Rock and Role

Someone recently commented to me about all the different roles women take upon themselves & those cast upon them by society... the word "mother" alone stirs up poignant & respectable titles such as nurse, teacher, & giver, to name a few.  But let's get real here, this deviant's blog is neither poignant nor respectable, so I have comprised a short list of roles I throw down on a daily basis...

1. Professional Wrestler. This is a more recent development, as now my child insists on trying out for the Chinese Olympic Gymnastics Team every time I change his diaper.  He flips, kicks, and somersaults his way out of my grasp, so I am left pinning him down by his ankles as he successfully hurdles a poop-filled diaper onto the floor. Thanks kid, go for the gold.

2. Napkin. I have completely given up on wipes & rags.  Time is of the essence if I don't want broccoli & blueberries smeared all over my walls, so I have been known to use my sleeve or the hem of my dress to wipe my son's face. 

3. Chauffeur. If I'm not at home, I am most likely driving Holden to the doctor. Or a playdate.  Or the library. Okay, I'm probably at Target, but still, it's not like he can use his walker to get where he needs to go (check back with me in a few months on this... it's a work in progress).  Needless to say I've become used to having conversations with someone in the backseat... who doesn't even respond. By the time he's old enough to sit in the front seat, he probably won't want to anyways. And I have a feeling he will still be ignoring me...

4. Lunch lady. Remember when you were a kid waiting in line in the school cafeteria? And you got really excited about tater tots or pizza? Remember when all that excitement came crashing down the second the lunch lady threw something on your tray that more closely resembled someone's liver than a burger? That, right there.... that look on your face. Expect to see that same look staring back at you on a daily basis for the next year of your life every time you make your kid lunch. The lunch lady role inevitably leads to the next item on our list....

5. Salesman. You will find yourself saying things like, "Okay, I have a really sweet deal for you. Now, I don't do this for just anybody, but if you eat your peas, I will throw in some fresh cut apples, free of charge! How does that sound? Amazing! Am I right?" Prepare yourself for a lot of rejection and hard bargaining.

6. Private Investigator. I can't count how many times I have had to search for a missing puzzle piece or blue mega block. This gets old fast, but the good news is that it forces you to look under your couch, where you may find some spare change if you're lucky.  If you're not so lucky you may find a dead bug & some fur balls which cause you to launch a full-scale cleaning operation. Let's hope for the spare change.

7. Musician. Did I mention the lullabies yet? Free concerts... my house... nightly at bedtime. Be there.

8. Coat rack. Gone are the days of just using a purse to go anywhere. It is now necessary to load up my arms with not only my purse, but a diaper bag, my sweater, my son's hoodie, his lunch box, any shopping bags I may have accumulated, and my car keys. All while balancing a kid on my hip. This does not include juggling a cell phone or a cup of coffee.  I don't know about you, but I put a lot of stuff on my coat rack.

9. Magician. This is an all-inclusive title... whether it's sawing your budget in half (instead of sawing a lady, that is... although sometimes I swear my head is splitting),  making your kid's food disappear (did he really eat it or just feed it to the dogs again?), or pulling a stuffed rabbit out of a hat... or out from between your kid's legs (okay, maybe my kid is the only one that feels the urge to shove every toy on the face of the planet in his crotch, but you get the idea).  And I swear it has to be magic, because otherwise I just don't know how it all gets done.

Breaking Spawn, Part 1

Hell must have froze over today, because I actually... wait for it... waaaaait foooorrr iiit... WENT OUT WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING WHO WASN'T MY SON!!!! Shocking, I know.  A girl's night out was long overdue.  To sum it up, I had an absolute blast.  And considering the last blast I had was a blastocyst, I would say this was long overdue.
I must say though, going out with your girlfriend as a mother is a bit like going to a foreign country.  The people look different (as in, presentable and/or bathed), speak differently (as in, intellectually), & act differently (as in, normally).  So I have compiled a short list of how mommy-glasses may affect your girl's night out....

1. Too many options at the bar:  And no, I don't mean the beers on tap.  We hadn't even been seated yet and were already perplexed by the fact that we could sit ANYWHERE WE WANTED.  This may seem obvious to you non-parents, but when you have kids you have to find the biggest table. With room for highchairs. In a faraway corner.  That way when your kid starts hurling cheerios or racecars 15 feet into the air you are spared getting slapped with any frivolous lawsuits. The thought of sitting at any table of our liking was overwhelming.

2. Interaction with the male species:  Our server was a young man, so I took the opportunity to see if I "still had it".  And what rolled off my tongue I ask you? "So, how old do we look?" Ugh, Seriously Katie? I'm pretty sure the last time I asked someone that I was 15 and trying to get him to buy me a pack of smokes. He replied, "Well, I already saw your IDs." Me: "Uh huh... so how old do you have to look to get ID'd?" Him: "Under 30." Me: "I see...." Him: "But I asked for your ID so that's good, right?" Me: (scowls) "Well, guess I'm coming back next year to find out!"  It will probably be that long anyways until I'm allowed in public again. Sigh.

3. Mommy Guilt/War Stories:  It's so odd going anywhere without your child that you feel like you've forgotten something.  This leads to the Mommy Guilt, so all you do is talk about your child.  At least during this part of the conversation the alcohol is starting to take effect, and truths are revealed.  My girlfriend admitted to me that the other day she forgot to bring a snack for her son when they went to the park.  She desperately searched her bag to see if there was anything for her hungry three year old to eat.  All she could find were stale cheerios at the bottom of her purse, so she did what any good mother would do... tried to pass it off as real food.  Unfortunately her son scoffed at the notion of "dirty" cheerios so he went without. Some may call this child abuse, I call it resourceful.

4. Lightweight division:  Two girls who never go out plus happy hour.  Need I say more?

5. Tainted Love:  When you've been married for over five years and you see Edward & Bella on their honeymoon, you can't help but feel slighted & skeptical.  "Romance AND sex? Who does that anyway?" "Please, I give them six months!" 

6. Bladder Control:  It's about this point during the night when those beers start to hit me with a fury.  I used to laugh at those commercials with the funny jingles & little water balloons simulating bladders, but suddenly I have a deep empathy for those women running out of board meetings to the bathroom... they're obviously mothers.  YOU try pushing something the size of a football out of your vagina and see what happens.  Go on, laugh, I dare you.  You'll probably just wet yourself anyways.

7.  Bella's Belly:  Motherhood has this peculiar way of seeping back into every primal instinct you have to procreate.  There I am, watching Bella Swan writhing in pain looking like she's dying of cancer because of this monster in her uterus...  her cheekbones sunken in, her lips pasty white, and her belly covered in bruises... I lean over to my girlfriend and say, "Aw, I miss being pregnant!" 

8. Movie Babies:  I don't care if it's half vampire! Why is that newborn baby bigger than my ten month old???

9.  The long good-bye:  The movie has ended, the night is coming to a close.  This would be the moment where young lovers hold one another in a warm embrace, tenderly stroking an arm or brushing hair out of the other's eyes... Snap out of it!! Mommy good-byes go more like this: "Um, I don't want to go home."  "Me either...." (long pause) "Are you going to that play date Friday after Thanksgiving?"  "Yeah, but no one else is really going... it's black Friday." "Yeah, I don't do black Friday... people like, die and shit." "I know... they totally get stomppled." "Um, I think you just made that word up." "Oh..."

10. The drive home: I can't express the odd feeling of getting in a car and just... going. No strapping screaming baby in carseat. No strapping carseat in car.  No popping sippy cup in baby's mouth.  No fishing around for lullaby cd.  No double checking that carseat is tight enough.  No finding sippy cup that was thrown on floor and rolled under seat. No singing along to lullaby cd the entire way home.  No pulling carseat out of car.  No finding that damn sippy cup, again. No unstrapping sleeping baby from carseat.  No screaming at the dogs for waking up sleeping baby 12 seconds later.  None of that nonsense.  Just a phone call from your husband asking you to stop at the gas station for a tallboy because one night in with the baby was "a lot of work".  If he only knew.....

I got friends in no places...

Today marked my husband's and my 8 year dating anniversary, so we celebrated by venturing to a hipster vegan kitchen and treated ourselves to some curried tofu. This is remarkable for two reasons: one, I have been putting up with his incessant blanket hogging for the better part of a decade, and two, going out in public forced me to socially interact with other human beings.
In my "past life", public appearances were an afterthought, but recently I discovered that I have the social etiquette of a cat in heat. Read: I have no friends and I am painfully desperate to talk to anyone old enough to vote (liberally, of course). Exhibit A...
The other night I needed some serious alone time, so I went to my happy place... Target. Of course, my time spent away from the baby drove me straight to the aisles of rubber duckies and other childhood fanfare.  Even in solitude I spend my moments thinking about my son... motherhood is totally inescapable. Anyways, it's here that I run into another mom, also shopping for her son. I feel like a jungle cat stalking her prey, soaking in all the details (I know, I can be very dramatic).. Ponytail. Tattoo on foot. Wearing PJ's. I could TOTALLY be friends with this woman! We start talking, and before I know it I'm trying to figure out how to form some sort of relationship with this complete stranger.  Maybe I should pass her a note asking "will you be my friend?", with two boxes for checking yes or no.  Then reality smacks me in my oily face... GROWN UPS DON'T DO THAT!!! Sigh. I proceed to check out with a bottle of shampoo and a bruised ego.
Exhibit B...

The following day, I mysteriously found myself BACK at Target.  After spending an hour looking through discounted Halloween items and wondering why on earth aisle 16 is lined with Christmas trees, I exited to the parking lot... and that's when I saw it.  The glorious champagne-colored Neon decorated hood to trunk in "Meat is Murder" stickers. OH. MY. GOD. Up to this point, vegans in central Florida were only found in fairy tales, and surely this was a sign. So I did the unthinkable... I left a note on the battered Neon... asking this person, this total stranger, to (gulp) be my friend. WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH ME?! Clearly, the isolation of motherhood has driven me over the edge of insanity straight into Desperation Town. Who does that?  In retrospect, definitely not one of my shining moments.
I had another one of those moments today at the restaurant (Vegans wearing Ohio State stuff, can you blame me?), but I will spare you the ugly details.  After the curried tofu, our little family unit went for a walk around the park across the street.  I saw a playground area, so naturally I was drawn to it (either that or strollers come equipped with magnets attracted to swings).  But my lofty vision of going down the slide with my son was quickly extinguished by the sight of the three teenage boys hanging out on the picnic tables.  Shouldn't they be in school?  Where are their mothers? Wait...what's that in their hands? Is that a... a... a JOINT? Oh my GOD these kids are going to... well I don't know exactly but I sure as hell don't want my BABY around such rebel-rousers! Ummm, did I just say, Rebel-Rousers? When did I turn into Mr. Wilson??? It may come as a shock to some of you (or not) but I used to "dabble" in college.  So why was I suddenly flipping out over a couple of harmless kids takin' a toke in the park? I honestly don't have an answer.  But it's the same reason why I about had a conniption fit that some jackass was smoking near my car as I was putting Holden in his car seat (did I mention I used to smoke a pack a day??).
Anyways, I'm not too sure what my point is here, but again I felt compelled to be brutally honest and express how motherhood has impacted my life in ways unexpected.  But maybe that's just the vodka talking ;)

Mama Drama (edited)

My writings here mainly consist of my experiences as a mother, or lessons learned in parenting.  For example, tonight's lesson: what really happens to lasagna if you bake it without covering with foil?* (I know, my life is painfully boring sometimes).  I try to offer my experiences as tuition-free knowledge to new mommies, but, I'M a new mommy myself, and I have a lot to learn.
One thing I really grapple with is where to draw the proverbial line with other mothers and their children.  Seriously, the last time I saw any lines drawn were on that EPT I took last year.  Seeing as how I am a playgroup dropout, I don't know when it's appropriate to interject in some situations.  Sure, there's the obvious: "Oh Tommy, hunny, don't touch the dog poop, that's ucky." But there is an awful lot of gray area too.
Last week I took my son for an evaluation for a continuance of his physical therapy.  Like any good waiting room for children, there was one of those giant blocks with the loop-de-loops & little wooden pieces which my son just happens to love.  So there we were, playing with the cubes & spheres very quietly... when suddenly cerberus itself had escaped the gates of hell and was running through the waiting room, pulling the blocks away from my son & shoving a sippy cup in his face whilst shrieking "BABY! BABY!".  Where was these children's mother and why wasn't she plucking them up off the blanket (and you KNOW it was the one I knitted while I was pregnant!) and sitting their little butts down in the corner on leashes where they belonged?! I was like a deer in headlights... I didn't know if this was an appropriate time to ask the children to play nice and not put their grubby little paws on my precious angel or if I should be scowling at the mother, sending her telepathic messages riddled with four letter words.  And so I did what I always do. Nothing.  I forcefully smiled at the children, swiftly put Holden in his stroller, and wheeled him over to the waiting room chairs, hopefully out of their sight.  Well, as it turns out, we were out of sight... out of the mother's, that is.  The woman I sat next to was legally blind, and was there with her two children (i.e., cerberus) & seeing-eye dog.   That may be the first time in my life I was grateful I didn't say something, and I felt that I had been given a reminder... don't be quick to judge & have a little patience.  Seems simple enough, right? After all, it worked for Jesus & the Buddha (except for that whole, died-on-the-cross & self-starvation-in-the-woods thing.  I know, I'm going to hell in a hand basket).
So, here is where the line-drawing & the non-judging intersect...

(this portion has been removed by the author to prevent any further mama drama!!!)

I don't intend to use my blog as a vehicle to "mommy bash", but these are just a couple examples of my not knowing how to respond since I don't know all the rules yet.  But, to hell with it. I was never really one for rules anyway.

*As for the lasagna, i regret to inform that nothing extraordinary happened without the foil wrapping. Sigh.

If I only had a Brain

In the words of Bill Cosby Himself, "My wife & I used to be intellectuals"...

I graduated from Business School with a BSBA in Marketing and a 3.4 GPA.  I would often find myself meandering in art galleries or participating in heated discussions about religion & politics.  I always kept my journal at an arm's length and a book in my messenger bag.  Nowadays, the only degrees that matter in this house are on the thermostat. The last piece of artwork I saw was a pumpkin hand-painted by a child (painted orange, nonetheless). My heated discussions consist of breast or bottle.  The only thing I have time to write is a grocery list, and my messenger bag has been traded in for a diaper bag, complete with the literary work titled "Hello Giraffe". 
Is it any wonder then that tonight I found myself putting vaginal cream on my toothbrush?  This remarkable phenomenon of deteriorating intellect is known as Mommy Brain (MB).  Since the day I found out I was pregnant, my brain cells began popping like bubble wrap.  This was evidenced by the fact that I checked my calculator for missed calls at the office, and when I sent a fax through the copying machine.  Six hundred copies of an invoice later, I had noticed a pattern.
I understood that in order to grow a human from scratch, sacrifices had to be made.  But I was wholly unprepared for the brain damage I would incur as a result.  I figured the lapses in judgement would subside postpartum... until the morning that I found myself haphazardly putting coffee in my son's bottle.  Or the afternoon that I violated my refrigerator trying to make the George Foreman Grill fit on the bottom shelf.  Or the time that I replaced the cap on the Pedialyte with a bottle nipple and placed it back in the fridge. 
I know I am not alone in my diagnoses of MB... I have several girlfriends who are also stymied by this condition.  The other day I received a text from one of my mommy friends, apologizing for dropping out of our conversation because she placed her cell phone in the cereal cabinet.  Another put oatmeal in her rice cooker instead of, well, rice.  Even my husband has been found guilty of stashing the remote in the freezer.
Symptoms of MB include the inability to form complete sentences, severe bouts of butter fingers, and heavy consumption of caffeinated beverages.  While there is no cure for MB, there are steps you can take to alleviate the pain.  Talk to your local grocer about which wine is best for you.  Side effects can cause deep relaxation or unintentional sex with your husband. Do not use wine while operating heavy machinery, if you are attending a 12 step program, or are completely unprepared for baby number two. Or three. Or four.

Take a Walk on the Child Side

I had a conversation tonight with someone who made me think about what happens when you become a parent... where does your old life go?  Does it die and go to heaven? Get lost in the ether? Perhaps it's just taking a break in the Bahamas.  Well, I can't really answer that question because all the things that make me ME are still there... I'm still an indie-rock-loving vegan who often forgets to brush her hair that has an incredible soft spot for hand-knit scarves and cheap red wine. But it is also true that I haven't been on a date with my husband in over eight months, haven't been to a happy hour in over a year, and can no longer fit my boobs in to any of my old bras.  You would at least think that last one would be a perk, no pun intended, but my boobs aren't so much bigger as they are just shaped differently. Sigh.
But those things pale in comparison to the joy my son brings.  Now, I'm not the mom who sugar coats my reality in the defense of motherhood perfection... yes, I would love an excuse to actually put on makeup & there are times where I am ready to throw up the white flag, but motherhood is complicated. It's frustrating & dirty & tiring. But it's also humbling & hilarious & sincere.
Not only does your life change, but the world itself changes.  Once you put on those mommy glasses, everything grows fangs and claws... the world becomes seemingly dangerous.  Before my son's birth, I had not one maternal bone in my body.  I would have rather swallowed diaper pins than spend an afternoon with someone who couldn't use toilet paper, let alone "use their words".  But once I saw my son for the first time, I immediately felt an intense, primal instinct to protect him.  I still do, and I find myself getting offended when people talk about children as if they were cockroaches.  I had someone who always said to me, "You don't have kids, so you don't understand." That would irritate me to the moon and back... of COURSE I didn't understand! How could I have? So I try to extend a courtesy to people that they really DON'T get it and not fault them for something they haven't experienced.  But when I see snarky things online about kids at the pool or babies chewing on merchandise at stores my inner mama bear starts to stir.  I've been on both sides of the equation, and personally, I like being on this one.  The moments of pure & innocent joy from a child more than make up for the moments of dirty diapers and lost sleep.

Nothing will teach you to live in the moment like having a baby, because that's all a baby has-- the present.  One minute you are living on sunshine & unicorns... and then you pull your head out of the rainbow because your sweet little angel has morphed into an inconsolable gremlin who wants nothing to do with you and all you want is a cocktail but you can't have one because it's only 3 o'clock in the afternoon and good mommies read to their children instead of making gin and tonics so you rock your gremlin side to side and get a bottle thrown in your face while singing Yellow Submarine because let's face it you're no John or Paul or George or Ringo and your gremlin KNOWS it because otherwise if you were he wouldn't be screaming because all John was saying was give peace a god damn chance and now all you can do is cry with your gremlin because you're exhausted and that's when you realize... you're gremlin is no longer crying... he is fast asleep in your arms. So you put him in his crib, look down at that sleeping baby and say to yourself, "what an angel".  And that's only something a mother could understand.

On your stretch mark, get set, go!

Each week during my pregnancy my husband photographed my ever-expanding belly.  I loved comparing the weekly silhouettes and mentally documenting their differences.  Until some time in the third trimester.  That's when I noticed the tattoo on my hip (or at least where my hip used to be) was looking less like an ohm and more like a blown out tire.  I thought I had narrowly escaped the wrath of rapidly stretching skin, but it turns out they were there all along, hidden beneath my range of vision. As any mama knows, with a growing belly comes the disappearance of any body part below the belly button.  This can lead to some hairy situations (pun DEFINITELY intended).
For a while I suffered from SSMD--Serious Stretch Mark Denial, and by this point, my favorite sentence was "Hun, can I have another brownie?"  And so it went, and 37 pounds later I was teetering dangerously close to the 200 mark on the scale.  But I didn't care, because I was making a human!  And we all know that takes a LOT of chocolate.  Besides, slap a little cocoa butter on that belly and those stretch marks will disappear faster than your post pardum sex life.
Seven  months later and I am still the proud owner of those little (big) red lines, happy reminders that my body is actually pretty extraordinary. Besides, scars are poetic, so why should stretch marks be any different?  If you got 'em, rock 'em.