When the Levi's break or The Boombastic Butt Break-Out!

You can only use the excuse, "I just had a baby," for so long. I'm going to try and milk it until Quinn graduates high school, but I'm guessing no one will buy it. I had two very important, very embarrassing wake-up calls in the past months regarding my butt and its ample girth.
The first followed an epiphany I had one evening, upon glancing at my face in the mirror. I was stuffing a piece of sauce soaked bread into it's hole at the time. It hearkened me back to the days before Evan. The (taco) Salad days, when I drank too much, ate too much and avoided mirrors in order to maintain absolute denial regarding my bloat and how rampant it was becoming. I had sauce on my over sized sweatshirt, on my chin and chipmunk cheeks loaded with carbs and butter. I made a vow to lose 15lbs by April and joined MG's (what used to be Mike's Gym, now franchised.) The following night after Chris got home and the kids were settled, I dusted off the two sizes, too small workout gear and headed out, sucked in and ready to sweat. A note to anyone in my predicament. If your sports bra is two sizes too small, even though the girls feel tucked and tight, they aren't. That being said, I started the night on the treadmill and ended the night, less than 30 minutes later, on the treadmill. The event played out like this. I step on the treadmill, I'm feeling good. I start running and sweating, and I'm still feeling good. I catch two younger gentleman across the way "checking me out", I'm feeling really good. I watch their eyes crinkle and thier brows furrow, first in confusion, then in disgust. I feel a gentle patting against my overly rotund belly, along with a quietly tapping, tribal rhythm. I'm afraid to look down, but need to confirm what I already know. And there, for all to see, is my floppy, engorged, boob, dangling near my navel and "the turkey's done", if you know what I mean. Thankfully it was under my shirt, but again, because my outfit was two sizes to small, every roll, hole and mole was visible; and before you question why I would wear clothes like that out of the house, I will tell you I thought they were tight enough to keep all of my hanging parts in one cohesive unit. Also, it was that or pajamas, because I'm far too cheap to buy new clothes when I have perfectly good, perfectly small ones sitting in my bureau. I was mortified, as you can imagine and did what any perfectly rational, almost middle-aged woman, who "just had a baby" (6 months ago) would do. I quit the gym.
The second wake-up call happened during a play date with my son and my friends, so the embarrassment factor was at a 99.5, as opposed to the previous scenario's 100+ rating. Because I "just had a baby", everything I own pre-pregnancy is the afore mentioned, two sizes too small. With the incident at the gym behind me, yet always present, I went out and bought jeans in the larger size, finally being realistic in the notion of anything fitting me, anytime soon. I was rockin' the muffin top, but I stretched them and did the deep,knee bends and with a long enough tunic, the dough that's covering my mid-section was out of sight and out of mind. At the time of the incident, said jeans were pretty much brand new. They hadn't nearly seen enough action to be retired. I was on the floor with Quinn, reaching across for a toy when the Levi's broke. I felt the gentle breeze and thanked Jesus I had decided to wear underwear and not the thong I had originally picked out. My friends and I quickly put together a list of theories as to why new denim had suddenly surrendered to my ass. I play hard. I'm constantly on the floor with the kids and that puts wear and tear in the seat. I used bleach, which weakens the fibers. In the end, my friend threw her hands in the air and said, "For Christ's sake you just had a baby. What do you expect?"
In the aftermath of what I will refer to as FlabGate, I have done a complete sugar exorcism to my cabinets. As the east coast warms, I will be out on the streets in your neighborhood, running...when the seismic waves occur there will, hopefully, be no mass panicking. I'm going to try to engage Carmen Electra, as she shows me how to lunge, squat and jump my way back into my old clothes. I don't know what to expect, but I know what everyone without vision impairment should expect. My ass in leggings. Avert your eyes accordingly.

Mover Madness: AKA The day my musical tastebuds died...

I celebrated my 34th birthay last week. It has nothing to do with anything I'm about to write, but it puts things in context. I am the eternal "emo" kid. The punk-a-doo who refused to let her child listen to children's music of any kind. The mom who was going to feed her little music monster in the making, a strict diet of The White Stripes, Randy, Elvis Costello and Death Cab for Cutie...or, anything with Ben Gibbard's name attached. It was going so well. Ev was requesting to hear The Clash at breakfast and singing along to Vampire Weekend in the car. That was before Disney Channel overtook Ev's interest and he was introduced to a little band called "The Imagination Movers". For those of you who aren't aware, they are four gentlemen, in matching jumpsuits who sing, bungle through some over-choreographed dance numbers and solve problems by using their...imaginations, riiiiight. I was intent on hating them. I was going to revolt with every fiber in my being, until I found every fiber in my being pat-a-pattin' in time to the G-rated grooves. Their lyrics are only significant to those unaware that lack of dental hygiene, leads to tooth decay. Yet,I'm enjoying the harmless saccharine of thier music in a way that frightens and confuses me. On my drive to work, though I had a choice of The Raconteurs, The Fugees and Elliot Smith, ready to go in the 6 disc, I listened to my son's "In A Big Warehouse" cd and rocked out. I was mortified and yet helpless to stop myself. (The Warehouse, by the way, is where the Imagination Movers solve all their big problems...just in case you were curious.) So, where does my birthday come into this? I've spent the better part of 20 years cultivating my musical personality. The artists and albums in my collection represent hundreds of hours of memorization and scrutiny and each is a marker of signifigance in my personal history. Tonight, that single choice flushed all that wonderful work down the toliet. I'm now a "mover" mom. I'm not fully accepting of it. There's still one brain cell, weilding a guitar like a pickax, trying desperately to remove these dudes from my mind. I remember watching my dad go from playing air guitar with the Beatles, to passionately tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, to Jimmy Buffet and thinking, "What has happened to the man who helped me find my musical voice." Now I know. And I'm scared. Keep hacking away little brain cell. (On a sidenote: I have tickets to "The Imagination Movers" in concert and I'm pretty sure my excitement is something I should be more closely examining.)

Can't I just be sick...

I have just about every phobia known to man. Nyctophobia, Thanatophobia, AMBULOthanatophobia and don't get me started on my hyperchondriasis. The list of things I'm afraid of is long and ridiculous. And then, there's my phobia that my kids will one day bear the marks of my phobia's. I don't think there's a name for that yet, but I've decided to call it Becauseofmomophobia. I mention these things not because I think of any readers as psychologists, but because my son, daughter and husband are all, simultaneously sick, which is the worst thing that can happen to a hypochondriac with a toxic fear of death. I've been a dervish of symptom checks, palm-guided temperature gauging and sight deduced diagnosis. Mostly, I've been watching everyone around me for signs of death and it's driving my husband insane. He keeps sighing, "Can't I just be sick? I just want you to let me be sick." I can't. I wish I could. Truth be told, he'd probably feel better, sooner if I was physically capable of walking away from him and allowing him to wheeze, puke, shit and sleep without a constant pulse check. My neurosis actually woke him up during a much needed nap. When he asked what I was doing, I said I was taking his temperature, when I was really making sure he was still breathing. Crazy, right? You don't know the half. It's only gotten more severe with the onslaught of my children and their indefensible immune systems. Are they breathing? Are they keeping food down? What does my son mean when he says his "belly hurts"? Why does there have to be a million different possible diagnosis' for one symptom and why does my mind go to the most serious possibility of those possibilities? I constantly think about the awful things that could happen to my children, from abduction, to car accidents, to having them sleepwalk out of the house and into the frigid night...for real, I've thought about that and considered keeping a gate in the hallway just to stop it from happening. Don't you think I KNOW, how sick that sounds? I keep comparing all those horrendous things, to the mild sniffle and bout of diarrhea I'm currently dealing with, in the hopes that it will ease my furious meddling. However, all it's doing is making me think about all those awful things happening to them, WHILE they're sick. My three and a half year old son insisted today, and I quote, "Please stop asking if I'm okay. I'M FINE, MAMA!",after which, he pushed my hand off of his forehead. This infectious week has taught me that my family is resilient even in the face of nasty, slimy, stinky illness and that the only thing killing my patients is my bedside manner. No, they weren't dying of anything, but a strong desire to kill me.

I give strangers great, big hugs and am forcibly removed from the playground.

It's been a while, but I've been topless, coated in vomit and tired for almost three months now...try not to get jealous. The majority of this time was spent on the playground, hoping to tire out my toddler, who I now refer to as, "Don't Evan". I've been thinking of changing his name legally, as he no longer responds to just, "Evan". I have spent a lot of time studying the social customs of the four and under crowd. Their interactions, when truly pondered, are freaking odd. If I behaved toward my peers, strangers or not, in the same manner my son and his friends behave, I would be forcibly removed from the playground. Yet, there they are, acting outside of what I consider to be social norms and I don't bat an eyelash.

1. Hits and Hugs for everyone: Kids will put their hands on anyone and everyone they chose. Though I do discipline him for the hitting part, I tend to laugh off the hugging part. "Oh there goes my son, the hugging bandito!" I chuckle. I stop him from violently assaulting other kids, but when he molests total strangers, I coo it off, as if it's perfectly normal for him to walk up to people he doesn't know and wrap his arms around them. I keep trying to picture myself approaching another woman near the sandbox and embracing her before ever speaking a word. Creepy, right? No cooing. There are some people I've wanted to punch at the playground, but I'm pretty sure that would get me forcibly led to a police station.

2. That looks good. I think I'll have some: As far as a toddler is concerned the world is their refrigerator. It makes no difference if it's left on the table, sitting in dirt, or being clutched by another toddler. They also think every juice cup is their juice cup. Ugh. I, myself, have provided snacks for half of the playground at certain points and not by choice. There's this one kid who has a permanent,"Are you going to finish that" look on his chunky cheeks whenever snacks are doled out. For some reason, I see nothing wrong with allowing this to happen. One kid took a bite out of my apple, while I was in the process of eating it...I'm not fricking kidding...and it didn't bother me. Can you imagine another adult sticking their face in the feedbag without warning? Nibbling a cracker that's still in your fingers, or picking up your iced coffee and taking a huge gulp? Disgusting on so many levels and yet, when kids do it I shrug it off and continue as if nothing has happened.

3.LOOK AT MY BELLY BUTTON!: Why is it so cute when my son lifts his shirt up in public? Why do I not see this as public nudity and insist he cover himself? Would it be as cute if I were to pull my shirt up and stand in front of a random park goer, staring wildly? Would it be any less awkward if I had big, blue eyes? No, no it wouldn't. And, I'm in jail again. When my kids does it, it's adorable. When I do it, it's indecent exposure. Go figure. Underwear also falls into this category. I actually told Ev to show his friends his new underwear. If my mother ever came up to me while I was sitting with my group of gals and forced me to show them my panties, I'd be mortified. I guess this is more of a mothering anomaly than a toddler one. That should be another topic on another day.


I could go on all day, but I'm starting to fade out. It's almost 11, that makes it a banner night for me. Toddlers are little weirdos. I sometimes wonder if I tell myself, "This is normal, they all do this," just so I won't have to get up and modify his weirdo, toddler tendencies. But then I look out at the sea of little weirdos. Their shirts hoisted to their chins with one hand, stealing snacks with their other; sharing a hug, followed by a chug from a strange glass, that's been sitting on the wall half of the afternoon and I think about how normal this will all seem when I'm confronted with his weirdo, teenage tendancies.

Why bother with a Due Date? Refer to it as the time between getting knocked up and...whenever.

Today is my due date. I'm uncomfortable. I'm experiencing contractions that seem to serve no purpose other than aggravating me. When people ask "When are you due?" and I've told them, I've gotten an array of responses. I've been bombarded by remedies to aid in "speeding things along", regaled with stories about women who've spent more than a week at 7CM and furnished with both looks of sympathy and stifled giggles of pity. Then there are the phone calls and texts asking if there's a baby yet and though, I love everyone and want to inform them of everything, it's discouraging to have to continually answer in the negative. It's like an unending, spiteful jab, right into my uterus...which would actually,be quite welcome, in it's literal context. Here are the things I've heard this week that are driving me ape shit.

1. "Try....",insert food, beverage here. Yeah, you ate Chinese food 3 hours before you went into labor so there must be inducing qualities to the beef Lo Mein. Really, there's no way it could be a coincidence.
2. "Oh, honey, you could be like this for another day or two." Really. Is that necessary? Thankfully, I don't feel like I've been pregnant for an ETERNITY, so that little nugget is sure to make the next few days fly by.
3. "She'll come when she comes." Right up there with, #2. Just another reminder that I have lost control of not only my first child, but my unborn one as well.
4. "On the plus side, the fact that the contractions are getting stronger means you're getting closer." Closer is nowhere near HERE and I'm in pain, so forgive me if the positive side is a little pale to me at this moment. Did I mention I have a 3 year old who doesn't acknowledge the word "Ouch" exists?
5. "Honey, I had 2 kids and spent a week at 9CM. I know just what you're feeling, if not more." A cashier at Target told me this, unsolicited. She asked when I was due, I told her and she began a story that kept me standing, with a whining child and increasing uterine pressure,for an unwanted and extended period of time. Did I also mention I'm not that comfortable right now? I've heard several different interpretations of this same story, including one that involved a mom's ability to feel the baby's head, due to her being "soooo close." Right. I'm still hoping that one was sarcastic, over-exaggeration.

Finally, just for the record, there is NO ONE who feels less sexy, or horney, than a woman, late in her ninth month of pregnancy. If one more person tells me to "get it on", as a means of coaxing my far-too-comfortable child out of my womb, I'm going to whip down my granny panties and show them my overly swelled up nether region. I can't, presently, think of one thing that's more unappealing to me than being naked and/or having sex. Not to digress, but in my opinion, there is NOTHING less attractive than the baby battlefield, that was once my body. Things are hanging well below where they should be, veins are throbbing where veins should never be and fluids of different textures and smells seem to be oozing from every orifice. Fuck you, Demi Moore, Vogue and airbrushing, for trying to delude us preggos into thinking our hormone ravaged bodies are just as sexy, if not more, than they were prior to conception. Before you go off on me, I agree, motherhood is beautiful, pregnancy, a miracle; a thing of splendor in it's significance and meaning. But don't tell me, you can look at puffy, green-veined breasts, dangling as if tied to 100lb anvils, leaking yellow fluid and think, "God, I am HOT!" More to you if you can.

My family has a theory. Quinn, that's her name, can hear us and is refusing to come out until we've all left the premises. I'm hoping if we're all really quiet for the next couple of hours we'll convince her the loud, crazy, swearing assholes have left the building and it's safe to come out of hiding. Honestly, doctors and due dates can kiss my ass. I watch them with their little wheel, mapping out the weeks and marking them down. Pointless. You want to know the due date? Whenever. That's the fucking due date.

The bedroom isn't prison, it's a fallout shelter...STAY IN IT!

Today was a fairly long day. There were no ups or downs, just a monotone, shit line mapping out this morning to this minute. If this day were a specific noise, it would be that long hum, signaling the happy going from terminal to deceased. My day's cardiac monitor went flat at 11:00 this morning. Some days you just can't please a single person, even if that person is only 3 and is,usually,easily pleased with a plastic coat hanger. Did you ever get the feeling that your kid dislikes you? I know crazy right,but I spent half the day thinking about this and the other half not caring. I'm sure he doesn't...all the time...and it's just him feeling out his boundaries, but I'm sick of being tested! Of feeling like I can't have fun with my kid and he can't have fun with me, because I have to spend the majority of my day correcting certain behaviors. I know, I know, all kids test you. They push and push to see how far they can get you toward the edge. I've sought out and heard a lot of good advice regarding this never-ending battle of wills. The word control leaps to mind in each of these tidbits. I am a control freak and it would seem this is not conducive to my son, or his plans. I've let go of A LOT of things. Mealtimes are no longer dueling matches. Potty training is becoming less of an expectation and is progressively achieving more of a "do it, or don't", non-chalance. I've walked away from marker on the wall, let blocks fly across a room, watched juice glasses being emptied out onto rugs and furniture and I've done it while stifling the urge to throttle him within an inch of his life. My mother has a good theory. As long as it doesn't hurt anyone, the punishment should fit the crime. So, as long as there's no one around to bean in the head with blocks, it's okay he throws them and I make him pick them up and subsequently, take them away from him for a day or two. When the juice hits the rug or the marker adorns the wall, I hand him a towel and take the cup and/or the marker, informing him that he has to ask for it when he wants to actually drink from it,or use it for it's intended purpose. It's a good theory. Sometimes it works, sometimes he stares at the towel incredulously, like maybe I've just dropped it by accident. He's learning to control certain aspects of life around him and I feel like,everyday, I lose a little bit more control and a little bit more of my mind. I understand the concept and I know that you have to pick your battles, but there are far too many battles and I'm sick of conceding most of them, because they're not "important". Imagine? I'm 33 and I'm pissed because I'm not allowed to fight with my son for many reasons; most importantly his lack of understanding the actual concept of reason. Honestly, if kids actually came with a manual and we were smart enough to read it, would you bring them home? My mom asked me that once. I can tell you the answer would be a resounding, "NO". Okay, that's a partial lie. I love being a mom...most days. I love raising my kid, but I'll tell you, it's awful to feel your kid doesn't like you and trust me, I know how bizarre and ridiculous that statement sounds. I used to tell my mom I hated her all the time and that was when I was old enough to know the hurt I was causing. So am I crazy to be hurt by the notion? Ev's not stupid. He knows he doesn't like broccoli. He knows he doesn't like having his ears cleaned. Does it stand to reason that he might not like his mother because she's not fun, like daddy, doesn't spoil him, like Noni, won't baby him, like Auntie. There's a look that you get when you don't like someone or something, that can't be covered up especially by someone who isn't aware they're giving the look. I swear I've seen this look in his eyes and I'm positive I need to get over it, as it will only get more sneer-y and hurtful the older he gets. This is the role I've chosen to take on with him, but just once, I'd enjoy not having to think about relinquishing the control or the good time or the lollipop, in an effort to teach a lesson that won't be comprehended the first 10 times he's taught. Tonight, he pushed his small bookshelf over because I wouldn't let him watch a movie one half-hour before bed time. It wasn't an important battle, but I chose to fight it, because I'm sick of "letting go". I'm pretty sure he pictured me under the bookshelf as it came thundering down. I put him to bed early, after making him pick up every item he'd launched around his floor. I did it not because I needed the night to be over, which I did, nor, because he was tired, which he was, VERY, but because in those few minutes he'd made a choice. That shelf, hurtling toward the ground was a very deliberate action, made by a very smart three year old, who, I believe knew exactly what he was doing. His choice was, do I want to make it through the night or do I feel like I've lived long enough? He chose the latter and, despite that, I spared him. That, is control. (Side note: I would NEVER kill, hurt, torture or maim my son, but I'll be damned if he doesn't bring out the urge from time to time.)

It's Just A Friggin' Cookie!

I am tired. Really, fucking tired. I'm functioning on a modest, three and a half hours of sleep, I smell like vomit, I have two beds completely stripped of sheets and I still made it to work..Huzzah. Why didn't I shower before work, you might ask? Because, it would've involved an intricate pulley and lever system to keep me vertically inclined. Evan had pizza for dinner at 6:30 last night. He had it again, at 2:30 this morning, though I'm sure he didn't enjoy it nearly as much. I got up, stripped him, stripped his sheets and promptly made the decision, we would NOT go to the ER, as I believed this was nothing more than a bug. I brought him into our bed, an act I only do in two instances. 1. Fatigued desperation. 2. Complete pity. We watched some "Little Bear", had some "icy, coldy water" and I started to drift back to sleep. No less than 20 minutes later, the water made a reappearance, along with the remainder of his pizza and salad. I washed him off, cleaned up the mess and once again, reiterated that we would NOT go to the ER. This had to be a bug...right? More, "Little Bear", more water, more vomit. Should we take him to the ER? No...no, there was no need to sit anywhere for over 6 hours to be told what I thought I already knew. It will pass. He'll be fine. We move onto "Thomas" and he starts going comatose, I'm not awake, but still registering Thomas's annoying, blue blur and he vomits again. Now, I'm getting worried. Where is this powerful, mother's instinct that's supposed to help me know when somethings very wrong with my son and when I'm making mountains out of mole hills? Why can't I decide what recourse to take? How many sheets can I change? If I take him to the ER now, do I have to put on a bra and get dressed, or are puke dampened pajama's acceptable,given the environment we'd be entering? I didn't sleep again, but Evan finally did. Right there, in the crick of my arm with no idea, that I hadn't the faintest clue the right thing to do. Just trusting that I'd know how to make him feel better. I kept waiting for the instinct to kick me toward any direction. My intuition is keen. My instinct, not so much. I've never been a decisive person and it hasn't improved over time. My instincts, in regard to my son, don't come naturally to me and they're supposed to, aren't they? As I sat there at 5:45 in the morning, smelling bile, watching my son and listening to the morning "Eye Opener" tell me what to expect from mother nature, I realized I don't trust my instinct one bit. This was solidified by the hesitant but urgent, phone call I placed to my mother, who told me what I was already thinking, but needed approval on, for some reason. I'm pretty sure that part of it was that I just flat out didn't want to go into the ER...for obvious selfish reasons...and that caused me to question my motives, which then caused me to question my instinct. For the most part, though, I just felt like no matter what I did, I wouldn't be right and I hate that almost three years after his arrival, I'm still not sure if I'm making all the right decisions for him. It goes well beyond emergency room visits and bleeds into everyday. Am I feeding him the right things? Am I teaching him the right things? Am I giving him too much attention, not enough attention, too many sweets, too much television...the list goes on and on, which I'm sure every person with children feels, all the time. Am I putting way to much stress and expectation on every decision I make? It all goes back to that fear of mistakes every mom I know succumbs to, whether or not they want to. If I let him have a cookie after lunch and ice cream after dinner, am I setting up an unhealthy precedent for his future eating habits? It's a God damn cookie! Why can't it just be a cookie and not a gateway to obesity? Sometimes I think our doctors, teachers and the media are sucking our instinct right out of us. They question our judgement calls and so, we question our judgement calls. Every little thing we allow, every little pleasure we give them or give ourselves through them, could represent some potential harm to their adult well-being. I, for one, am going to start letting a cookie, just be a cookie. The miracle potion for confidence in my instincts is a deaf ear to public opinion.