I used to be hot, dangit. I used to be able to struggle with which bikini looked “coolest.”
Now, I spend hours searching online for a bathing suit with full coverage. If I look all “vintagy” this summer, it’s not a style choice.
I once wore a men’s polo shirt and a casual skirt to a gas station to grab pizza and got ogled for all the right reasons. Now, if anyone is staring it’s because that kind of casual look makes me look like I might be about to ask for money or crack.
This was me. No, really. It was.
I used to be able to drink 4 beers and never once consider the calorie content.
Now, I feel guilty about a single Mich Ultra.
I understand that between having two children and… well, let’s face it, getting older… your body is going to change.
When we were facing the real possibility of not being able to conceive, I prayed to God, “Please give me a baby. Take my body! Make me fat, just give me a baby!” Now, it’s like… “Just kidding, God… can I have my body back now?”
I was once insulted by an ex who said (while we were dating), “I’m done dating hot girls.”
A guy at work said, “She’s cute, except for those eyebrows.”
Another said, “She has a nice… face.”
Those kind of comments used to destroy me. (clearly, I still remember them plain as day)
Now, I would be like “Hey, he’s just into SMART, classy, pretty chicks.” “He said I’m cute!” “I have a nice face!”
I used to fish for compliments.
Now, I fish for reassurance.
I want to shop for clothes that express my personality.
But, my personality is still a 125-pound, uber tan waif who is 22 and childless. Can’t quite pull off the cutoffs and bra-less tank tops anymore.
I know, I know… My husband loves me and I’m not exactly morbidly obese. But, can’t I go back in time and tell my former self to appreciate my hotness? And then, can’t I tell that former self to workout even harder so that someday squeezing out a couple of kids wouldn’t change my body chemistry so dramatically that I can’t even comfortably wear shorts in public?
It all happened so fast. Over the course of just a handful of years it was like bam… husband… bam… baby… bam… another baby… and then WAH WAH… what happened?
Still skinny.
I am being dramatic and self-loathing, which is also unattractive and makes me feel even worse. Vicious cycle.
New post-baby prayer: “God, please give me time. Time to workout every day, so I don’t continue on this depressing road toward over-sized shirts, fanny packs and kankles. I promise I won’t get a full-sleeve tattoo!”
Things that make me irrationally angry:
1) The Lean Cuisine tells me to stir my food halfway through, but it’s still solid as a rock.
2) Stop the car quickly and everything on the passenger seat ends up on the floor.
3) Smile at someone you pass in the hallway, they make eye contact and don’t smile back.
4) Removing red nail polish and it stains the edges of my fingers and toes magenta.
5) Strangers using terms of endearment like “kiddo”, “honey” and “sweetie.”
6) Waiters who look at the tip you left before walking away from the table.
7) Trying to sort through tangled jewelry.
8) When the sheet ends up bunched down at the bottom of the bed.
9) When the clothes hanger snaps when you try to pull it out.
10) Cylindrical garbage cans that create suction so you can’t get the bag out without it ripping, lifting the can off the ground.
11) Automatic flushing toilets that flush when you just lean over to get toilet paper, splashing you with pee water and making anyone nearby assume you’re doing a courtesy flush.
12) Shoes that squeak when you walk so it sounds like you’re perpetually farting.
Things I do that make other people irrationally angry:
1) Make tuna or egg salad in the break room at work.
2) Late merging on the highway.
3) Leaving the cork on the wine bottle opener.
4) Leaving a six-pack in the plastic bag from the corner store when I put it in the fridge.
5) When the Coke Slurpee isn’t the right consistency, I toss it in the trash.
6) The other alternative, which is testing the consistency by just pouring some into the catch drain.
7) Forgetting to wash all of the leg hair down the drain.
8) Leaving my personal trash on the restaurant table.
9) Tossing dirty clothes on the floor next to the laundry basket when it’s full. (Hey, Saturday is laundry day)
10) Dumping a half-full cup of liquid into the trash can at work. (the cleaning staff despises me… but at least my cup is… half full)
Whenever my husband tells me he’s going out of town on business, my stomach sinks. I feel pressure under my tongue like I’m going to vomit. I expect it’s similar to how I would feel if I were to find out I was expecting a third child.
Ok, maybe not that bad… but close.
I know it means I will inevitably be late for work, arriving frazzled, in border-line meltdown mode. That’s how I feel when I am 5 to 10 minutes late, even if I work through lunch. You can imagine how I feel when I’m actually out sick. I was racked with guilt when I was in the hospital with MRSA.
I am not normal.
My life is planned down the second.
Alma demanded braids this morning. That’s all it took to ensure I was 5 minutes late. Hard to believe? I frequently have to decide whether to pee before work or arrive on time.
My “lunch breaks” are spent buying milk to store in the work fridge and canceling all of the appointments I can’t make because I can’t even use a vacation day to see a Doctor. I’m just so valuable.
So valuable that I could create a daily list of criticisms longer than my grocery list. We have two kids. It’s a long-ass list.
Got this fortune this weekend. Couldn’t stop laughing.
I see the sunrise on the way to work. I watch it set on the drive home. I know, I know… there are people who would say, “Be grateful you have a job.” Oh, I am.
It’s so awesome to be able to afford to enjoy absolutely NO time with my children or husband.
Well, I do have my weekends. This past weekend was a blast. We had a party to celebrate our son’s 2nd birthday. I ate too much, drank too much wine and had to delete all pictures where you could see my arms. (Not a fan of my arms right now. I have “drink too much” arms. Not even lugging around a 30 pound kid can cure that.)
Birthday parties are a blur. Afterward you question whether you were rude to anyone, did the food taste good and WHAT HAVE WE DONE BY GIVING OUR TODDLERS CAKE AND CHOCOLATE??
Nothing compares to post-birthday party meltdowns.
Sunday, we took the kids to a state park to enjoy the great outdoors. Nothing great about my daughter demanding I carry her for miles through snake-infested woods, sweating my ass off and constantly having to stop so she could throw sticks in the river.
My son had a blast. He’s a future hiker.
Alma… she’s a future shopper.
She spent an hour before leaving crying hysterically because we wouldn’t let her wear a white lace skirt and light pink church shoes to go hiking.
I knew we made a mistake when after just a couple of minutes of walking she started saying, “I’m sweating. My knees hurt. I’m hungry.” Her “knees” hurt?
Yeah, that’s a new thing. “I can’t walk up the stairs because my knees hurt. My feet hurt and my arms and my toes.” She’s a classic bullshitter.
The day at the park started out with us saying, “Maybe the kids will be ready soon to try out camping.”
It ended with us saying, “Let’s never leave the house again.”
We’re terrified to even go out to eat anymore.
HELP, we’re being held hostage by two very small people with astonishing strength and an inability to communicate effectively!!
You’d think all of the action of the busy weekend would wipe the kids out and they would sleep like logs.
My daughter slept like a log, if you picture a little blonde log rolling out of a bed at 2 a.m. and screaming incoherently, “I don’t want i! I don’t want it!” (I have no idea why she was saying that)
Throw in the fact that this weekend one of the dogs snatched away a piece of bread packed with the other dog’s medication and then proceeded to projectile vomit around the house for an hour and you might begin to understand why I have “drink too much” arms.
Alma requires me to surround her with 4 pillows. She calls it a circle. Afterward she said, “I’m so happy now I’m in my circle!” O… C…D.
This is a visual representation of my love for my son. It’s 58 baggies of dog poop, mostly fossilized. I used a comp day to clean up crap. He’s gonna play in the yard for his birthday tomorrow dangit! Even if it rains!! Is it possible to neuter a dog’s behind?
I am posting this despite reading a list of things moms need to stop posting today, which included bathtub pictures. The assumption was that perverts would track them down. But, there can’t possibly be anything appealing to even a predator about this picture, right? It was taken just after Huck threw a hard plastic toy right at Alma’s head. I just love that he proceeded to “eat his shark” and act like it was all good.
I could create a life timeline purely using memories involving fast food.
I remember the first Champ Burger I ever ate from Checkers.
The fast food chain had just arrived in St. Petersburg and my mom stopped there while we headed to one of my brother’s soccer tournaments.
It’s not that it was anything amazing, but it’s a moment I relive if I ever have a Champ Burger now.
I can feel my legs itch from the summer grass, the sweaty hair tucked behind my ears and the tingle of the start of a sunburn on my cheeks.
The Filet-o-fish sandwich from Mcdonald’s brings back memories of trips to the dentist.
My mother used to reward me with them after every single trip to get cavities filled or braces tightened.
Now when I eat one, I can feel the numbness and struggle of trying to eat them after getting Novocain.
Subway was the food of choice when my father and I started doing Sunday lunch after my parents got divorced. I would get the 6 inch Cold Cut Combo and we would sit on a bench in a public park, talking awkwardly about the happenings in my teenage life. If I got that sandwich now, it would inevitably bring back the smell of the bread people would toss to the ducks nearby, something I did with my father even longer ago.
It might not qualify as fast food, but I would be remiss not to mention Coke Slurpees. While my first serious high school boyfriend introduced me to them, my relationship with this sacred beverage was solidified with the help of my then best friend, Marisa. We had a deal. When she came to my house to run through lines for plays (we were theatre geeks) she would bring along Coke Slurpees and Reese’s Pieces. I would return the favor when we rehearsed at her house.
Eventually Coke Slurpees were paired with Cheddar Cheese Combos on trips home after the beach.
Then they became how I survived pregnancy sans alcohol.
Comparing Huxley’s size to the Slurpee
Coke Slurpees are my crack. I don’t think I could ever give them up. I’ve tried.
If it wasn’t the worst idea EVER I would consider getting a Coke Slurpee tattoo. It’s the longest love of my life.
Also in high school, nothing compared to ditching for lunch and hitting up the Wendy’s with friends. Those ketchup containers are THE BEST.
Then, there’s my time in Miami, spent working the overnight shift in news, drinking an inordinate amount of alcohol and never sleeping.
We could call that my “Drunkin’ Donuts” period.
I once had a DD and showed up at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Biscayne all slovenly and ordered sloppily, “Can I have a ham, egg and cleeeeeese?” The employee rolled her eyes.
HAM, EGG…
… AND CLEEEEEESE.
There is a point to all of my greasy, fattening, sugary reminiscing.
Why do we try so hard to deny our children these standout fast food memories?
Why are we so hell bent at keeping them from the joy of speedy, nasty goodness?
I know, I know… America is plagued by the morbidly obese.
We’re the embarrassing mu mu wearing midwesterners to the rest of the world.
But, they call it a “Happy Meal” for a reason. It makes… you… HAPPY. I’m referring to the old-school ones.
No kid has ever cheered for apple slices and milk.
Granted, my children are still at the age where they prefer to dismantle fast food so it starts to resemble the REAL food it was made with. Alma wants a slab of meat and a piece of cheese, not a cheeseburger.
But, whether it’s Pizza Hut after football games or Taco Bell for Friday the 13th movie marathons, just about everybody has a memory tied to fast food.
So, give your kid a cheesburger.
Give them a memory to last a lifetime.
Quotes from my 3 year old daughter:
1) She told me she wanted to play superhero and I didn’t have a mask. I put on a headband and she said I look like an “Engine Turtle.” (Ninja Turtle)
2) There’s a white spot on a canvas picture in our bathroom left by a ding during the move. Alma told me, “A bird came in and pooped on it.”
3) Alma on broccoli: “I just like the tree part. Not the stick part.”
4) Bunny’s last name is “Bun” because her name is “Bun Nee.” (tried to correct her on this one, but she was determined)
5) Grandma and grandpa live in Saint Peep. (St. Pete)
6) She refers to her new classmate as “Crammin.” It took me weeks to figure out she meant, “Cameron.”
7) She talked for days about seeing “Speros” everywhere, climbing on everything, dark “Speros.” I thought she was talking about “spirits.” Totally freaked me out. Turns out there is a new wild boy at school named “Speros.”
8) She once told my husband that she was scared because of the “no one” people looking in the window at her in her bedroom. (It was actually me, checking to see if she was asleep after working out)
Have you ever seen those people who walk around at theme parks, grocery stores and zoos with their kids connected to them by a leash? Usually it’s hooked to a fuzzy animal-shaped backpack. Monkeys seems to be a top pick. I’ve often wondered what would happen if a primate at the zoo got loose and saw a tiny person-shaped monkey strolling around backwards.
Oh My God! It actually happened to this blogging mom!
I used to think those parents were ape-shit, pun intended.
It’s a fine line between the leash and duct tape and chains. I work in News. I am not going to do anything that even closely resembles child abuse.
But, I am mother to a pint-sized flight risk. His main goal in public is to race toward danger, whether it’s a parking lot (death trap) or the “big kid” playground (death trap).
Huck escaping to the big kid playground.
We should’ve seen this coming. When we took our daughter home from the hospital, we decided the first song that played on the radio would be “her song.” It was Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.” Seemed appropriate, especially since her feet are still the size of a newborn’s.
When we took our son home from the hospital, we played the same game. His song… “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley. Clearly this means he will be a pot head or a cop-killer.
Huxley is going to turn 2 years old this week. It’s his defining moment. He’s about to become a psychopath or an athlete, a good cop or a very bad cop.
My mother-in-law asked me what the theme is going to be for his birthday party. I was thinking, “violence.” Maybe a bleeding red velvet cake, body part streamers and we can turn his sister into the pinata.
Nah. We’ll go with a soccer cake and some traditional “boy” colors.
I will say this about my little man. He knows how to live. He takes risks. (ones that could cause his mother to go into cardiac arrest) But, he loves life.
On the swing the other day, as soon as he got to the highest point he would throw his head back and take his hands off the chains. The kids is insane, but I envy his joy.
I considered the leash, but I think I’ll stick with yelling at him at the top of my lungs in my “man voice,” which terrifies all other parents and children within ear shot.
I am guessing I’m not the only parent of little ones that occasionally suffers from something I call “sleep cursing.”
You’re deeply asleep, dreaming of sleeping in, using the potty in privacy… all things “single” and you hear the cries. You try to ignore it, but it grows louder. Eventually, they spill into screams of “mommy!!”
This isn’t when you start slinging curse words like a sailor. Not yet.
You rub their back, you “shhhhh” and you ask if they need something to drink.
You wrap them in a blanket, ask if they don’t feel well and RELUCTANTLY pick them up.
This happened at 4 a.m. with my son this morning. He probably has an earrache, which makes my reaction even more offensive.
So, I’ve given him milk and he’s cuddled under a blanket with me on the couch and we’re watching Thomas the Train. That’s when I give up and start praying I can fall asleep on the couch next to him.
But, nooooooo. Every 3 seconds he has to shout (with the sippy cup in his mouth) “Choo choo train!” Seriously? It’s Thomas the f&^ing Train. There are nothing but trains, Huck!!
Quit smiling at me you smug little &^%.
At one point he kept asking over and over, “What’s going on?” “What’s going on?”
I mumbled irritably, “They’re looking for Percy.”
Huck: “What’s going on?”
I silently say “f&^k” and say, “THEY’RE LOOKING… FOR… PERCY.”
Huck starts whining and he asks again and I lose it. I’m dropping f-bombs and telling him to just please shut up for the love of God! JUST STOP!
This is called “sleep cursing.” I would never curse in front of my kids while awake. But, something in my brain just snaps when I am in desperate need of sleep and my kid is keeping me up in the middle of the night for NO GOOD REASON.
I usually do self-censoring, falling silent at the opportune moment in the sentence. “Go to *silence* bed!”
So, how did my morning end? With me handing over duties to my husband, him getting me back up a few minutes later because he had to shower, me trying to squeeze in a five-minute power nap before getting up and oversleeping.
I did my makeup at red lights. I have bed head. I will spend too much money on lunch.
But, I caught up on all those Thomas the Train episodes I’d been dying to see. So, there’s that.
Living The American Scream 