Keeping up with the Duggars

I get it, Michelle Duggar. I get why you're addicted to having babies and I don't think it has as much to do with what Jesus is commanding, as it does with what your clock is commanding. My daughter recently turned one year. She's a beast. She's a walking, garbling, feasting ball of fire and she's no longer an infant, which has my hormones in an uproar. I've spent countless hours awake with her, anticipating the infant to toddler changeover. I've heard tell that at zero hour, the converted toddler automatically goes into 12 hour sleep mode, eats whatever you put in front of it and becomes more easily amused by itself, though Q.0 has yet to deliver those kind of sophisticated results.

 I was in the process of swapping 6-9 month outfits for 12-18 when this immense hollowness just, sort of, carved itself into the pit of my stomach. The thought hit me that Quinn was, very possibly, my last baby and that realization turned bagging up her things into this surreal grieving process, that I wasn't prepared to experience. Despite my need for more than 4 hours of sleep a night, my excitement that my breasts were once again my own and the knowledge that Evan would be going to school soon, giving me back some of my life, I convinced both myself and Chris that I could, indeed,deal with the rigors of pre and post pregnancy, one more time. Chris called me a "crazy bitch" and assured me that if I didn't sign off on the vasectomy, he'd wind up in an alley in Chinatown, allowing an unlicensed veterinarian to "neuter" him. 

He's right. The fact of the matter is I don't really believe I want another child.  What I want, is to know that I could have another one and at almost 35, it will only become less likely...unless I want to get pregnant again in the next couple of years; which I do not. It's unnerving to see and feel myself getting older, but it's even more unnerving to know that my "babies" are getting older and that soon I won't even have babies. I'll have kindergartners, then middle school-ers, then teenagers, then young adults, then...I'm killing time waiting to die. My children's development and my own fertility have suddenly become the ultimate measurements of time. I hear the phrases, "It goes by so quickly," and "I wish I could keep him/her a baby forever," uttered all the time by parents and grandparents alike.  I assure you the need for a halting of time has nothing to do with age of the child.

After I tried to convince Chris we should spend another year being awake almost 24 hours a day, I gave some thought to what I could really, emotionally afford and the cost of miscalculating my expectations. How much more patience and tolerance can I spare before I become the "minivan in the lake" mom?  How many more years of bodily sacrifice do I want to endure? (I'm just starting to get the "house" back in order.) How much longer can my husband and I exist as nothing more than two bodies, bumping around the same space but never, actually coming into contact? (We're just starting to get that "house" back in order, as well.) When you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, why put the car in reverse? There is a small part of me that wants to have another baby for a legitimate reason; I love children. But, my sister-in-law Amy said it best, "Know your limitations." If I thought I could handle it, I'm sure I'd have a Duggar dozen, but I have the common sense to accept that two children can sometimes be two children too many. Also, I have the sanity to understand that whether or not I aid in the continuation of the species I'm going to continue to age; only, unlike Michelle Duggar, my uterus won't have to be dragged behind me on a Radioflyer.

Peeing in my Cheerios and other non-productive sentiments.

I reserve the right to be upset. I demand the freedom to not be appreciative, every second of the day. I don't require a reminder of my blessings on days that I feel cursed. What I'm saying is, I'm okay with holding on to a little disappointment when things aren't going well and to be honest, I find value in the occasional pity party. As I was leaving for work this morning, I was greeted by a neighbor. "How ya doing?" She asked, watching her leashed rat sniff around my parents yard. "Great, except I'm on my way to work, so I could be better." Pretend frowny face, fake laugh. "Well, you're lucky to have a job to go to, so that's something to think about." She replied as her "dog" finally dumped on my parents lawn...which is two feet away from her lawn.  But, the 2 ton shit and the 3lb, yipping nightmare that produced it are fodor for another day.  That statement was the impetus for this pointless barking session, so blame Val for having more of my rancor shoved down your throats. I wasn't really upset about the prospect of going to work, but that's not the point. It was the idea that other's unemployment should automatically negate any frustration I might have about having to work a holiday weekend. I could've retorted with the news that my husband would,soon, be among the unemployed, but my guess is she wouldn't have really cared and if she did engage me, she would've found a silver lining to that, as well. I'd be lying, if I said life was going the way I wanted at this very moment and I've been feeling a little underwhelmed. There are a lot of well intentioned people, whose glasses are constantly teeming, even at their emptiest. I can admire that...from a distance. I'm not a 24/7 Negative Nancy. I know when to count my blessings. I am aware that I have it a lot better than alot of people and that things could, undoubtedly be worse. There are some moments when knowing that we haven't hit the bottom doesn't make us feel any closer to the top and having our feelings devalued, just seasons the misery with guilt. "What right do I have to be upset when everyone's healthy and I'm not on the street?" I have every right and I'm going to start exercising it. Everyone's personal struggle is different and everyone's perception of pain,both emotional and physical is skewed. In those moments, just having a shoulder or a simple, "Sorry you're feeling that way, but it will get better," can make all the difference. Having a day or two, here and there to wallow in self-degradation, can supply valuable insight into how to begin climbing out of the funk. It also gives appreciation to the days that go really well or the news that truly is outstanding. I don't think there's anything wrong with realistic expections or telling oneself that things aren't so bad that they can't get worse. It's not instigating a fall, it's avoiding a deep, canyon plummet and it's not for everybody, I get that. I can be the "bring-down kid" sometimes. So I'll make a deal. I promise not to tell you how I'm actually doing/feeling, if you promise you'll stop comparing my hiccup to a cancer patient, a tornado stripped suburb or a tsunami victim. I understand those are far more dire straits.

Only 1% of the people that ask how I'm doing, actually care about how I'm doing, anyway. I guess if I want to avoid getting a ticket from the gratitude police, my best bet is to answer "Great," force my frown upside down and walk away BEFORE I puke into it.

Poop by any other name...

I am a vulgar woman. My language is beyond repugnant. If a truck driver swallowed a longshoreman, then had a conversation with Andrew Dice Clay and you overheard it, that would be a good example of my everyday vernacular. To be fair, I always follow up my lewd commentary with a "Pardon my french." My bawdry blunders occur so often, that my son has actually started telling people to pardon my french, as well. I caught my son swatting at bugs on the playground, yelling "Get lost, ASSHOLE FLIES!" This, of course, encouraged the whole group to start chanting "ASSHOLE FLIES, GET LOST, ASSHOLES!" There are no words to describe just how funny a battalion of angry toddlers, screaming "asshole", can be and yet, I had to be responsible. I felt like a hypocrite. I can't be in the car with or without my kids for 5 minutes without using, among other much more colorful slang, the words "Shit" or "Asshole". There's no question of where he's getting his crass vocabulary. I spoke with one of the other moms immediately following the incident and she said, "It's always funny when it's not your kid." To be honest, my kid is a riot, especially when spitting out a properly placed curse word. Unfortunately, other people don't have the same tolerance for profanity that my husband and I share. Since consistency is key in raising kids,that means every instance must be acknowledged by the same consequence. Here's my thing; I know it's not good for my son to scream expletives at the playground and I understand why, but when did poop, pee, doodle, booger and...wait for it...stinky get added to the "Do Not Utter" list? I hear the word, "Pottymouth" kicked around a lot, spending the majority of my life on the playground. I've got to tell you, poop is fun to say and last time I checked, using it doesn't hurt anyone. I do correct my child when he uses it, though VERY reluctantly. I always believed words were just words. They only carry as much weight as we allow them to, right? Some words are weightier than others and even though I probably have the world's worst "pottymouth", there are some words even I am offended by; you know the racially motivated, big bombs that I can't even say in my head without feeling ashamed. I can assure you poop, pee, doodle, booger, butt and any other words in that vein did not make that cut. So what is the issue with these words? They're disgusting-true, but other than that, who cares? In fact, the more I feed into this whole, poop=punishment mentality, the more Evan seems compelled to say those words. So, how do I let my son continue to use words that don't bother me, but seem to upset the sensibilities of so many others? Words. Words,words, words.

Never has a word caused more problems for my son,
than that whose meaning lies
within the bowels of defecation.

Rich Kid, Poor Kid...or my kid.

I had a playdate at my house a couple of days ago. This, in and of itself, is not really blog-worthy. What, you may ask, merits this as news? Only the obnoxiusly raging anxiety, that almost caused me to cancel at the last second. Almost all of my Melrose/Wakefield playground peers are nannies. I have, literally, only come in contact with a miniscule handful of stay-at-home moms in this area. Sufficed to say, my kid is the "Duckie" Dale in a crowd of Blane McDonoughs and it's really puttin' the spotlight on my ability (or inability) to "keep up with the Joneses". Anyhoo, there's the back story, onto the crippling anxiety. So, I have this playdate that's scheduled at the last minute, with this friend of mine who's a nanny. I've had many playdates at her ward's house and when I say house, I mean manor. I think my apartment could fit into their master bedroom...and that's another part of my anxiety. I'm a renter; a fact that I find to be a rather large obstacle in my kid's current, choosen clique. But again, I digress. There I am, running around like a mad woman in an attempt not just to clean, but to give my 6 room, 3 bedroom apartment the appearance of a palacial estate and for what? My friend, who's been to my apartment and could care less? Then I realize what I'm really agonizing over. I'm nervous that the three and a half year old boy we've gotten to know rather well, is going to take one look around this, "shoebox", his friend lives in and judge us or treat us differently. Imagine the humiliation surrounding that sort of fear. I mean, we do what we can to make sure our children have the best life and the most opportunities possible, open to them, but is it possible that our best will never be good enough? I can honestly understand how some families can go into hock, trying to keep up with people that will never care about what they may or may not have. It's a personal thing. It's a pride thing. Why can't I give to my kids the life that they see all around them? And let me be clear about this, I am in NO way implying that those who have more are MAKING me feel inadequate. I am simply stating and acknowledging that the inadequacy is there for me. Rich or poor, I think every parent I know struggles with this same self-scrutiny. But, when we're in Ev's friend's mansion, playing with his 500 wooden trains and I get asked a million times if he can "just have..." during the ride home, it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart because there's no way or reason to explain to him, that we just can't afford to give him the same things. I'd like to say that even if I could cater to his every desire, I wouldn't. Truth is, if money was no object, knowing what it feels like to have to continually say "No", I don't think I would chose to say "No". Call it spoiling if you need to, but I'd bet it's a great feeling to be able to say "Yes", whenever the mood strikes. Everytime I'm in this little boy's house or any of their houses for that matter, watching the kids play together like the best of friends I think, "I'm so glad they're too young to understand, what it means to have and have not." There will be a time when this will be very evident. When that time comes, I can only hope my son is strong enough to realize self-worth is free and more valuable than anything I could...or couldn't...purchase for him.

The "Bitch" is back...but she's not unpacking.

As my husband can and will tell you...and anyone within ear shot,with a pulse,I am a miserable bitch. And it's not just this morning, yesterday or last week, it's 24/7. To be more precise, I've been a negative,impatient,uber-bitch for 7 months=210 days=5040 hours. That's so much bitch. I'm happy to report that we are still married, though only in the sense that we don't want to be divorced. I have many valid excuses for the unwelcome return of "despicable me", not the least of which is sleep deprivation. It doesn't make it any easier for my husband or four-year-old to deal with the constant berating, but it makes me feel better to know that I am not completely nasty by nature. Sleeping less than 5 hours a night makes you feel many things beyond mere fatigue. I'm riding on a vicious wave of UN's; UNhealthy, UNmotivated, UNappreciative, UNdone. Mostly, my infansomnia combined with the UN's has made me realize I'm rather lost as of late, in this "suit" of motherhood, if you will. For the naysayers...love the kids, love the man, love the opportunity to nurture...blah,blah,blah. I'm not UNhappy with motherhood, I'm just finding it hard to breathe within it's bonds. Getting to know myself as a mother was an intense struggle and one which has made my maternal instinct become vampiric. I, hesitantly,invited it in and it's slowly sucking every other part of who I am from my soul. Syphon all the kid related topics from my mind and you're left with residual white noise. Like my synaptic transmitters are literally, immobilized by motherhood. I can hear and see myself becoming a very bitter, excessively negative person, who is not easy to be around. I am incapable of having a conversation without it turning ugly and I'm pretty sure I've found the source. Indeed,sleep can account for 1/4, but deep down I'm starving for ambition. I'm thirsty for purpose. I understand,taking care of my family is a great and noble purpose. And when I see my children accomplishing new things, I feel a deep sense of pride in them. My question is, when do I get to accomplish something new and feel that sense of pride in me? More accurately,something that's solely for the betterment and benefit of Marci?
My mom is an amazing lady. She is Stoneham. I can't go 5 feet into my hometown without someone asking, "Are you Sharon's daughter?" I'm always amazed with how many people recognize her and our family even outside of Stoneham. My admiration for my mother and all that she's built in her career, as well as within her family is immense. I always wonder what my children will think of me when they are my age, viewing me from the same place I view my parents now. What will I have to show them? I hope they'll think I did the best job I could as a mother, but what kind of example am I giving them as a woman? I'm taking back me. I know the other half is in there somewhere and my speculation is that she's asleep...like coma sleep. God knows she needs it! Rekindling my drive will probably be as difficult as losing it was, but I intend to scratch through this thick layer of matriarchal malcontent and bleed out the desire to challenge myself. I need to find it, not just for me, but for my children, who deserve more than passive resentment and especially for my husband, who loves me so much, but likes me about as much as I do, right now. Yes, the bitch is back, but I'm hoping to hand her some walking papers, soon!

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.)