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.

I will always love you, but I don't have to like you.

There are days I seem like the epitome of "Mommy Dearest". Days when Evan has pushed me soooo far to the brink that I think I may actually hand him to the next person I see and yell, "No givesies, backsies!", as I drive away quickly toward peace and relaxation. I know that this is not a possible solution,as they always give him back. Before I had a kid, I had a list of emotions that I didn't think I should or would ever feel regarding my offspring and/or my husband, for that matter. Anger, resentment,helplessness and most surprisingly, hatred. Some days, I HATE my kid. I despise him to my core. Same goes for my husband. There were and still are days, where I don't want to be near Evan or Chris. I don't want to touch them, or listen to them or deal with them. I feel so guilty handing myself over to it and so weakened by it at the same time. Evan is a creature who operates on baser instinct and desire, with no real sense of action and consequence. So, when he stuffs his cars into Chris's surround sound, sub woofer and proudly announces his accomplishment, I should exercise patience, right? I shouldn't continually screech, "Why did you do that, Evan?", while trying to jam my hand in the hole and contemplating locking him in his room for the rest of the day, as a means of prolonging his existence. In the general scheme of things a car in the speaker is nothing, but when you add the speaker onto the list of misshaps for the day, it becomes a loaded gun with a hairpin trigger, piercing right through my patience tank. The same could be said for Chris. There are days the poor man can do nothing right, literally. Weekends when I work, I know I'm coming home to a sink full of dishes, beds unmade and Evan, stuffed into clothes that have the words "24 Months" written right on the label. Some day's Chris takes him out of the house in those undersized shirts and pants! Sure, I can take some blame. Maybe I've been too lazy recently to reorganize the drawer and put those snug fitting articles in storage, but can't he read a frickin' label? Doesn't it look just a bit off to him? I love my husband and he's a fantastic dad and partner. He works hard and sacrifices so I can be there, with Evan and experience all the stages of his growth. He doesn't complain often and steps in to help out, even after a long day. I love my kid. Evan is smart, he's developed his own sense of humor and his curiosity can be his most endearing quality, if not his most frustrating one. Even recognizing all these amazing characteristics, there are days those good points become completely invisible in a fog of accidents, mistakes and misunderstandings. I've stopped feeling bad about it. I used to try and ignore the feelings or work them out. Now I go with it. Some days, none of us can make anyone else happy and that's alright. Some afternoons are really bad, without hope or rescue in sight and that's okay, too. What's even more okay, is allowing myself to be really disappointed in those days and not feel like a failure because I can't "keep it together." The more I try to keep myself from shattering, the more pieces need to be swept up when it's all over. I'm not saying I neglect my kid. I'll read him a book if he brings it too me, I'll sit and eat lunch with him quietly, I may even put the television on for a little bit and sit with him while he watches his show. The thing I don't try to do anymore, is force playful interaction with him, while blinding myself to my annoyance. The same thing goes for Chris. Let me be clear in saying I am fully aware there are days Chris and Evan can't stand to be near me, either. Toddlers are even more perceptive than adults in most cases when it comes to emotion.How many times can a two and a half year old or a grown man, for that matter, hear the words "NO", "Stop" and "Don't touch", before a major league meltdown or argument is initiated? I don't begrudge them their right to be obstinant and I hope the same goes for me. "But what if something happens to one of them and the last contact we had was full of tension and anger?" I used to tell myself that in a last ditch effort to keep things copasetic. Fuck that! What are the odds, really? And, is a day of anger going to negate a lifetime of love and respect? I don't operate on what if's anymore. What if tomorrow Chris caves my head in with a brick because I'm overbearing and needy and he can't take it anymore? I don't mind going to bed pissed off. I don't have any problem deflecting my sons manipulative attempts to be cute and gain favor after he realizes he might have gone too far. I no longer have a problem hating my child on days when he is finding it hard to be likable, though I will always love and care for him, even in my most displeased state. We pissed my mom off a lot when we were kids. She had a saying and she used it repetitively. "Just remember, I will always love you. I DON'T have to like you."

Let me just hook up the clamps...

Cosmopolitan makes me feel like a bad lover, because they want to make me "better" and I'm satisfied just being satisfied. The same article has been written, 80 different ways by 80 different authors, male and female, regarding how to make your partner, "scream for more". I think couples should talk about sexual gratification the same way they discuss the number of children they want to have and where they want to settle down. "So, would you need me to grind on your scrotum with a sander before we have sex, because I'm just not comfortable doing that." Some of the suggestions made by the authors, included...try not to laugh...a sensual soak for two, massages, giving each other facials (for real), lighting candles and my absolute favorite, blindfolding each other and having each partner tickle the other with a feather. I can't remember every tip, as I was on the floor, doubled over at the thought of Chris letting me give him a facial before we have sex. NOT BLOODY LIKELY! Candles near the bed...that doesn't seem too dangerous. How many people actually have access to a bathtub big enough for themselves, let alone themselves and their partner? I suppose you could sponge each other down, hospital style. Last time I attempted a massage, I upset a previously dislocated shoulder. Whatever happened to just being naked? That's been the only foreplay needed with most men I've been with...and that's not many, in case you may have been wondering. But Cosmo wants me to think that nudity isn't enough! I have to rappel from the ceiling at a 90 degree angle, my leg positioned just so, behind my ear, so my husband can hit that "sweet spot" for 2 seconds. I say, screw you Cosmo!(Pun fully intended.) Creating unreal expectations of flowery, vanilla scented sex and/or crazy, wild marathon sessions of acrobatics, that even acrobats would cringe at! There was one article devoted completely to the "male G spot"; this hard to locate pleasure zone, that women need a miners helmet and a map to discover. "Rev him up and make him scream for more!" the author promised. It was like trying to find berries in a bramble and after less then 10 minutes the frustration and anger HAD made him scream; for me to get the hell away from him. Remember when missionary was still considered sex and it was okay to be there and back in less then 15 minutes, satisfied and ready to watch "The Simpsons"? Simpler times, friends, simpler times. Uncomplicated sex is still sex. Since when does having a list of instructions on hand to assemble your orgasm, mean you're having "better sex". Sex is good as is, no assembly required...batteries sometimes, but factory ready! I don't read Cosmo articles anymore, as I've come to realize it is a publication geared mainly toward young, urban professionals, with NO children. I don't begrudge anyone their fantasy, but in my limited experience, the feather tickling "prince", always turns into the "steak and a hummer will do,king" at some point and the candles eventually become nothing but wick. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that, either. (This post was IN NO WAY intended to make those who need a little extra knudge to get their rocks off, feel inadequate!)

It's okay to like being a mom, asshole!

I had a revelation at work, mainly because I had nothing better to do. This evening I'm attending a surprise birthday party for a friend of ours and one of the perks is having the house to ourselves, overnight! Woo-hoo, right? Monday morning, Friday night couldn't come fast enough. Friday night, I was woo-hooing up a storm. This morning, realizing I'd be at work all day with no opportunities to see my little man, whatsoever, between now and the post party revellry, the woo-hooing turned into boo-hooing and I've been a mess all day. At this moment in time, I am every man's nightmare. A pregnant, constantly craving, hormonally loaded gun. Chris, begrudgingly promised to bring Ev by work, if for no other reason, then so his night can be as pleasant as possible, given my state. I've spent the last half hour since that phone call, running down what my activities for the night would've been, had I not been given a "reprieve" from my parental duties. I would've watched Ev eat some dinner and throw some on the floor. He would've had his bath, which would include ample boat floating, water squirting, mommy drenching time, followed by pj's and "Max and Ruby". We might've played upstairs with some cars, or put his train tracks up, maybe listened to some blues and played his harmonica. Lastly, "Thomas the Train", cuddling in my bed and finally, a story before watching him fall asleep. I thought, sadly, of all those things, then I thought; "What the FUCK is wrong with me? I have the night off! I've been bitching about not having a night, just for us and here I am, lamenting my freedom and wishing I could just cancel now?" It's ironic, because I feel like I spend so much time trying to be the anti-mom and fighting responsibility, that I've intentionally ignored my maternal libido. Tonight is going to be great! Chris and I are going to have a fantastic time, with friends we NEVER get to socialize with for more than two hours at a time, or without the constant interruption of our toddler. So why do I feel like I'm going to be missing out on so much by going out? Maybe, it's because, sometimes, I think it's funny when Evan opens his full mouth, to display his chewed hot dog. Maybe, it's because I don't mind being soaked with lukewarm bath water and having to change after I get Ev settled. Perhaps, I enjoy ramming cars into each other or being pelted with plastic balls by my boys. There is a good chance, I'll have to admit my sudden, nay secret, affection for "Thomas the Train", even the episodes I've seen so many times I can quote them. Most likely, it's because all the "insignificant" routines, become so much more valuble when I'm not able to experience them. I used to pride myself on being what I considered, the "cool" mom. The mom who endures these things, but would NEVER willingly surrender to them, let alone look forward to them. This afternoon, I've been forced to accept the undeniable truth that I DO, in fact, like being a mom with all the mom responsibilites. I DO love all the little, "uncool" addictions that come with mom-dom, be it a television show I swore I'd never watch or a toy I insisted I'd never buy. Who did I think I was and why did I think I was above motherhood? Why does it feel like I'm being a traitor to myself to admit that I'd rather spend time with my kid, then be out partying somewhere? I've convinced myself having a child means having to choose between being an actual person and being a mother. I thought that,as mother's we're supposed to be infallable, examples of perfection for our offspring and I was positive I was the only mom who wasn't afraid to boldly be human, first. I've seen other mother's at their most human and I've realized the only thing I was afraid to be was "mommy". I need to be me as a mom and it's okay if that's the same person as Marci. When I originally started this blog, I called it "real mutha", like I was some novelty in the parenting world and my views were so original and "honest", but what I've come to find, from talking with other mothers and...being bored at work, is that every mother is "real" to herself and that by denying myself the ability to fully engage in my maternal urges, I was, in fact, not being honest, or a "real mutha". (On a sidenote, Chris just called me, sounding somewhat anxious, to let me know that he would not be able to stop by with the boy and I am a little choked up...dear lord!)

Not for a million bucks...

I've been trying to figure out where it all went wrong. I've decided everything went downhill, in the four years of hell known as high school. I know, cliche, right? Let's think about this. The high school years are the most important and formative for social opinion and self exploration. They're the years that you look inside yourself and TRY to figure out who you are and what your place is amongst the herd. My place was the auditorium, sometimes during class periods. You may think I have emotional issues or that I need to "get over it and move on", but I'm telling you, if you didn't feel fucked over in high school, then you were the person fucking someone over. I embodied the textbook, high school torture victim. I was desperate to fit in with...anybody...that would give me the time of day. I was in the Gay/Straight alliance, drama club and chorale and I was a Girl Scout until I was seventeen. Fucking dork, right? It's okay to feel that way, some days I look back at myself and wonder just what the heck I was thinking. I'm sure not everybody in my school was gunning for me, but I can assure you there was a small legion, whose mission was to make my life hell on earth...and they succeeded. I didn't skip class because I was bored or I didn't want to learn. I skipped class because I didn't want to deal with the 4 people surrounding me that chose to spend the period employing passive-aggressive, harassment tactics toward me. Bullies can injure more than a person's ego. I know, in the end, if I had wanted to I could've blocked it out and gone on with my life, but I'm not that strong, "I am who I am" kind of person. I never have been and I never will be. I'd like to say people chose to single me out because I was so independent in my thinking, but in reality, I was singled out because I tried way too hard not to be and I couldn't be the chameleon. I didn't blend as I would've liked to. People saw me trying too hard and were more than happy to enjoy the show and aid in the failure. Can I blame them? I probably would've done the same thing if I was higher up on the food chain. I'm sure I did do it to others, if for no other reason, than to make myself feel like I was a little less, awkward. When I got to college, it was like bizarro high school. Everyone there was a dork and I hung out with the coolest dorks. It was a drug and I was addicted...I also smoked a lot of pot, which was the actual drug that became my downfall and subsequent nemesis to the educational process. But I digress.Bullying can affect a person in one of two ways. It either makes you say, "Fuck them. I'm going to show them all just what I can achieve." (Hopefully not in a, shoot up the school sort of way.) Or, it can completely destroy a persons self-esteem, to the point of total defeat.(Hopefully, not in a shoot up the school sort of way.) I went the latter route. Though I can't completely justify ALL of my shortcomings with my experience, on the bullied side of high school bullying, I can lean on it, if only just a little bit. What if I had been left alone for 4 years? Maybe, I still would've blown it. Then again, maybe, I wouldn't have. Funny how those, most uncomfortable in my skin years, seemed to take the longest to pass, yet the past 5 years, when I've started to like myself and despite my deprecation, have felt the most at peace with who I am, have seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. I wish I could go back then, armed with who I am now..actually, fuck that! I wouldn't want to go back to my teen years for a million dollars!

01/02/10 We will never forget...

Don't worry, I'm not going to enlighten you with the events of 2009 that you already know. I'm not going to ponder the problems our country faced and their significance in my life. There will be no discussion of goals and/or resolutions and I'm not going to weep about the people we've lost or the contributions said people have made in our society(Brittany Murphy; R.I.P Luann Platter). What I'm never going to forget, as I sit here reliving my most recent New Years Eve activities, are the Eve's of the past. Those long, lovely nights and late, late mornings, that were unfettered by children, fatigue and early wake-up calls, *sniff*. Chris and I had, what I would consider, a revel rousing good time this year, being that I made it to 12:00 AND saw the only blue moon for the next 15,20 years? I think that's the period in between blue moons. "Once in a blue moon...", right? Anyway, I didn't drink and I didn't get laid, but I did get to actually ring in the New Year with the mostly wide awake, probably intoxicated world. I was proud. I was satisfied. I fell asleep shortly thereafter and paid for my lapse in judgement with several early morning risings, courtesy of my kid. That afternoon, I vowed to never "party" again, until my kids were physically capable of fulfilling their own basic needs. I started thinking back to the past, which I know is a NYE no-no. No regrets, don't look back, new year/fresh start...yada, yada, yada. I kept thinking about all the times I'd heard other parents, even my own say they couldn't remember what life was like without us and how they wouldn't change things for the world. As I sat on Face book, looking at stranger's party pictures,I remembered my last "real" New Years Eve. I could hear those obligatory, parental phrases echoing around my head and thought, "Bullshit". Am I the only, awful, parent in the world that can remember the beauty that was falling asleep naked, after 3a.m. and waking up sometime after lunch, to go out and grab breakfast in the clothes you wore out the night before? I love my child, I've said it before and I'll say it again. He is wonderful, but to say I don't remember, fondly, the lifestyle I had before he became my world is just an out and out lie and I mean that in no disrespectful way. Before you spit out the words, know that I am fully aware of the moral. Things change. We grow up. Focus shifts and yes, these are positive things on the whole, that SHOULD occur in life. That's what makes wonderful,fun moments so wonderful and unrelivable. I don't want to change what Chris and I have evolved into permanently, but on occasion, let's say January 1st around 3:30a.m., I've been known to utter an "If I only knew...". Sometimes it makes me feel like a bad mother. "Maybe you should've thought of that before you had a kid," you may say. Maybe. Or maybe, there are more mom's and dad's out there that thought that exact same thing on NYE, as they sat on their couches, watching reruns of South Park and gulping beer in a vain attempt to get a buzz on before their 12:00 curfew. I think back to the Millennium. How all my friends were together in the same place, drinking, smoking, dancing and living like tomorrow was never coming and hangover's didn't exist. The little voice in the back of my head asks, "Do you really miss that? The dirty bar, the puke stained toilets, the clothes reeking of smoke, the watered down drinks, the slamming pain of a night of debauchery, greeting you the next afternoon,"...Yes. Sometimes I do. Not every Friday night, but sometimes, when I'm sitting on the couch in pre-weekend mode, trying to keep myself awake for The Soup, I miss it very much. And, while I'd never wish my child away and the decision to have him was mine and mine alone, there are moments when I think, "Life was so much more fun back then." Try not to lambaste me too much. You can plainly see my record with responsibility, so considering my son is alive, healthy and loved, a little post NYE regret/pity party is a small offense. We may never go back, but we will NEVER forget!

12/28/09 Superiority should be medicated.

Today I took Evan to see "Disney On Ice", with my mom. It was an experience. So many over-exposed bulges, bobbing around in shiny tights. It was almost hypnotic. The only thing that kept me entertained, was the thought that perhaps these performers spent intermission, chugging down Popov and wondering which wrong turn sent them careening into a full sized fish suit and away from their Olympic dreams. Funny, right...and heartbreaking. Then another thought crossed my mind. At least they were doing SOMETHING. These people had a dream at one point in their lives, maybe not skating in a kick line with 14 other guys dressed like Genie's, but a dream they'd tried to grab. And what if this was their dream? Kudos to them! What kind of lazy, unmotivated bastard was I to sit in judgement of them, because I could never imagine myself dressed as a 6 foot candelabra, singing "Be Our Guest", to an audience of screaming, napping 2 to 7-year-olds? The worst kind of bastard! A douche bag, with an inferiority complex, who overcompensates with a superiority complex. "I may not be doing anything special, but at least I'm not slipping around in a tutu, lip syncing "It's a Small World After All." Really, scientists should be working on a pill for this. It would clarify my entire existence, if I was mentally/medically incapable of feeling better than anyone else, by simply justifying my laziness with superiority. As a side note, "It's a Small World After All" would have been much more believable, if the different ethnicity's weren't all represented by skaters of the pale, blond persuasion. Anyway, what is it that makes me want to throw up my hands, before I even leave the gate? Defeat is a disease that is so hard to vaccinate. I give up before I even try, because it saves so much time. Why do something I'm not 100% sure I'm going to succeed at? What's the point? I don't have that kind of energy to waste. The vegetarian meal, thing. I printed up all these recipes and yeah, it was a lot of prep. Sure, it may have cost a little bit more than boiling a hot dog. The underlying reason I didn't make an attempt to cook a homemade, vegetarian dinner? I was so nervous that it wouldn't taste the way it looked, or I'd screw it up and would've spent all this time and money on something that I'd just end up throwing out. I know this must sound like a common lament and rest assured, the bigger reason is because I am, purely lazy and have neither the patience or focus to follow specific directions. I just think, what if I tried it and it came out brilliant? What if I made it and Chris actually did like it? Cooking dinner seems like a small goal, but really, unless you're living a life of extreme wealth, adrenaline and leisure time, those small goals are like metaphorical mountains. Haricot bean loaf is my Everest and thinking about attempting it, fills me with dread. So, what am I getting at, here? Haricot bean loaf is tantamount to "Disney on Ice" and my inferiority complex is my excuse for being an asshole? Even the guy in the Genie suit, might have had a larger goal in life and if he could try and fail in front of tens of people, why am I afraid to look silly to myself? And if the guy in the genie suit happens to read this, the jackknife, kick thing was superb and you are a master in your art.