Toddle Time

I have decided to write a book...just like millions of other people.   I love to write and have no money with which to gamble, travel or pay someone to suck fat out of my ass. So, that leaves me in front of my computer with a head full of random babble that I enjoy spewing out via the keyboard.  I have decided my book will be on the mindfuck that is motherhood.  I will NOT be discussing the time we went to Aspen and my children learned to ski within five minutes while the hubby and I shared hot chocolates (um, no that didn't happen)...my book will be much more real...and while it will discuss ski trips, it will also include what a pain in the ass it is to take two small children to snow covered peaks.  How steadying oneself in a Honey Bucket in 0 degree weather whilst dangling a two year old butt over the gross hole and getting pee'd on in the process is just par for the course... I will be relaying all kinds of stories, adventures and experiences without the rose colored glasses that so many moms feel is necessary to put on to prove they love their kids.  I would take a bullet for my kids...but motherhood isn't a fairy tale...it's hard, draining, and the moment you become a mother is when you realize you will never fully relax again...those little punks are always in the back of your mind, no matter what.  Below is a short story that I would like to use as the introduction....

“I want her fired.”  I said, hearing my voice tremble with rage, my cell phone miraculously not breaking from the death grip it was in. 

 “Excuse me? You want her, um, fired?”  the calm and somewhat patronizing voice asked me. 

“Yes.  She should never be allowed around children, let alone be teaching them!  What kind of weird brainwashing, infanticide program are  you running anyway?  Maybe I should contact the mayor…or the media!  I want to know something is going to be done about this woman.  She’s a monster who clearly needs to be committed.  Maybe she’s gotten away with this in the past but not now!  No way!  She fucked with the wrong kid!”

With that, I glace in the rear view mirror, amazed at the resiliency of my 2 year old little boy, happily licking the ladybug stamp on his chubby little fist.

“Ma’am, can you calm down and just tell me what happened so that I might bring it to the correct supervisor for further discussion?” she was losing her snotty attitude and beginning to take me seriously.  Good, I thought.

“Well, for one thing, when she asked the kids to do butterfly knees, she didn’t give my son any recognition.  No ‘good job’ or ‘that’s great!’. Nothing.  Then when it was time to have the kids make the letter T with their bodies, she forgot to call his name.  Just forgot.  Sure, she apologized, but I’m sure she didn’t mean it.  Then, when it was time to go, I noticed on her little attendance sheet she had descriptions of each kid under their names, perhaps as a way to help her remember because she’s clearly in some sort of mental psychosis…anyway, under his name she had written the word STOCKY.  I mean, seriously, is her intention to give him a fat complex before he’s out of diapers?!?!”  I took a deep breath and waited for what I was sure going to be full agreement that this monster be locked up in a mental ward.

“OK, um, I can transfer you to her supervisor’s voice mail and you can leave a message…I’m pretty sure this isn’t a situation that will result in her being fired though.  Perhaps we can transfer your son to another Toddle Time with a different instructor?”  I swear, I thought that bitch was choking in some sort of giggle fit. 

“Yes, that would be good.  Another instructor.  And she must be reprimanded at the very least….I would like a phone call to let me know how she will be disciplined.”

“Uh, certainly.  I’ll transfer you….ok?” with that, I heard a full blown laugh and was immediately sent to her supervisors voice mail.  She sounded about 13. 

I started to leave my message but  got cut off before I was done.  I did include my name and number, though, and waited all day for a call back.  A pleading, apologetic call back.  It never came. 

When I discussed the situation with my husband, he looked at me with furrowed brows, not saying much, which was good, I thought, because it clearly meant he understood the dire situation and how disastrously it could have affected our son. 

“You’re nuts.” He said and walked to grab a beer.

“WHAT?” I asked, stunned.

“You’re nuts.  If you weren’t a mom, if you weren’t pregnant, you’d be laughing at how ridiculous this is.”  Really?  Maybe you’ll laugh at how ridiculous it is to find a rubber band in your chili, Ass Munch.

That following Saturday, I took Henry to his new Toddle Time gymnastics class.  As we walked in, the instructor very nervously approached me…”are you Andrea and Henry?” she asked.

“Yes…you’re Patrece? I’m so glad you had room in your class for us.” I smiled.

“Well, we didn’t actually, but this seemed to be a situation where we needed to make an exception”  She kept looking at me nervously, almost waiting for my eyes to roll in the back of my head.  She gave me a tight grin and approached Henry the way one might approach a ticking backpack left in a subway station.

“Hi, Henry!  I’m so glad to have you in my class!!”  Her enthusiasm was a little much but I was glad to have someone who was actually going to be nice to my kid.

The rest of the 30 minute session was full of Henry centered attention.  This lady knows how to do it!  I thought.  She’s a great teacher! 

When the class was over, I was on cloud nine.  My voice had been heard.  My child was being treated like royalty.  I wasn’t sure what, but I was positive the skank that he had originally was being disciplined in some medieval fashion.  Life was good. 

After putting  a dinosaur stamp on both of his feet, Patrece the Wonderful Gymnastics Teacher sent Directly from Heaven asked me tentatively if I enjoyed the class. 

“Yes! Thank you, it was such a wonderful difference!”

“Good.  I spent a bit more time with Henry today, to get him comfortable, since this was his first day.  Usually I try to spread my attention evenly, to all the kids.” She smiled, again looking at me  like I might bite her leg.

“Oh, sure, I understand.  Thanks so much!”  I gleefully grabbed my baby, put his dump truck emblazoned jacket on and began to head out. 

On my way, I overheard one of the moms from the class lodging a complaint against Patrece the Wonderful Gymnastics Teacher Sent Directly From Heaven.

“She barely spoke to my child!  That other little boy got as many dinosaur stamps as he wanted and my son only got one!   I mean, seriously, if this is the kind of favoritism you guys support, I’m going to have to ask for my money back!”

The receptionist cocked her head to the side, looking at the woman patronizingly.  “Perhaps we could transfer your son to another Toddle Time class, with a different instructor?” 

“Yes!  That would be good…”  I could see what I’m sure was some sort of steam escaping from her ears. 

Stifling my laughter, I looked at Henry and walked out.  What a nutcase, I thought.  It wasn’t until last week I got the irony of it…six years later. 

 

Generation X

I was having dinner last week with some girlfriends and heard myself ask aloud "didn't you love the 70's?" Granted, a few were a bit younger and didn't quite meet the birth timeline to be considered Generation X so I got a few shrugged shoulders and polite smiles.  Well, I'm going on record.  The seventies rocked.  The eighties were awesome.  Granted, we have loads more technology at our fingertips but who's to say that's always for the best?

I have two kids.  I am observant...I notice and I compare.  I get that some things have improved, others haven't...and this is what I think....


Vehicles / Traveling

Carseats & Boosters
OK, this is a no-brainer...statistics show zillions of babies would be dead if not five point harnessed into a car seat that has been bolted to the back seat.  If you put said car seat in the front seat, you are a monster because of, that's right, the risk of the air bags exploding...which didn't exist in the seventies.  My favorite spot to sit was on the floor board of the passenger side.  In the front.  When I was about seven.  I would use the space as my own personal cubby, look up at my mom and babble about Andy Gibb.  NO ONE THOUGHT IT WAS WEIRD when we would get to our destination and rather than being un-strapped from a booster seat, I would spill out onto the parking lot.  The same applies for pick-ups.  No one thought anything of a bunch of kids going down a freeway in the back.  I would do that with my cousins and we'd pretend we were different types of dogs.  By the time the ride was over, our hair would have a million tangles and the only thing that would work was half a bottle of  No More Tears.  Who doesn't remember being left in the car when your mom ran into the store?  Again, this wasn't weird.  It also wasn't weird to leave the car running because it was cold and she wanted to keep the heater on.  If someone were to stumble upon a car full of kids in a parking lot with a running car these days, the shit?  Would HIT THE FAN.

School
As a child, I had a shoestring with our house key on it and wore it tied around my neck, under my shirt.  I WALKED to and from school alone.  No adult supervision, just other kids, doing the same thing, half of whom had fed themselves breakfast that consisted of either Pop Tarts or Fruity Pebbles.   Nowadays, we are made to feel guilty if we even consider sugary cereal and eggs that aren't fucked with to include extra omegas because clearly, regular eggs will turn them into drooling idiots.

There were a few kids back in high school who regularly brought rifles to school...they'd put them in their lockers (yes, lockers) so they could go hunting after school.  It never occurred to anyone these guys might lose it and go on a shooting rampage.  The mentality, the ideas, just simply weren't there.  Now, however, a kindergartner bringing in an army guy holding a little piece of pointing plastic that is supposed to be a gun but actually looks more like a toothpick makes the news.  Because clearly he is a tiny maniac with a pipe bomb in his SpongeBob backpack...probably nestled next to his Juicy Juice box.

We picked teams.  Sometimes we were the last picked, sometimes we were first, depending on who the captains were.  If it was our best friend, we got to strut up next to them and look at the losers who hadn't been picked yet.  If it wasn't a friend, we would talk to the remaining unchosen about how much we hated dodge ball and pretend not to notice the diminishing group of hopefuls.  Gym teachers didn't give a shit about how this made us feel.  We were expected to suck it up, grab a giant pink ball and hurl it as hard as possible at someone elses face while they tirelessly blew their whistles. My kids didn't know what dodge ball was until I told them, because it was determined at some point to be too violent...hmmm, MY generation threw balls at each other and went through the humiliating team picking process.  But we didn't shoot each other.  Today, anything considered 'too rough' is eliminated...and kids are shooting each other...connection? 

Guys drove old trans ams and mustangs and wore permed mullets with their parachute pants.  We wore leggings and giant sweaters.  We teased the shit out of our hair and wore shoes that had laces with pictures on them.  Now?  Guys wear pants that hang down past their knees, forcing them to walk like they have elephantitis of the genitals.  Girls?  Wear practically nothing except a Bluetooth.


Everything else...
We had musicians that stood the test of time.  Bon Jovi and Motley Crue are still hugely successful and touring.  Does anyone really think the Jonas Brothers will sell out Madison Square Garden in 25 years?  No. We went to concerts and spent too much money on concert t shirts.  There was no youtube...so we saw it live or we didn't see it. We also were the first generation to REALLY push the limits.  Mohawk?  Seen it.  Purple hair?  Seen it. Nose ring?  Please, half of my friends have them.  Nothing 'rebellious' really shocks us.  We laugh at idiocy (ie wearing jeans that don't cover the ass), but aren't shocked by it. 

We went to arcades.  We put in our quarters and played Pac Man until our hands cramped.  Now, kids have X Boxes and  Wii's.  Finding a quarter in the return coin thingie was exhilarating.

We played outside until it was dark.  Running, jumping, riding bikes and climbing trees.  Now, kids sit on their asses and do all of this via some virtual game....and we wonder why childhood obesity is out of control?  Hello, people, it's NOT the Fruity Pebbles. It's the fact these kids aren't moving like we did.

 We HAD JOBS. Everyone I knew as a teenager had some piddly job they hated.  I have spoken to friends with young adult children who have never worked.  Ever.  But they spend countless hours doing World of Warcraft..and brag about how much their accounts are 'worth.'

I get that times change.  I understand and appreciate all of the wonderful things technology has brought us.  I truly do.  But if I had a choice, my kids would grow up at a point in time they would ride their bike for hours,  exploring our neighborhood...they would get thirsty and rather than come inside, they'd drink out of the hose.   I could take them to McDonalds for dinner and not know what the fuck a trans fat was.   We would go to a drive-in movie in our truck, sit in the back with blankets and enjoy the sound of the  crackly, clunky speaker hanging on for dear life.  We wouldn't have cell phones that were glued to our heads.  We wouldn't assume the world would stop revolving if we weren't text-able. We would laugh and point at the moron with pants around his ankles because that's just damn ridiculous...and rather than worry if he had a fucking Uzi in his giant pants, we would be confident he was just an idiot and not about to blow our faces off.  We wouldn't know what the hell 'politically correct' meant.  That's how MY generation grew up....and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The Art of Christmas Shopping

This time of year comes at the same time.  It is not surprise to anyone.  December 25th is always December 25th.  You would think we'd plan ahead...some of us do.  Most of us?  Do NOT.  We wait until the last moment to fight mall traffic, glare down other shoppers for a parking space, wait in long lines all so our kids can rip open presents, toss them aside and move on to the next gift.  If we have very small kids, 99% of the time they will be far more pleased with the huge box whatever you got them came in.  MnM's in a stocking trumps all.  So why do we do it?  The money, the stress...why?  Because.  And because we do it, I have assembled a how to list for the savvy shopper....

My Guide to Christmas Shopping

First, you'll need money.  Get some from the bank.  Head to Costco.  Fight for a parking space.  Buy the Scooby Doo limited edition set that comes in the groovy Mystery Machine carrying case because you are a child of the seventies and LOVED Scooby, but claim it's for your children when you run into an acquaintance who has a shopping cart full of grown up stuff like fancy crackers, some weird book on sculptures and wine you know cost way more than your Scooby set.  You know you'll get more out of the cartoons than she will out of the wine but don't mention this to her.  Start to compare carts.  You have cartoons, a fuzzy blanket and ice cream.  Realize she is probably also comparing carts and will probably go home and tell her husband what a lazy, ice cream loving, fuzzy blanket wearing, cartoon watching idiot  you are.  Decide you should throw in some fish oil to make your cart a little more well-balanced.  Decide you need some samples to get you through because it's going to be a long day.  Pretend that you are still shopping and non-chalantly walk past sample tables.  Listen to demo lady rambling on and on about how versatile Greek yogurt is and wonder if she realizes there is no one at her table.  Decide you should never go into the demo business because you already talk to yourself way too much and the last thing you need is to do it in front of hundreds of people while trying to push something gross like plain yogurt...and what if you were sampling something good, like cream puffs?  There is probably some rule about not eating the samples and you know with your love of cream puffs, you'd be fired for breaking that rule.  It is a certainty.  See Facebook friend.  Avoid making eye contact because even though this is a 'friend', you don't REALLY know this person and realize you make all kinds of idiotic, personal comments on Facebook and she probably thinks you're nuts and since you have only cartoons and ice cream in your cart, that might prove her suspicions correct.

Head to K Mart, where mother has told you digital cameras are on sale.  Find it, head to the line.  Pick the line that isn't moving.  Realize woman in front of you keeps trying to do the eye contact thing with you so you can strike up a conversation about how slow the line is, blah, blah, blah.  Know in your heart she is a talker and will probably want to babble about the holidays, what she still needs to shop for, who she needs to shop for and how she always ends up in the longest line.  You are not in the mood.  Stare at ceiling because at this point, she is so desperate to chat she's well within your personal space bubble, trying to get your attention. Wonder what the hell is wrong with this broad and why she won't take a hint. Realize you have been staring at ceiling in defiance for a little too long and she is starting to back away from you, obviously convinced you are insane or have some weird eye condition she doesn't want to catch.

Watch as manager comes to rescue distressed cashier.  Do the "oh, no problem" chuckle with other people in the line.  Know that underneath, it's a problem and every last one has wondered what the fuck is taking so long and duh, it's the holidays, we can't be standing in line for one spare minute.  Get to vehicle.  Realize drivers side door is impossible to get to because some jackass has parked waaayyy too close.  Enter through passenger side.  Bang head on rear view mirror and in an effort to steady yourself, cut arm on Starbucks straw.  Fight traffic.  Take long slurp of mocha.  Prepare yourself.  For the mall.

The chaotic energy from the wonderland that is the mall is palpable.  Find parking space a few miles away.  Once in, head for first store.  Wonder if the entire country is in denial about the fact we are in a recession because everyone is hauling several bags and looking sooooo happy doing so.  Watch as idiotic shit flies into peoples hands...

Yes.  $4 for a dozen blue gumballs.  Watch SEVERAL people gleefully purchase these.  Start to question your fellow mankind and their intelligence.

Decide you are a smarty pants and will focus your gift buying on books.

Walk past Santa photo line.  See young couple in line.  Immediately read both body language and facial gestures.  She is super duper excited about their cute as kittens photo with Santa.  He is super duper excited that she will think he is Mr. Sensitive and reward him with a sexual favor later.  You're old, but not too old to read those messages.  Laugh and wonder if you should go back to Urban Outfitters and get him that blue ball gum.

Head to next store.  Explain to sales person you are trying to find a 'simple, elegant' monogram pendant for your young daughter.  Watch her jump up and down, clap her hands and show  you a three inch high bauble full of cubic zirconia.  Try to not smack her in the head.  Take a good look around and realize every sales person you have come in contact with appears to be sucking on some form of happy gas or a lithium lozenge.  They are way too cheery for the mind fuck that is hundreds of stressed out people, demanding their attention.

Next stop: Pillow Pet kiosk.  Convince yourself the salesperson is a heroin addict because he has horrible skin, keeps nodding off and is really skinny...decide you are right because he is really close to Mrs. Fields and that yummy cajun place that always gives out the chicken samples and if he worked at the mall even a few days a week, he'd have more meat on his bones.  Wonder if he naps on display models during the slow times.  Keep this in mind when he informs you the only polar bear pillow pet is the display model, which is what your kid wants.  Decide she can deal with a penguin that is still in it's sealed plastic and hasn't been defouled with junkie drool. 

Walk by Mac store.  Or Apple store.  Or whatever it's called.  Know you have no business going in there at all.  You are much more comfortable in the As Seen on TV store.   Go in.  Debate with yourself on the purchase of a FlowBee.  Decide against it.  However, the pasta maker in the microwave thing?  Maybe.  You will NOT be a sucker for the ShamWow, though.  You have standards.  And besides, the last time you bought them, they didn't work.  You are an informed, intelligent consumer who doesn't waste money on frivolous things.

  Like AWESOME boxes of candy.

Head to Target for stocking stuffers.  Watch as woman at the front of the line attempts three times, with three different credit cards to make her $445 purchase.  Feel sorry for her that she isn't as good of a shopper as you.  Wonder if she knows about the As Seen on TV store, because if she's going to shop, she might as well get some miracle products!  Like a pasta maker that lets you cook pasta in the microwave.  Or those weird foot pads that suck out all of your toxins.  Or the Turby Twist.  So many magical products to choose from....decide you want to strike up conversation with woman behind you since this loser is taking so long.  You really want to talk about that pasta maker and how crazy the mall was and who you still need to shop for and how this line is sooo long.  She starts staring at the ceiling.  Wonder if she doesn't realize she's kind of being a bitch by blatantly ignoring you.  You wanna talk, dammit!  She continues staring at the ceiling, as if purposely avoiding you. 

Realize she must have some weird eye condition. 

 What else could it be?

Moment of Insanity aka Chub for Grub

Recently, I decided to embark on a little adventure...in an effort to fill my karma bank, I made public my decision to collect pledges per pound of weight lost and money collected would go to a food bank.  This is a lovely idea.  This is a beautiful, well thought out plan. This scheme hatched when I was high on Kit Kat bars and Reeses peaut butter cups I had stolen from my kids Halloween candy bags.   Phone calls were made.  Facebook pages created and emails requesting sponsors were sent out...by the way, if you're reading this and want to, ahem, add to my 'motivation' that would be great!  As it stands, when (not if, WHEN) I lose my 50 pounds, I will (provided no one flakes out of me) collect almost $1500 for a wonderful organization that feeds lots of hungry people throughout the year.  If you are ever tempted to do something like this, please follow my advise for an easier transition to your new way of eating.

My Guide to Navigating a Low Carb Lifestyle in the Name of Charity Once Sugar Buzz Wears Off

The first thing you should do when struck with an idea that involves the fun, fun task of weight loss is to TELL EVERY ONE YOU KNOW.  Convince yourself the more people paying attention to the junk in your trunk the more likely you will be to follow through!  You are a pioneer!  You will go where no one has gone before!  Put your idea on the internet and babble on and on about it to all of your pals.  Listen to them enthusiastically pledge their money.  Watch them smile and beam at what a great, thoughtful idea this is.  Try not to do that eyebrow raise - head swagger thing that will tell them that yeah,  you know this is a peach of an idea and yes, you are one hell of a gal.  Soak in accolades for a few days.  Walk a little taller.  Remember how you lost 40 pounds before and it was a piece of cake.  Think about cake.  Think about cupcakes.  Begin to realize if you are going to lose 50 pounds in six months, the love affair you've been having with cupcakes needs to end. 

Pull out low carb cookbooks.  Decide to start this thing off right with a sugar free chocolate cream pie.  Whisk, melt, stir.  Taste.  Wonder what the fuck you have just gotten yourself into because you a) have a major sugar addiction and b) fake sugar sucks.  It just does. Start to feel that panic you felt when your kids were babies and you couldn't find a pacifier when they were screaming.  Decide YOU are the boss of this situation.  Remember where you hid children's Halloween candy.  Go through it, pulling out  your favorites.  Hide in coffee cup in cupboard.  Tell yourself this just makes good sense...like carrying a pair of tweezers in your purse or a condom...well, the condom thing isn't really applicable to you because you have become celibate by default.  Start to wonder if nuns chose nun-dom because of those dresses because man, oh man, could you really do some cupcake eating if all you wore were black and white muu muus all day long.  Think about what a bad HABIT that would be.  Crack up at yourself.  Habit. Heh heh.  Habit.  Start to feel a little to Beavis and Butthead.  Refocus.

Run into a friend who works out like a fiend and probably has never had a french fry in her life.  Admire her figure.  Revel in her praise of your selfless decision.  Dismiss her comment about your age and how the last time you lost weight, you were in your twenties.  You've had kids since then and you are in your forties.  Blow this off.  For just a few minutes.  Look for paper bag to breath into because you are starting to hyperventilate.  Shit.  Go to book store...see a disproportionate number of books about fighting fat after 40 and wonder why 40 is the magic number for sucking at weight loss....who determined that?  Isn't 40 supposed to be the new 20?  Wonder if you've gotten in over your head.  Decide you have not.  You can do it! 

Stop at grocery store on the way home to pick up a few things for  your new way of eating...or WOE as some of the hipster (read: dorky) diet websites call it.  Walk into store and get greeted by perky lady sampling cake and egg nog.  Decide you don't want to hurt her feelings.  Take a sample.  Look outside...see two high school girls collecting food for local food bank.  Feel like a jackass. This is the universe telling you to stick with your plan.  But still finish your sample because it's only two bites and this is about MODERATION, not DEPRIVATION.  Decide it's a good thing you were never into drugs because you would have made a terrible junkie...you are BRILLIANT at justifying the "just a little" way of thinking. Wonder if you will ever conquer the sugar monkey that has been on your back for years. 

Decide to make the best of this....you CAN do it!  You WILL do it!  You have no idea how you will look, if 50 pounds will make a huge difference, if the only difference will be loose skin, in which case Oprah will need to be notified about this little plan so she can hook you up with Dr. Oz or whoever to cut it off and hopefully give you a new wardrobe and makeover, because she is so moved by your determination to show such self discipline in the name of benefiting others.  Wonder if you will look way older or way younger because it's a tough call...you're are on the wrong side of forty to expect to look anything other than not terrible. What if you get jowls?  Right now you have a chubby face, which means the extra skin is still somewhat firm...think about other parts of your body that might look jowlish.  Again, think about your Oprah plan and hope she  is open to financing boob jobs.

Find that in spite of cake samples and sugar free pie disasters, you have dropped 4 pounds.  Only 46 more to go and you will march your skinny ass down to the food bank, give them a wad of checks, pat yourself on the back and drive to the nearest cupcake shop to celebrate with your monkey.  Because face it, he's not going anywhere.  He's just been sedated by steak.

My Brilliant "Get Back Some Good Karma" Plan

A few weeks ago, I planned a class party for a bunch of first, second and third graders.  The theme was "friendship"...no autumn, no Halloween, nothing fallish, just "friendship"...not a whole lot to work with so in my effort to fill the two and a half hour party I suggested having a local children's art teacher come in and give a lesson using oil pastels. She agreed, we set it up and the party was planned. 

The day of the party, I rearranged the tables in the classroom to accommodate all of the children, spent lots of time dividing up oil pastels into little Dixie cups and cut the shit out of my hand, cutting paper to the appropriate size.  Then?  She didn't show up.  Now, trying to find something for 50 (yes, 50!) children to do when your entertainment has just flaked out on you is a bit of a mindfuck.  But somehow, we managed...of course, not without me complaining to the other teachers and fellow party volunteers about what an assbag this person was for flaking out.  Several people pondered the possibility of an emergency, an idea I smashed because I was pissed.  Remember this.  I bitched and moaned and totally disregarded the remote possibility something had happened and assumed she had just screwed me, the kids and left us hanging.  Ok....


Four days later, I get a phone call from this person...a sobbing phone call complete with apologies about why she didn't show up and it involved her then UNCONSCIOUS child.   Pause while you envision the ass of a donkey where my head would normally be.  In all of my years, there are a handful of times where I have truly, utterly felt like a total dick.  This was one of them. 

Now...one more story and I'll bring this all together.....last year, when I was going through one of the worst times of my life (we'll get to that in some other post...trust me...Lifetime movies have NOTHING on what I went through the past 18 months...but anyway.....)...whilst going through hell, I decided it would make total sense to feed the homeless....in all seriousness, I thought it would be a nice thing to do, give my kids a chance to soak in the fact there are kids around here who don't have a home and are hungry....so, we found a homeless shelter for women and children, found out that on Sundays the kitchen is closed and they needed 85 sack lunches delivered.  This was truly a moving experience for my children, as they delivered these meals to kids their age.  I decided this should be an annual holiday tradition for our family and recently started calling some shelters.  Turns out, with the economy in the hole, rather than a tuna wrap & chocolate chip cookie, the shelters really need cold, hard CASH. 

Like most, we have also been hit by the economy, so writing a check to a shelter that would make a real difference didn't seem doable.  Then, it hit me!  As I was sucking back my iced mocha, thinking about how great it would feel to dress up as a mermaid for next Halloween but then realizing you never see chubby mermaids, what with all the swimming they do and fish they eat...wait, would that make them cannibalish?  Maybe they are vegetarians...ANYWAY....I was just thinking how fun it would be to dress up as something that didn't require a million yards of fabric to cover my chubby body and feeling disappointed about the shelter situation, I heard the words "Chub for Grub" explode in my head....so here's my thought: I would reach out to everyone, make a website (chubforgrub.com - no I haven't made it yet, the website address is available so don't steal my cute idea, ok?)  where people could go on and SPONSOR ME....however much per pound...I'm giving myself six months and I'd like to lose 50 pounds.  The idea is once the six months are over, I collect the money from my sponsors via my website and donate every penny to the shelter!  You might be asking yourself why you'd want to sponsor a chubby little housewife lose weight?  Well, knowing it would go to help homeless women and children is your answer...I wouldn't keep any of it because a) I'm not a douche who would take money that is intended for homeless people and b) I NEED TO RE-FILL MY KARMA BANK AFTER THE DEBACLE WITH THE ART TEACHER.  UNDERSTAND??  OK. So that's my idea...of course, the fact that I have eaten approximately 4 pounds of Halloween candy and don't want any thing sweet ever again may possibly be giving me a sense of certain, undeniable future victory and in a week when the candy is gone I may be singing an entirely different tune, but I don't think so....I'm excited, I will be blogging about my 50 pound adventure and hope lots of people recognize the opportunity to help out not only the homeless, but also me.  That's right. Me.  Because if I have LOTS of people paying attention, I will be less likely to blow this off. 

I'd love some feedback, too....stupid, crazy idea? Good idea?  Do you want to do it with me?  Do you have some chub you'd like to exchange for grub?  This could be big if enough people hopped on board. No, not Bill and Melinda Gates buying a trillion malaria vaccinations, but it could make life a little more bearable for some people who would benefit from the kindness of strangers.

And?  I think I would make a REALLY cute mermaid. 

My Ode to the Stay at Home Mother

Some things? Have to be said.  Let me preface this by saying I have fully appreciated the lovely gift of being able to stay home with my children.  I have never had to drop my kids off to a daycare center with people I didn't know nor have I been forced to miss school functions because of a tight deadline at work.  I get that.  I appreciate that.  I understand that.  However, I feel the "other side" could use a bit of a wake up call as to what exactly "not working" entails.  Since my first born was a baby, all I have heard is how lucky I am and I am always very quick to agree.  It's when I'm told how lucky I am with a head shake, eye roll and condescending chuckle that gets my back up.

Guess what?  I worked before I had children. Yes, I had a paycheck, health insurance, a 401K plan and a parking spot just for me at an awesome lot downtown.  I met big wigs.  I received daily phone calls from some of the richest people on the planet (LITERALLY)...sometimes work related, other times to say hello.  No, I am not exaggerating for effect. I have been flown to Hawaii, California and New York for work and stayed in four star hotels while doing so.  I doubt there is a celebrity ANYONE can name that I can't do the six degrees of separation thing with. OK? I gave that up to be a stay at home mother.  Now, am I saying I regret it? Never.  I know how lucky I am. Yes, I said lucky.  But if one more snotty "working" mother gives me the metaphorical head pat because she thinks I simply don't understand her high pressured job, I might just bitch slap her.  But because I'm not the violent type, here's what I would say if I ever had the nerve....

Dear Condescending Working Mother Who Thinks All Stay at Home Moms Couldn't Possibly Understand What You Deal With On A Daily Basis Because You Think All We Do Is Watch Soap Operas And Take Yoga Classes -

Something you need to know about stay at home mothers.....

We are the ones who help your kindergartner find the bathroom.  We are the ones who stay in the bathroom with them because they are scared.  We are the ones who gently remind them to wash their hands.

We are the ones who walk your first grader to the nurses office when they have a boo-boo, a sore throat or have puked all over the classroom.  We are the ones who expose ourselves to your highly contagious child and by default, our own kids, in doing so.  We are the ones who help the teacher clean up said puke.

We are the ones who devote time to help your second grader catch up on reading by sitting with him or her and reviewing spelling words.  We are the ones who correct homework and spend our nights cutting out various shapes so your child can do a fun craft project. We are the ones who tie a million shoes.

We are the ones who plan classroom parties and make sure Bobby Joe doesn't get the ice cream sandwich because he is lactose intolerant so we make a special trip to the grocery store so he can have a fruit popsicle. 

We are the ones who chaperone your kids on field trips and make sure no one harms or abducts them.  We are the ones who wait for your dumb ass to show up because your child is freaked out by the fact you seem to have forgotten what time school gets out. (Seriously, I had a little girl ask me once to wait with her until her mom came.  She was little and we waited for her mother for 45 minutes... when she finally showed?  didn't  get out of the car OR have the decency to even try to look embarrassed. And no, there was no thank you or apology). We are the ones you will flippantly dismiss with some bullshit line about how we have "no idea how hectic the business world is" and that's the reason you're late.  Yes, this has happened several times.

We are the ones who recognize your child dawdling in the hallway because they have missed their bus but are too little to know what to do so we take them to the office so that you can be called.

We are the ones who bake cakes for cake walks and glue your child's artwork on a matted frame for you to ooh and aah over.

We are the ones the  exhausted teachers approach for help and we say yes. 

We are the ones who tell the asshole kid who has just shoved your child into a locker to knock it off and put enough fear into them that they do, indeed, knock it off.

We are the ones your child hugs at school when they are scared or just need a little comfort.  We are the ones who wink at your child and make them smile.

Do we live at the schools where these things happen?  No. We are simply there a lot, dropping off our kids, picking them up and helping out teachers who are overworked and underpaid.  Yes, we have a life.  Contrary to popular belief, it does not revolve around petty gossip, Days of Our Lives and pedicures.  Our lives, just like yours, consist of balancing relationships, paying mortgages, finding good books to read when we have a moments peace and wondering how our kids are going to turn out.  You don't know why or how we became stay at home moms.  Some of us didn't really have a choice. Some of us threw our hearts and souls into it and never looked back and some of us yearn for a business meeting where people actually listen to us and the words "Fart Face" or "Booger Head" are never uttered.  But we all get up every day and do what we do for our kids...and yours. 

Am I overdoing it?  Perhaps.  Am I lucky to be a stay at home mom? Yes.  And guess what? So are you.  My "luck" is benefiting us both.  You are just too preoccupied making sure I know how busy you are to realize it.

New Motherhood

Today at Target I walked past the baby section on my way to the much, much more fun Halloween section.  As I meandered past, I saw a very pregnant woman and her spouse, agonizing over receiving blankets....would this bright pattern be too distracting or would it stimulate young junior's mind in a good way?  As I laughed to myself, I heard this woman say to her husband, "it really doesn't matter, my mom said I slept through the night the minute I came home from the hospital so I'm sure not much is going to change..." She kept babbling, he kept nodding and I kept laughing.  My ass off.  I feel a public service announcement is necessary in the form of my tiny little blog...perhaps one night an overwhelmed new or expecting mother will google "new motherhood" and this will come up.  And she will feel much, much better.

Guide to New Motherhood - Everything You Need to Know from Birth through the First Month

Birth - Stop envisioning yourself showered in a golden light, looking fantastic as you sip on a cup of tea and ever so slightly moan at a nagging little pain. Reality is much, much different.  First, you will be hooked up to a monitor.  Then get a blood pressure cuff.  And a finger blood oxygen thing.  An IV.  If you are super lucky, they will pump you full of Pitocin which is code word for  incinerating pain. Now, labor pains are unreal.  They are a deep, deep, intense, insane mind numbing pain.  If you decide to get an epidural, you will have to literally sign your life away while someone you've never met sticks a long ass needle in your spine...but the pain is SO awful, you will happily do this.  Once this lovely event happens, you get the enjoyable catheter with the bag of pee it's connected to hooked onto your hospital bed like some disgusting purse. You will wonder, at least once, if you are actually dying because the pain is so intense.  Your husband will become the jackass who doesn't understand what you are going through.  (Note to the dads: Don't talk about how tired you are, how hungry you are or how you wish "something would happen already".  Don't.  And after the mother of your child goes through this hell? Do not, under ANY circumstances, talk about how you don't think you can get a vasectomy because it would REALLY hurt.  No. Don't.  Trust me.)  People you have never met and probably will never see again will snap on gloves and get to third base with you.  If your darling little baby doesn't come the way nature intended, you will start hearing the phrases "not progressing" and "take the baby".  When these start floating around, that means  you are heading to the operating room.  Regardless of how your baby makes his or her way into the world, the minute you hear that cry, you're a mother.  And your life as you know it?  Is over.

Hair - Kiss it good-bye.  Mother Nature let you hang onto it during your pregnancy but the Hormone Fairy will pull rank, do her action and your once lustrous hair will start falling out.  What that bitch doesn't take away,  your baby will.  The only thing harder to pry open than a pickle jar is a baby's fist...and babies love to grab fistfuls of hair and yank it out.  Repeatedly.  Side note: They also do this will earrings, so dangly ones need to be put away so you can keep your earlobes in one piece and studs need to go because they are a choking hazard.

Skin - If you are nursing, it will be dryer than sandpaper, no matter how many bottles of water you drink.  Oh, and those bright red streaks on your hips, boobs and stomach? Yeah, those are stretch marks and they aren't leaving.  Ever. No amount of Baby Belly Butter or whatever the fuck cream in a fancy tub you buy to make these things go away, they aren't leaving.  Deal with it.

Muscle Tone - Unless you are some freak of nature, this changes as well.  Things jiggle that never did before.  Things droop.

Boobs - When your milk comes in, these look SPECTACULAR!  Of course, they will feel like someone has made two cuts just below your collar bone and dumped 5 pounds of pea gravel in your boob cavity but for about 2 minutes, it's worth it because again, they look so good.  Your husband will lose his shit and want to play with your new boobs.  This is out of the question because they are excruciating.  And you get to attempt to latch a very hungry, strong nursing baby to these things.  Now, unless you have twins, your other boob will be confused once the feeding frenzy has begun and it will order the release of milk.  This might come in the form of a drip, a drop or a spray.  It's really nice if  you are laying down and this happens because then it comes out in geyser form and you end up with a breast milk shower if you didn't have the forethought to cover it up before you begin nursing. You will need breast pads.  Like little mattresses for your boobs.  What's really awesome is when you are out in public and your baby cries and you end up with two wet stains on your shirt.  So trust me, you will need breast pads. 

Stomach - If you housed a large baby and because of his size, had to have a c-section, you have your own built in Boppi. 

Eyes - They will be bloodshot, half-open and have sets of luggage under them because sleeping is part of your past.   Also, everything will look different because you are seeing things through the eyes of a mother.  That little outfit with all the buttons you got when you were pregnant that you thought was so cute? It might as well have the words "I will choke your baby" embroidered on it.  The couch will look like some medieval suffocating device because what if the baby somehow got wedged in between the seat cushions??  Forget about window blinds...can you say "baby noose"?!  The toilet looks like a death trap and you will wonder if your grandma was right and if your 15 year old arthritic cat really can suck the baby's air out. Everything looks different.  Everything.

Mind - Sesame Street is on at a very early hour.  You will watch this because it's either that or the farm report or infomercials and you will figure the baby might subliminally pick up on the alphabet while you sit with him or her at 4am, half asleep.  You will get to know the whole gang.  You will have a favorite.  Yes. You will. (Oscar!)  Aside from taking care of your baby, your mind is shot.  You will be ridiculously sleep deprived and hormonal.  These two ingredients will turn you into a drooling idiot for a few months.  But don't worry, what you lose in IQ points, you will make up with your knowledge of all things related to mastitis and hemorrhoids.

Sleep - I can not stress this enough. You won't get any.  Not enough, anyway.  You may even be lucky enough to deal with a colicky baby who NEVER sleeps and ONLY wants to nurse.  You might go weeks and weeks before you sleep more than a few hours here and there.  There might come a time when your baby finally falls asleep, boob still in her little mouth.  Then you will watch her body start to stiffen, and her face get red. Then you will feel hot poop explode out of her diaper that looks like watery Dijon mustard.  You might even have the energy to be appalled at yourself for actually contemplating if you should wake the baby to get you both cleaned up , an act which will piss her off and keep you from getting that much coveted nap or if you will literally sit in shit in order to close your eyes for a few minutes. 

The Dad - Your baby's dad will be the rock star.  He will come home from work, kiss the baby, hold the baby and give the baby back.  This will last for a few minutes.  A mother is like a tugboat, the baby is the barge and the dad is the groovy speed boat that zips by...it looks exciting and it's fun.  However, the tugboat is going to keep the barge going in the right direction, staying on course, no matter how many rough waters she comes across. This? Is why professional athletes say hi to their moms on national television.  They know that deep down, it's the tugboat that got them from point A to point B.  Every man I know has at one time, when his wife was nursing, thrown his hands up in the air, shrugged his shoulders and said "I'd like to help her out, but I don't have boobs."  Yes, even your Prince Charming will say some version of that line of bullshit...and he will think that because he doesn't have boobs, he's pretty much off the baby hook.  Yes, he will. 

The Baby - makes all of the above worth it. Take pictures, because you won't remember a whole lot...and before you know it, your baby won't be a baby anymore...