Motherhood Uncensored

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

Of all the things that have gone by the wayside since having kids, you know, like not leaving the house without at least mascara and lip gloss strategically applied, or hell, even brushing my hair, the one thing I have not lost is my taste in shoes.

You can take my skinny thighs and perfectly taut vagina, but don't you mess with my shoes!

Not only do I love shoes, but I generally have great taste in them. And while I'm not sporting the platforms, stilettos, or the Doc Marten's I bought at the factory in England, I can still pick them, even though these days they're a pair of ballet flats or a stylized sneaker.

So imagine my horror when I stood in front of the clearance shelves at Marshalls, holding a pair of $39 super comfy Cole Haan shoes, unsure as to whether they were funky cool or old lady chic.

I vascillated. I put them back. I picked them up. I almost did the thing that no decisive shoe lover with great taste should ever have to do.

Ask a fellow shopper.

*Gasp*

And then I figured, fuck it. I'm walking around in a Target skirt and Gap stretch tee both of which aren't maternity wear so when I'm not paying attention, the lower quarter of my belly hangs out.

Nice, right?

So, what the hell do I care if the shoes are for the over 50 set?

What do you think? I'm a big girl. I can take it.

Home Alone

Of all the wonderful words of wisdom you well-meaning moms of two imparted on me before I had Drew, no one (no, not one of you!) told me what to expect when I sent my oldest off to school.

Hello liberation!

Okay, so that's not the only thing. But with a smarty pants four-year-old who watches tampon commercials with the same intensity as Word Girl and Super Why and stands staring at you with those big brown eyes as you try to get five solid minutes of work in, the three straight hours alone with a 20-month-old is like being released from prison.

Well, the prison that is pretend babysitter and princess dress-up and "what is water made out of, mommy," and "I was just washing Dora's hair that's how the 4 gallons of water got on the bathroom floor," and the sassy never stopping mouth.

You know, that prison.

Don't get me wrong. We're catching up on all that four-year-old goodness every afternoon when she comes home. But for those three sweet hours in the morning when it's just me, Drew, and the remote, I can't say I miss those metal bars.

Considering my son finds the trucks racing on the road behind us more entertaining than anything on television (even Sesame Street -- oh the horror!), I've caught up on my fair share of depressing morning news, Project Runway reruns, and hell, even Jerry Springer "My Husband is Sleeping With Your Husband So I Got a Sex Change."

(Okay, so maybe not the last part but the point is if I wanted to I could, damnit!).

And while I'm not sitting at my computer the entire time she's gone, my son doesn't send mommy guilt "signals" every ten minutes if I happen to get caught up in an extra compelling series of emails about bibs and baby onesies.

However, the real discovery since the start of my daughter's school career has been my son's brilliance, which apparently was being suppressed by the presence of his sister. Since she began school last week, he's started building huge block towers and connecting legos, and he's even tried to do a puzzle (A PUZZLE!) -- pretty amazing for a kid who just two weeks ago was throwing any and all of those things at my head.

I shouldn't be that surprised at his developments in the physical and verbal skill areas since individual attention tends to help those things along. And I admit that when I'm not ingesting large amounts of bad televison and non-guilt computer time, we've spent our mornings playing alone together, which is something my 2nd child and I have never really ever had a chance to do. I've even registered us for music classes so I can at least tell him I did one activity with just him -- well, at least for the next 5 weeks until the new baby arrives.

Sorry son. I tried.

My only problem is that based on the time I have to pick up his sister from school every day, he'll be taking his nice, long, over-the-lunch-hour nap during the not long enough car ride.

And while I love me some crappy television and time alone with my precious son, I really really really love that nap.

Hell If I Know, Kid. Ask Your Father.

"Mommy, this sandwich tastes like ba-tits. Isn't that good?"

Boys in Black Dresses

Apparently the only thing I could think of to follow-up my last post (and your amazing comments, thank you!) is embarrassing my poor toddler son, now left alone with me every morning for four hours.

But it's for a good reason, you see, because I'm doing it to challenge you to do the same thing.

Okay, maybe not embarrass your son, but it's always nice to make sure you  have those embarrassing pictures in case they decide to win gold medals or go to Harvard and you can be that kooky mom who took pics of them wearing your $899 Carmen Mark Valvo dress that you got for $9.99.

Do you think he'll appreciate the amazing bargain?

So, go find your freaking best bargain ever. Write about it (or where you tend to find them), and/or take a picture, preferably of it on or with your kid because bargains are always better when they are displayed on cute spawn but it's certainly not required -- got a dog? a cat? a talking parrot?

Actually, no pics are required -- just make sure you follow the simple directions here (two links and an email to enter), and you'll be playing along in one of our blog blasts.

Yes, it's shameless promotion, but there are prizes involved (eight gift cards to be exact) and what else were you really going to post this weekend? The Olympics? C'mon. Seriously.

Plus, if you've got bleeding boobs, a sore crotch, or a sassy 4-year-old who has decided to act like she's 13 and is currently staring at the inside of a corner until she changes her attitude (does that work? I'm hoping!), then it's a great distraction.

Mir also wrote at BlogHer asking for your Back to School Bargain tips. No prizes, but Mr. Linky has been summoned and it's a great way to gain traffic and share your brilliance. But do the blog blast too!

Out of the Gray and Into the Light

It never got to a point where I ever wanted to hurt my kids. There were moments, especially with a newborn Drew, living in that hell hole, that I thought about hurting myself.

On a few occasions, in utter desperation or frustration or whatever it is when no one seems to be able to pick you up from the puddle you've melted into, I took to hitting myself in the head with objects.

Never bleeding, never really hard, but enough so that the soreness of my head would take the sting away from my heart and make it visible. Bandagable.

Healable.

But it was never enough to get me to my doctor or therapist or whoever else might have been able to tell me that I needed help. And it was never enough for anyone else to get me help either.

We're all on the look out for the crazed mom, standing on the edge of a bridge with her baby. But what about the mom with the crappy barely-metal vase in her hand, who gets herself dressed, plays with her kids while she wipes away tears, and goes on her not-so-merry way, bangs styled just a bit lower to cover her forehead?

What about the moms stuck in the gray area between "baby blues" and "PPD?" What happens to them?

What happens to us?

A few days ago I spoke with Dr. Myrna Weissman and the women behind Families for Depression Awareness about this very issue. The "gray" area that traps many mothers in an awkward place that doesn't warrant anyone getting them help but yet they really truly need it.

It's the breastfeeding and the lack of sleep and the shedding uterus and the stitches and the annoying family and the other kids and the guilt and the lack of sleep and the bleeding nipples and the crying baby that JUST WON'T FUCKING STOP.

And it's the pressure to do your best because you don't want to fuck your kids up from the very beginning because you just can't keep up.

Slacker.

For me, it was never about getting medication. It was never about getting a diagnosis. But I often wonder if I had seen someone and gotten some sort of "label" that maybe my husband would have been more understanding -- that I'm not just being a crazy lunatic mother because it's fun.

That maybe there's a bit more than that going on and one person can only bear so much.

What was made clear to me by Dr. Weissman was that there is still a gap between mothers caring for babies and mothers caring for themselves. It's an instinct to want to do everything we can for our babies, to give until we're just scraps of who we are.

And if we don't, then we're just selfish bitches, aren't we?

But the truth of the matter is, if we don't take care of ourselves, then we won't be around to take care of our kids.

If that means pumping one time a night (or mixing up a bottle of formula) so your spouse can feed the baby and you can sleep, then do it. If that means you can only breastfeed for six months and not 16 months, then do it. If that means leaving your screeching baby with your spouse, your neighbor, or your nutsy in-laws so you can get some respite, then do it.

Hire a post-partum doula, a maid, a cleaning person, a mother's helper, whatever it takes for you to maintain your sanity.

Eat take-out and tv dinners, so all you have to do is push a few buttons and put your feet up.

Forget the baby violin, toddler yoga, preschool karate, and whatever else everyone else thinks you have to do to make your kids happy and successful.

Maybe my permission to do these things doesn't matter. But how about a communal permission -- the strong voice of the village that says "It's okay. You're not a bad mother."

If there is anything I've learned from having almost three kids (other than the whole "smack in the head" thing doesn't work so well, except to continue my support of Tylenol) is that they need us as fully functional, happy and healthy human beings.

More than they need our breastmilk and our 24-7 undivided attention, they need us.

All of us.