Motherhood Uncensored

Good [God Where Do I Live Again?] Friday

There is certainly no dearth of religion here in Arkansas. I'm still trying to figure out what terrible things people have done here to incite so many televangelists, Christian radio shows, and "I Am Love" billboards. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when, on the way home from the mall yesterday, I passed by three dirty, bloody white men hanging (by ropes) from crosses.

WHATHFUDJKFDNLDKFTIONDOFNDFDFSNLD?

I saw the traffic slowing down and cars pulling over a few hundred yards up ahead, and considering all the people standing around, a few holding signs, I thought it was a pro-life rally.

But then, after seeing the three "bloody" men, Roman soldiers, and weeping women, I found myself wishing it was a pro-life rally.

I fully understand the importance of the Easter holiday to Christians. Heck, technically speaking I am one, although I was pregnant and "illegally" married through the entire Catholic conversion process. I'm not sure what that makes me (HeatheN with a capital "H," maybe?), but in any case, I get Easter.

I really do.

And I can see the annoyance that said Christians might have when we heathens forget the "reason for the season" and gorge ourselves in Cadbury eggs and try to see how many jelly beans we can fit into our mouths.

But, I'm not quite sure exactly what message these "performance art pieces" (I use that three-word combination very lightly) are trying to send. I can't really say that seeing such a display will make me want to go to church and repent. In fact, it actually makes me angry that they would attempt to burn such a scary and horrible event into peoples' minds.

Like the minds of my little children who would have been asking me to explain this to them over and over. Because that's what Jesus teaches us. To ignite fear in our children in order to bring them closer to Him.

I just don't think that's what He would want.

My Body is a Wonderland [Ranch]

I don't dream in metaphors. It's probably because I have no brain power leftover to try to interpret what some oddly attractive green monster wearing my underwear on his head doing the macarena in my bathroom means.

So, I clearly got the message when I had a dream that my then serious college boyfriend left me at the altar and priest said to me "just because you've been together for three years doesn't mean you need to marry that asshole."

Amen.

And when that same boyfriend and I were sitting naked in a tub last night and he said "Your body looks great for having three kids," I got it clear as day.

That and one hell of a... well... yeah. You know.

I've been coming to grips with the effects of childbirthing and rearing on my dear old body. I wouldn't consider myself a vain person, but watching your breasts become ever so uneven and saggy is disconcerting to anyone. The stomach is floppier. The ass is flatter. And there's just an uncanny amount of extra hair.

I'm not sure which is harder -- loving a body in transition or dressing one. Clothes (and boobs too, I guess) are either too big or too small and never just right.

Sure, maybe some of it is fixable with the right shirt and a good pair of jeans if you've got the time to search for them, but there's plenty that requires a bit more effort. Extra treadmill minutes. Extra spa hours. Extra saline in those breast implants that have my name on them. None of which are feasible (or even realistic) when you've been pregnant or breastfeeding for most of the last four years.

And it's made even harder when you're focused on about 5,679 other things, like well, your child's life and sleeping for longer than three hours in a row (to name a couple), that you just don't become as concerned that arms wave back.

That is until you're standing, naked in front of the mirror, staring at yourself. Remebering what used to be and seeing what is now, and crying a little.

Or, a lot.

Because beauty past and beauty present is just a bit hard to swallow.   

And so I've come to slowly realize that the body that used to be one hell of an amusement park ride has become a rusty old merry-go-round and rinky-dink roller coaster. And I just don't have the cash laying around to invest in upgrading it, at least anytime soon.

But at least I'm reminded, thanks to one little dream, that it's most definitely still worth taking for a ride.   

We'll Have the Soy Corned Beef & Cabbage Please

It took me only an uncanny three short weeks of having various meat products thrown at my head to figure out that my son might just not like meat.

Seriously people. It's amazing I make it through the day without a checklist. 1) Open eyes. 2) Find toilet. 3) Pee.

I've never been a huge meat lover, so I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised. Plus, he flabbergasted us all when we found him downing seaweed and tofu like it was baby crack. Of course, he is a quarter Asian to which I was chalking up his overall brilliance and propensity towards playing the violin and math equations. Silly me. Of course he'd like rice and seaweed.

heh.

So, after being hit with yet another piece of perfectly good steak, I decided that it might be time to seek out other non-animal options, especially since he has now taken to biting people (the kid needs protein and he will get it any way he can).

Flavored tofu? Sweet!

Fake chicken nuggets? Winner!

Garden burgers? Yes please!

[Consequently I was unaware that they were still making Gardenburgers available to the mass public, you know, other than that pithy salad alternative for poor vegetarians who get suckered into eating at Applebees.]

Now, while I have solved the protein issue, I'm still working hard on dairy products, which unless they come in pint form from our favorite Vermont pals Ben and Jerry, he's not so interested in either. And quite frankly, I much prefer picking up fourteen pieces of roast pork off the floor than having to scrape numerous pieces of perfectly good cheese off my leg.

He spits out American cheese like it's a large Rhodesian cockroach that's still alive. And he makes the bitter beer face when I try to give him regular yogurt as opposed to soy.

[Although apparently now soy can kill you these days, so what the hell am I supposed to do other than lock my kids in a closet and feed them boiled water and air!]

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say my son is a vegan. Aside from being beaten up by some frail wayward vegan googler who thankfully took time to make sure I knew that the bread used in my "vegan" peanut butter and jelly recipe could possibly have honey and OH GOD THE BEES THOSE POOR BEES!, my son much prefers to chew on leather shoes rather than pleather.

And then there's the carpet fuzz, paper, and hair.

I just don't know exactly what that makes him, other than a cat.

Russian Roulette of Parenting: Where the Odds are Never In Your Favor

Place your bets! Share your own! Spin the wheel of "Yeah, You're Probably Fucked!"

How long can my son run diaperless before he pees on my favorite shoe?

How long can I stay out before my son falls asleep on the way home and turns his usual 2 hour nap into a 20-minute "haha sucker" nap?

How long can I have an adult phone conversation before being interrupted by a crying little person?

Can I go into the store without an extra diaper and wipes?

Oddities.

I suppose everyone has their fair share of quirks, some a bit more life interfering than others. I can proudly claim that mine are extremely limited, most likely due to my extremely laid back mother and well, marrying into the "Quirk Family."

I can sleep quite well regardless of the direction and shape my towels are folded. And, like Sci Fi Dad and I discussed a few weeks ago, any cleaning products are the right cleaning products, made better when used on my floor with your mop and elbow grease.

But that doesn't mean I freak out a little bit when my daughter decides to peek into the "cool silver box" in the public restroom.

We've all got our deal breakers; some of us refuse to shake hands and can't leave the house without lining up the rug tassles. And others of us just don't like to get shocked every single time we grab a door knob so we tend to flick it oddly before grabbing it.

Ahem.

But take the silver box example. I say, "Don't touch the silver box because it's really a little trashcan where people tend to put personal waste that is for their fingers only" (feel free to giggle the next time you are one stall over from me). But then there's the "Don't touch the silver box of death because it's full of germs and now I must wash your hands 40 times over and desanitize you with a wet wipe so start stripping kid."

Eek.

And unless our quirks interfere with us making it out of the house, they really won't ever give us too much of a hassle. Granted, I was schooled in the "correct" way to dry yourself off before exiting the shower, and how to properly hang the toilet paper roll so the paper falls over (God not under YOU FREAKS!).

But hell, we survived, albeit with way less sex, but alive and kicking just the same!

But then kids come into the picture, and I say all bets are off. It's time to quit the quirks. You know, bury your bizarreness.

Because what pains me more than seeing people obsess over something so ridiculous is when their kids do it too.

Now I understand that many of our oddities, or preferences (if we're using gentle language), are personality based and can be related to specific developmental issues. But when kids are demanding four layers of toilet paper on the public restroom seat, I start to wonder if parents aren't letting their own quirks rub off a bit too much on their kids.

Try cover and hover, kid.

Now I know it's one thing to be safe and careful. But when our kids can't eat a perfectly good raisin off the floor in peace and quiet and play in the sand without being vacuumed with a car vac, then what is this world coming to?

Truth be told, I want my kid to be quirky all on her very own. She doesn't need my baggage and she most certainly doesn't need my weirdness. And pain me as it does to explain to her why peeing on top of another family member's (or God help me, poop) is not a big deal, I will do it.

Because damnit someone has to make up for some of the crazy shit my husband likes to think is normal.