Motherhood Uncensored

Maybe I'm Not So Bad at This After All

I know I've written many a post about the challenges of motherhood.

Okay. More like the "knock-down-drag-me-down-a-road-half-naked-with-poop-on-my-hand" challenges of motherhood.

It's hard. It's not fun. It can suck. A LOT.

And for various reasons, I've taken it upon myself to share my crazy stories of motherhood with you. Maybe it's so you'll laugh and then I won't feel so bad. Or maybe it's because I have no shame. Or maybe it's because I want people to not be afraid when they feel like they can't do it, or that they suck, or that their kids hate them, or that they should have kept the condom ON.

You get my drift.

I'm not sure how to measure success as a parent. Maybe when they're 25 and they have a job and they don't live in your house and they don't have genital warts you've done well. You can brag to the neighbors "My kid makes his own money and he's STD free!"

Victory is mine!

But with a 2-year old? How do you know? Let's face it. No one's offering me a crown and sash (or anything remotely congratulatory) around these parts.

Certainly those moms with kids that run them ragged, climbing on chairs at 10 months and screaming bloody murder at the supermarket are doing their best just like the moms with a quiet kid who reads books and doesn't eat her playdough. And just because your 2-year-old can sing the National Anthem in Portuguese and mine can only eat her toe jam with her eyes closed says nothing about my parenting ability at this point in time (just that I might want to feed her real food).

For lack of anything more substantial, I think it's just a feeling you have. When you look at your kid for that split second and you realize she's alive, breathing, and smiling. And that everything you've done for however long you've been doing it has paid off. It's those moments that are sometimes fleeting and hard to catch that tell me YOU DONE GOOD.

So make sure you tell yourself the same, moms and dads.You'll be wiping shit off the walls soon enough. Enjoy those tiny moments in time (maybe when they're sleeping, alone, in their own room and bed, after you just read to them and didn't have to lay with them for 45 minutes until they fell asleep or they are pooping on the potty and you don't have to wipe gobs of poop of their stinky yet still cute little asses) where the world is telling you that you've done good too. Sure. It's nice to bask in the glory that is the community of tub-poopers, wrestler-like tantrum throwers, and sore vaginas.

But sometimes it's nice to hear "You're doing a great job with your kid," isn't it? Because there are no Perfect Parenting awards or ROFL mothering awards. It's just us writing our stories hoping that someone will relate and feel better about themselves, and in that, we'll feel pretty okay too.

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This isn't an award, but you can certainly make someone feel really good by nominating them. Plus they can win prizes! Check it out.

The Home Stretch: AKA When I Start to Resemble a Peace Corp Worker Home for the Holidays

Apparently I have about six weeks left, give or take the extra two they like to tack on for good measure.

You know, first it's NINE months. Then you realize it's really TEN months. And then it's "whenever the fuck the baby decides to come out" which is the part that is really great, but then also really kind of sucks -- particularly when you've been enjoying your fairly taut and in tact vagina for the last 2 years. Like my midwife reminded me, "Your vagina is just never the same after having kids."

Gulp. Thanks. Just what I needed to get me through these last few weeks.

It doesn't help that I've started to resemble the next door neighbor's 27 year old English or Psychology major who is home from a 4-year "I couldn't find a job so instead I'm doing something noble by building huts for native tribespeople in Costa Rica" stint. Or, a "Survivor" reject.

You do know what I'm talking about right?

I tried shaving my legs, but I nearly fell over in the shower. And the other parts? Well... Let's just say my nether regions and below will be cozy warm for the winter.

I'm lucky if I lotion my face let alone put any make-up on. I have yet to resort to a doo-rag, but I have gone the "put some earrings on to distract from your pallid puffy face" route. Sadly, not even sterling silver danglies can help me.

I'm watching any and all crappy shows that I can get my hands on as if I haven't seen a working television in 3 years and I'm still in shock that certain people have shows but yet just can't.look.away.must.watch.

FLAVOR FLAVVVVVVVVVVV!

And as far as clothes go, I'm wearing the same three outfits over and over. Yes. Sort of like I'm living out of a backpack in the forests of Venezuela, except my outfits would not fit in a backpack because they are so incredibly large.

I'm even wearing mountain boots. Well sort of. I mean, they're by Merrell, so I imagine they're supposed to be fairly functional. You know. Just in case I have to climb a mountain in the next few weeks, I'll be prepared. But honestly, they are the only ones that fit my feet and will close up over my gargantuan calves (from all the hiking, of course). Heh.

And I'm eating like I haven't had anything but rice, fried cockroaches, and coconut tree bark extract smoothies for the past 4,009 days. Donuts? Give me 5. Pumpkin Pie? A whole one will do me just fine.

So, I'm calling this last month of pregnancy "The Rupert Month."

Sigh. If only they paid me a cool million for wearing a really bad tie-dye shirt and facial hair.

Secret Agent Mom

There is a distinct chance that I may have stumbled upon something amazingly brilliant. Or it's just my post-pardum paranoia flaring up.

Let' s just say I think I have uncovered a secret government operative called Project Secret Agent Mom, and before I have to go into hiding or I'm taken away in a seatless white van and a straight jacket, I want to make sure the public knows what is going on before something goes terribly wrong.

It hit me today.

They're training us to be spies.

I know, right? Brilliant.

Think about it. Do you really think that anyone could torture us worse than anything we've already been through? What other person could endure labor, delivery, and early breastfeeding and still get up the next day and do it ALL OVER AGAIN? Seriously. Have you had a kid suck on your scabbed over nipple? THAT IS PAIN. Needles, knives, electric shock? Please. Don't mock me. Try watching 4 straight hours of the Muppets, reading the same fucking book 10 times a day, and answering the same damn question over and over again. THAT IS TORTURE.

Multitasking? Pshaw. Working a gun, cell-phone, and a sexy DG trench (of course) while driving a black BMW is nothing. Who else are they going to find that can do 5,000 things at once? I don't know  any other breed that can read a magazine, talk on the phone, and nurse a baby all while taking a shit. I could be sitting in another room writing a reasonably funny blog post and tell you exactly what everyone else is doing in the house without a fucking fancypants voice activated videospeakerphone thingy.

And let's face it. We are the masters of not talking. How many times have you been asked "how are you" and you painlessly respond "Fine thanks" when you really want to say "Well, I have a hemorrhoid the size of a prairie dog hanging off my asshole and I haven't slept in 4 days, but otherwise, I'm just peachy." That takes some fucking fortitude.

Or how about when the kid next to you at playgroup has a snot longer than a jumprope hanging from his nose and all you say is "Oh, excuse me, I think he needs a tissue." Suppressing the "Lady, wipe your fucking kid's nose off before I strangle him with his own snot string" takes uncanny willpower.

Don't forget sneaky. We are some sneaky bitches. I can get my kid to eat anything under the sun. "Here honey - GREEN MAC n' CHEESE! " or "I don't know why your apple sauce tastes like liver... must be the brand." And, I can hint the shit out of constipated bull. Just try me. My powers of manipulation are unmatched. And if all else fails, I give good head. Period.

Seriously, only a mom could handle the sight of any or all types of bodily fluids and still eat her extra large piece of double layered german chocolate cake. Hell, I could have a big old shit smudge on my hand and still use the other one to shove that dessert right in my mouth without even batting an eyelash. They don't call me the stomach of steel for nothing.

So look. Before you think all your sleepless nights, group bathroom sessions, and thankless work are all for naught, fear not. We will soon be rewarded with fancy electronic equipment and sexy black suits. This top secret government plan didn't fool me. I'm way too smart for those bastards.

Either that or I've just figured out that I'm a Mom.  And this is what I do.

Hope you enjoyed walking down memory lane with me this week. I'll be back next week with all new posts!

Silly Wabbit, Tits are for Kids...

Hooray, my first Motherhood Uncensored post ever ever ever! Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Alright, I admit it. I'm still breastfeeding. My daughter is now 16 months young and she still uses my trusty boob (mostly the left one for those who care) for some type of nourishment/comfort/entertainment. Mostly in the morning and at night - oh *gasp* on the plane. Yes ON THE DAMN PLANE. Who wants to hear a child screaming for a whole plane ride? And, I don't even use a blanket to cover myself up. C'mon, I'd much rather see a BOOB on a plane then some of the ugly mugs walking around these lovely streets (or plane aisles).  So look - before you start flinging comments my way, allow me to at least arm myself with my Wonder Woman arm bands and enlighten you.

As you might have guessed (for those of you who know me, ohplatformwearingminiskirtflashingpushupbraloving KRISTEN), I was the kind of girl who went to the LaLeche League meeting at 8 months pregnant (those were the days, I tell you) and gasped at the moms whose kids were *gulp* standing at their side and nursing, amidst breaks of playing with other children, reciting the Gettysburg Address, and taking the SATs.

Just kidding - but you get my drift. Whipping out the boobie for a child who is tall enough to stand and nurse, and ask for it in another language was not my cup of tea.

With this image embrazened in my mind for eternity, I decided that I would only be breastfeeding for six months. Then six months turned into 12 months, and well, here I am.  She can talk, she can ask for it, and I suppose, if I sat in a chair and allowed her to nurse, she could probably do that too.

So here's my reasoning:

10. ALL the health organizations (including the World Health Organization and the American Association of Pediatrics) have concluded it's the best way to go for at least one year (WHO says at least 2). http://www.who.int/nut/inf.htm

9. It's a great form of weight loss and weight control (I'll discuss the 11 month thanksgiving diet in a later blog).

8. Dare I mention ALL the formula companies who say BREAST IS BEST, plus all the immunities and health benefits for MOM and BABY (lower risk of breast cancer, diabetes - ear infections, major illnesses)? http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051123/ap_on_he_me/breast_feeding_diabetes

7. My boobs stay big and perky. Hey, maybe YOU never got crapped on by a bunch of 13 year old pre-pubescent girls that were already wearing a 36B in 8th grade, BUT I DID. Damn bitches. Or maybe your poor often times "footinthemouth" husband didn't comment about your small half-Asian boobs when he met you. BUT MINE DID. Bastard.

6. Did I say my boobs are big and perky?

5. It's an instant comfort - for my daughter too. No seriously, the girl will fall asleep, fall back asleep, and maintain sweet silence in an INSTANT.

4. I will have HUGE ammunition for at least 1 to 2 years of TOTAL GUILT TRIPS for when my daughter is older and decides she wants to spend her college trust fund on a Save the Whales excursion.

3. I get boob action at least 3x a day.

2. It's free - yep, totally free. More money to spend on other stuff - like hot dates with my husband. Manolos and 7 Jeans. Yeah right.

1. It's the only way to fend off the post-pregnancy, inevitable boob drop and flop.

So there you have it folks. Come and eat at mom's diner. It's open 24-7, nothing but the BEST stuff on earth...

Always a Mother

It started out like any other Sunday - New York Times, earl grey with skim and one sugar cube, and liverwurst on buttered rye. She used to tell me how she hated the smell of it - the cured meat paste slathered over a thickly buttered slice of warm bread. I'd remind her that she was the one who got me started on it in the first place.

The warm fall sun shone through our huge kitchen window and I remember noticing a cobweb in the corner. It glistened in the light and for a split second, its beauty almost stopped me from swiping it down with my table napkin. 

"You missed a cobweb, Mother" I said, crumpling the napkin and cobweb in my hand and tossing it past her into the trash. "Did you clean the windows in the dark this time?" I chuckled. I could just see her standing on the window box in her nightgown and reading glasses while attempting to wipe off her evenly sprayed Windex with exactly 2.5 squares of paper towels.

I never gave a shit about cleaning anything, let alone a cobweb on a window that was usually covered with some dreadful excuse for a curtain. Mother was the one who used to follow me around with a spray bottle and paper towel roll, wiping up any semblance of dirty anything, even air, that my presence created. It rarely bothered me - maybe a trade-off for all the crap I gave her growing up. Or perhaps I knew it kept her sane. 

"You want to read this?" I asked, waving the cartoon section in front of her. That's all she ever read anymore. Damn cartoons. She just sat in her old rocking chair that I swore smelled worse than four tubs of liverwurst, head entrenched in the newspaper and coffee always close by.

Mother had taken to sitting in that chair almost all day long. I'd come home from work with her still attached to her seat, remote control in hand, and some old black and white movie blasting... At first I thought nothing of it but then she would just go to the chair and not even get dressed; I'd find her still in her robe staring at the screen, not even willing to look up to greet me.

I'd always worried that it would come to this. Dr. Fineman had warned me that she was "rapidly deteriorating and will not be able to care for herself." I stared at him with a mix of disbelief and anger - curious as to why he had waited so long to order a CAT scan.

"She came to see you about this a long time ago, Doc" I reminded him. It had been a few birthdays ago when she couldn't remember peoples' names. After the party she had lashed out at my sister for forgeting to turn off the oven. We took her into the doctor the next day and he prescribed an anti-depressant.

"A touch of depression" he called it in his typical matter-of-fact tone. Apparently she was having a hard time adjusting to us leaving the house and just needed a little "mood boost." He failed to realize that mother never forgot anyone's name - and even in her deepest and darkest days would rarely yell at either of us, and never about the oven.

It wasn't until mother stopped talking that I decided to take her in to the doctor again. Silence was always my mother's revenge but this was different. Even her eyes didn't say anything to me anymore. And that's when we got the news.

I knew mother heard him. She leaned back in the chair when he said it and turned to look out the window. And she sighed. It was the most sound I'd heard out of her in weeks and it oddly comforted me. Since then we'd been living in a state of imbalance; I'd still talk to her like nothing had ever happened and she'd stare back at me blankly, as if she had left her own body and someone else was housesitting for her while she was gone.

But late that one Sunday I heard sounds coming from the back of the house. Since the silent treatment started, I could identify any noise  - the washer spin cycle, the old bed spring squawking, or even the trickle of the leaky bathtub faucet. But this one was unfamiliar to me.

The soft, tuneful hum grew louder as I reached my old bedroom. For a moment, I stood with my back against the wall outside the door. I could hear it well now - the voice I hadn't heard in over 4 months. I gingerly peeked over my shoulder and into the room. She was sitting on my old bed, tightly grasping an old doll. And as she hummed, she caressed its faded hair.

God that song. She'd sing it to me every night up through junior high. I made her swear never to tell anyone, and she promised, so long as I'd let her still do it. During high school she'd sneak in some nights after she thought I was asleep and run her fingers through my hair, humming that same old tune. She thought I didn't hear her. But I did. And I never stopped her.

My knees buckled beneath me and I slid down the wall into a pile of silent sobs, tears racing down my face faster than I could wipe them away. I hung my head for a moment and then reached up to grab the loose hair that had fallen in front of my face.  My head tilted back onto the wall as I ran my fingers through my hair again. And again. And again.

"I hear you, mother" I said quietly.

I hear you.

It was in that moment I realized that even with what was just a shell of the woman I once knew, she was still a mother. And perhaps the bond between us - the bond between a mother and a child - is one that supersedes memory as we know it.

I never heard her voice again. Maybe she knew I needed to hear her voice to keep believing. When she couldn't speak, laugh, or later, move, knowing mother was still alive gave me the strength to make her one more damn bowl of oatmeal, tell her another joke, and watch countless black and white movies.

And even with every last ounce of humanity stripped away, there's always a piece of us left for someone to love.

At least that's what I have to believe.

*This is a work of fiction, inspired by mothers everywhere.