “What the hell was that?” turned into my usual way of feeling guilty for not calling to confirm. What is the normal practice for appointment making in nanny-land? Is this like the salon or pediatrician where they call to remind you the day before? Was I being unprofessional? Should I give her a meeting because I screwed up? What if this is her only source of income?!
I turned to Mike and explained that we wouldn’t be meeting with Beth because I didn’t call to confirm the appointment. Mike looked a bit perplexed as I am not usually one to have hiccups in my plans. “I thought you two agreed on 4? What did she say?” I grabbed my blackberry and pulled up the string of texts. Before reading them to him I thought about this whole hiring process. I had encountered no-shows, no-calls and of course, Bacon Barbara, but this spelling of “good” was perhaps the most glaring sign of NO to date – so much that I started laughing out loud. Immediately, in combat with the thought that I may sound like a snob, and almost ready to throw my hand over my own mouth, I said to Mike, “There is no way this chick who can’t even spell “good” is going to be watching my kid.” Mike: “Our kid.” Right, right, our kid.
The egalitarian inside of me died a little that moment and while trying to stay true to my ideals that everyone should be given a chance, I contemplated Beth’s education, character and possible excuses for poor text grammar, a medium which currently offers the most leniency amongst the Caesars of language. The only response I could come up with was – not with my kid.
Have I changed? Am I lacking in the once flourishing Art Of Compassion? Or do I simply want someone to take each moment with or about my child as seriously as I do? I’m leaning towards the last but not after a severe self-beating. I must be acting completely irrational and cruel. Oh no! I am sliding to the right! I even pictured the first conversation I would have with my father after I voted Tea Party in the 2012 presidential race. He says, “I told you so.” I do have a problem with jumping the gun on worst case scenarios.
Never really having to judge or make this type of decision before, I tapped into some unwanted feelings. After giving the thumbs up or down to a person’s verbiage, punctuation and jeeze - online photo, I was a wreck. Was there any other way to do it? Mike reassured me that this woman was looking for a job and if she wanted it badly enough, she would have stepped her game up. It took me a second to get off my own back, and Mike was right. Neither of us could have sent a “gud luk” text to our current employers and expected a call back.
Feeling relieved about not having to meet another stranger – Mike and I decided to take the afternoon to spend at the park. As I walked out the door, I grabbed my phone to put in my pocket. There was a text from Ms. Staci, another woman we met with earlier in the week who was currently at the top of the list.
Staci: “Hi Lesley! I just wanted to let you know how nice it was to meet your family. I also have an update on the food program. Rather than you bringing food for your son, I am going to update the menu with organics for all the kids and more veggie options. Call me tomorrow!”
I hope Ms. Staci is as “gud” as her text suggests. Updates to come.
While scouring the internet for possible nannies, (I know, doesn’t seem like the safest place to start, but the only recommendation I had so far came from my daytime drunk neighbor whose 6 year old daughter told me to ‘shove-it’) I came across a website that offers background checks, a rating system, as well as hashing out all of the first interview questions like schedule and cost. After paying $30, I posted a listing and waited for women to “apply” for the grind that would be watching my son full time while Mike and I work. After sorting through 37 applications, I came out with about 10 people I was interested in meeting. There were some pretty obvious no’s – like Tiff, the 21 year old cosmetology student who “thinks she could be great with kids” and Barbara, whose activity section started with “videos” and whose picture suggested she hadn’t left her couch since Christmas 1986. “Although I see the appeal, Barb, we are going to have to agree to disagree that you and Penn splitting a pound of bacon counts as a healthy lunch. Love your gem sweater though.”
After narrowing down the candidates based on first internet impressions, I spent about a day questioning my methods. Was I dismissing perfectly good caregivers based on their creepy picture or disregard for email etiquette? I decided to give one reply a second look.
I exchanged a few emails with Beth before she would give me her address – good. She had two young boys of her own – a plus. She considers herself very active – great. We agreed to meet at 4pm on Friday and feel each other out. Did she need to call and confirm that I would be there? Nope. If I say I will be there at 4pm, barring a shark attack or severe case of random uncontrollable vomiting, I will be there at 4pm.
Friday rolled around and at 3:30, Mike, P-man and I were ready to go. Embracing the year 2010, I sent a quick text to let Beth know that we were on our way. Here’s how that went:
Me: Hi, Beth. It’s Lesley. I wanted to let you know we are on our way. See you at 4.
Beth: aww, we r nt home n u didnt call 2 confirm call me 2 nite.
Me: Sorry. I thought we were set on 4. I am making the decision tonight but I will let you know if anything changes. Thanks for your time!
Beth: k. gud luk with it.
My first thought of, “What the hell was that?” turned into my usual way of feeling guilty for not calling to confirm. What is the normal practice for appointment making in nanny-land? Is this like the salon or pediatrician where they call to remind you the day before? Was I being unprofessional? Should I give her a meeting because I screwed up? What if this is her only source of income?!
I turned to Mike and explained that we wouldn’t be meeting with Beth because I didn’t call to confirm the appointment. Mike looked a bit perplexed as I am not usually one to have hiccups in my plans. “I thought you two agreed on 4? What did she say?” I grabbed my blackberry and pulled up the string of texts. Before reading them to him I thought about this whole hiring process. I had encountered no-shows, no-calls and of course, Bacon Barbara, but this spelling of “good” was perhaps the most glaring sign of NO to date – so much that I started laughing out loud. Immediately, in combat with the thought that I may sound like a snob, and almost ready to throw my hand over my own mouth, I said to Mike, “There is no way this chick who can’t even spell “good” is going to be watching my kid.” Mike: “Our kid.” Right, right, our kid.
The egalitarian inside of me died a little that moment and while trying to stay true to my ideals that everyone should be given a chance, I contemplated Beth’s education, character and possible excuses for poor text grammar, a medium which currently offers the most leniency amongst the Caesars of language. The only response I could come up with was – not with my kid.
Have I changed? Am I lacking in the once flourishing Art Of Compassion? Or do I simply want someone to take each moment with or about my child as seriously as I do? I’m leaning towards the last but not after a severe self-beating. I must be acting completely irrational and cruel. Oh no! I am sliding to the right! I even pictured the first conversation I would have with my father after I voted Tea Party in the 2012 presidential race. He says, “I told you so.” I do have a problem with jumping the gun on worst case scenarios.
Never really having to judge or make this type of decision before, I tapped into some unwanted feelings. After giving the thumbs up or down to a person’s verbiage, punctuation and jeeze - online photo, I was a wreck. Was there any other way to do it? Mike reassured me that this woman was looking for a job and if she wanted it badly enough, she would have stepped her game up. It took me a second to get off my own back, and Mike was right. Neither of us could have sent a “gud luk” text to our current employers and expected a call back.
Feeling relieved about not having to meet another stranger – Mike and I decided to take the afternoon to spend at the park. As I walked out the door, I grabbed my phone to put in my pocket. There was a text from Ms. Staci, another woman we met with earlier in the week who was currently at the top of the list.
Staci: “Hi Lesley! I just wanted to let you know how nice it was to meet your family. I also have an update on the food program. Rather than you bringing food for your son, I am going to update the menu with organics for all the kids and more veggie options. Call me tomorrow!”
I hope Ms. Staci is as “gud” as her text suggests. Updates to come.
cleaning up and out.
My parents called us yesterday, asking us to assist in cleaning out the upstairs closet of their home. Cleaning anything at my parents' house can be a daunting task as there is always one child still living upstairs, lounging in the loft, their former apartment decor tossed about as the 3 Labradors growl at the cat that is now occupying what was supposed to be a guest room. This did not scare me.
Mike and I got up this morning, knowing I had to be into work after noon, and headed to the lake house. He wanted to know how long it was going to take and I assured him we would get it done in a flash and then spend the rest of the time drinking mimosas or sitting by the fire or better yet, both. I figured I would grab a yearbook or two, throw out some old pictures of people I didn't even know anymore and be on my way. What I failed to realize is that going through your old crap not only takes time, it takes emotional stamina, both from you and the ones who are brave enough to offer help.
I don't know what the proper responses should have been, but I wanted more than, "cool" when I showed off the ceramic tribal mask I had been saving from 2nd grade, made by none other than yours truly. "What are you going to do with this? Hang it up?" Mike laughed. I thought about it for a second before placing the mask in the trash pile. He was right. What would I do with it? We sorted through a few more books and papers, keeping my report cards in a folder (for proof that Mommy was a good student) and tossed my oragamied love notes from my first boyfriend and Sega Genesis partner, John (no one should ever read a 6th grade-me dropping the L-bomb in bad cursive ever again). We were making some real progress and Mike seemed to be on a helpful roll. It was nice to have some assistance in validating my cleansing decisions. Next item up for question was my denim cassette tape holder I got for my 7th birthday.
Mike opened it up and read through a few tapes: Amy Grant, Jimi Hendrix, Green Day, Mariah Carey, Operation Ivy, MC Hammer.... He then put it in the Goodwill pile, looking up to me, making sure not to offend. I nodded and continued to sort. The stone-washed zippered Voyager, with an adjustable shoulder strap didn't make it more than 30 seconds in that to-go pile before I pulled it out and put it next to my High School diploma. And while I was at it, the tribal mask was coming back too. I suddenly felt violated. "Why are you trying to make me throw away all of my stuff?!" Of course he wasn't, and of course he was only trying to help, but what we both failed to realize is that your own junk is hard to let go of, especially if it was not formerly junk to you. Living in our apartment has brought on a new need to purge, but I was not ready to give up a lot of this stuff, even if it meant it would sit in boxes until the next time we decided to "clean out".
Perhaps the act should be renamed to include the drawn out hours of nostalgic reliving that accompany the cleaning. "Remembering Your Rubbish," "Having Jollies with Your Junk," "No Loss while you Toss?" Ugh who knows. All I do know is that the next place we live better have an attic because there is no way I am willing to part with my Beatrix Potter bunny until I feel sure about it, even if she does sit in a wad of tissue paper underneath my Glamour Shots from 1994.
penn.
After months of baby blogging, I had baby. After baby, I could not bring myself to sit down and write the long-awaited, in my mind at least, postpartum entry. Though it has not been confirmed if anyone would even be looking to read one, no written sentiment, nor medium with which to express, suited. How would I possibly spout out some endearing new discovery on motherhood that compared to my prenatal revelations of grandeur (cloth diapering)? My voice had surely changed since the days of clicking select all and spreading my hopes to anyone who would read.
After months of baby blogging, I had baby. After baby, I could not bring myself to sit down and write the long-awaited, in my mind at least, postpartum entry. Though it has not been confirmed if anyone would even be looking to read one, no written sentiment, nor medium with which to express, suited. How would I possibly spout out some endearing new discovery on motherhood that compared to my prenatal revelations of grandeur (cloth diapering)? My voice had surely changed since the days of clicking select all and spreading my hopes to anyone who would read.
My cousin, full term at her baby shower, was entering the late stage of pregnancy that challenges a woman's acquired ability to accept comments regarding her body, personal life and too often - vagina. These final weeks, when we are so swollen and sick of talking about the baby or when s/he's due - sick of talking about the nursery, the drugs, our breasts and feeding with them. We are absolutely sick of talking about anything really, much less the cause of discomfort which may just stay inside of us forever. I knew my cousin had reached this point when she said, If one more woman comes up to me and tells me how much I am going to love my baby the moment I meet her, I'm going to puke. I agreed too loudly, causing some heads to turn. She was annoyed that someone was questioning her ability to love and I was annoyed because all I could think about was that I still had stitches in my lady parts and it had been 8 weeks already. Was something wrong with me because I was not jumping up and down while crying happy tears and rejoicing that he was finally here? Why couldn't I think of anything but how horrible I was feeling? The ramp up to Penn's birth was so focused. It seemed as though the validity of my entire life depended upon the glorious moment in which he entered the world. No one cared who I was before squeezing the little guy out - I was now Penn's mother. I was Penn's mother and I was floating outside of my torn body watching it all happen, rather than having the hours of pookietime baby bliss I had anticipated. What the hell was I feeling and why wasn't it exactly as all these women had described? I now know they were in a different place. They were sleeping and their bodies in one piece - no trouble walking, no spontaneous crying and definitely no bleeding nipples. By some evolutionary magic, they had forgotten the birth completely! From that moment on, I vowed to tell my new-mother friends the whole truth before I was blinded by a full night's sleep, giggles and clapping baby hands. This mission may seem threatening and distasteful, but I only had the Mommies' best interest in mind. Shouldn't someone?
Before you deem me an unfit mother who doesn't love her son, let me explain all of the forceful feelings (and hormones) that were flowing through my body. It was like PMS and fight-or-flight had an all-night booze-induced rendezvous and I was feeling the hangover while simultaneously being drugged with love potion. I was nuts about him, overprotective and pretty much insane. I would imagine people climbing through the window and plot how I was going to murder them before they could get near him. I was obsessed with kissing his face while still worrying that I wasn't being affectionate enough, that somehow, he would grow up emotionally void, his brain unable to flourish, his cortex stunted. I was annoyed that his diaper needed to be changed so often, yet I would often pull off dry diapers because I was so worried about him contracting an infant urinary tract infection that would ruin his boy-parts for life. I had never loved something so much in my life, while simultaneously becoming miserable and pretty much on the road to whacko. My days were a blur of absolute joy and utter despair. Worse than this blur was the fear that it would never end. Had anyone told me that this was going to be the scariest couple months of my life? Maybe someone hinted to a sleepless night or labor pains, but jeeze, I was 8 weeks out and still hadn't slept more than 4 hours, not to mention the feeling that my body could fall out from between my legs at any moment. Do women feel that their abilities as a mother are best exhibited by pretending that it's a piece of cake or was I just bad at it? Not even the maddening love of my baby boy could save me from this rut. I had it bad and all I could do was hate myself for not feeling back to normal right away - after all, women give birth in huts and dirt and in fields while working. Why couldn't I just get it together and quit being such a whiney bitch?!
Throughout my experience, I shared the photos and told the baby's firsts, dumping my joy onto anyone who would listen. Was I lying to them by only sharing the good parts? Depends on the audience I guess, considering I felt slighted by the half complete tales from other women, none of which included the setbacks. During the joys and milestones, my vow stayed alive, although thankfully, I began to emerge out of the scaries. The easier mommy hood got, the more I remembered how much it sucked in the first few weeks and my plan stood firm to share this terror with the first pregnant friend I came in contact with, only to find myself speechless when one little round lady came waddling up to me. I didn't want to scare her. So as of today I am stuck with the dilemma of to tell or not to tell on a case by case basis. I’m also left wondering if someone did tell me. Did I choose to ignore them while basking in the daydreams of a cryless baby who lounged on my chest all day as I caught up on my Madmen episodes? I remember the tales of the pain (which wasn’t so bad) and the warnings of what might end up on the table when you attempt to push the baby out (it’s amazing how little you care about poo at the time), but had anyone ever really sat me down and said, Listen Honey, this is about to be some scary shit, but YOU WILL BE OKAY?
Recently, another friend of mine came limping up, baby in hand, wanting to know when the hell she would feel like herself again. I thought about my current dilemma and decided that I cared enough about her to say - absolutely never. You won't be able to go inside the 7-11 when you're getting gas, and grocery shopping is kind of a joke (until baby likes cheerios), forget sleeping and YES you will feel like you have an anvil between your legs for 8 weeks blah blah blah... but in about 9 months, when you finally get the hang of it, you will feel like the old you was a whiney little bitch and everything will be more wonderful than you ever expected. Just as long as she knows there isn’t something wrong with her for feeling like an absolute psycho in the beginning.
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