Motherhood Uncensored

Sometimes Single Parent

I hit a parenting wall at around the 8th day of 10 or more days of being mostly alone. Even with a babysitter coming a few times a week, and a couple of napping kids, I still find myself longing for a peaceful place where there are no fights and poop accidents, and questions are only allowed to be asked once.

I'm guessing this place is also home to a family of flying pigs.

The combination of feeling lonely and overwhelmed, plus super tired from staying up until midnight to bask in the glory of a quiet home makes me a less than stellar parent.

And then I wonder what the hell I'm going to do when my babysitter goes back to college and my husband deploys to Afghanistan and the countdown to his return takes up more than just my two hands.

Since doing this for a couple of years now, I've gotten better at dealing with the challenges this lifestyle brings with it. I'm learning to suck up the loneliness and the often mundane existence. I've mastered cramming in work during nap time and late nights. And I'm even doing a better job of taking care of myself.

But that doesn't mean I don't lose it, and that doesn't mean I don't need a reminder to take a step back and enjoy the moments that would otherwise be lost in the blur of my SSP (sometimes single parent) existence.

Last night I vowed to approach today with an open mind and a patient heart. To enjoy the many small wonders of my day instead of harp on the few big challenges. To speak quietly when I'm angry and yell when I'm happy.

And to remind myself that I'm fortunate that relief is right around the corner.

Crocs her? Why I hardly know her.

A couple of years ago just prior to BlogHer 2007, I wrote about my loathe for Crocs. In fact, I even offered to wear a pair to the conference if more people than not loved them.

Lucky for me, many of you have fantastic taste.

Fast forward two years (and a few radio interviews and news articles about my Crocs hatred) and apparently Crocs are making their presence known, well other that through gigantic clod-hopping rubber shoes - former President approved y'all!, at various BlogHer parties. In fact, they're throwing their own pre-Blogher party.

Crocsher.

Perhaps this is a backlash to what the Washington Post recently discussed as a possible "Crocs extinction."

"Crocs4ever," people are proclaiming! Even the Crocs president responded.

"Ain't nothing gonna bring us down," they cry.

That's partially true. They do float.

Now look. I realize that in over the last few years, Crocs are no longer the bright orange clogs that resist bacteria, keep you from falling off your boat, and get kid's feet caught in escalators.

They're flip-flops, Mary janes, even Ballet flats.

And I'm guessing they're a sure fire way to win a consultation with Tim Gunn.

Yes even your Malindi Leopard print ones.

My eyes! My eyes!

But at least they were what they were. Ugly ass shoes that people still tried to excuse as "super comfortable."

Now however, Crocs are hiding in the guise of stylish shoes.

But regardless of how many straps, buckles, and wedges you put on Crocs, they're still no Jimmy Choo.

And Jimmy Crocs just doesn't have the same ring.

The rudeness of strangers

While I'm fortunate to be surrounded by extremely thoughtful blog readers, friends, and neighbors, it never ceases to amaze me at how many rude people continue to populate this earth.

And I don't even mean the car smushing assholes.

I mean strangers that lack the common decency to offer a wave of thanks when you kindly let them in front of you in your car or to hold the door as you're leaving your gym with all three children.

Nope. Apparently it's too much to ask. Who am I to assume that a big dude and his elementary-aged son can't wait two seconds while I usher my herd of children - two behind me and one in my arms - out while one or both of them politely prop the door open with all their free limbs?

Instead they walked right in, usurping my right of way, and let the door close right in our faces.

And based on what I see, I'm not at all surprised.

During my pre-Blogher eyebrow wax, my esthetician and I were discussing how people can't seem to find the time to send thank you notes, emails, hell, even a freaking two second phone call to say "hey, I got that nice thing you sent me!"

Now don't get me wrong. I've definitely forgotten to send a thank-you note and I'm a terrible RSVP-er. But I really do my best to acknowledge if a gift was sent, even if it's with a quick email and phone call.

I get that people are busy and invested in their own lives and families. I've been a victim myself, so wrapped up in wrangling kids that I sometimes have no clue what's going on around me. And I don't even have a blue tooth stuck in my ear and a phone glued to my hand.

It bothers me that we're often so plugged into our own lives that we can't step back for a moment and reach out to others around us - to actually tune in, if only for a moment, to what's going on.

But regardless of how far my head has been up my ass, you can bet that I'd hold a door for a mom, even if I had all of my own kids in my arms.

When kisses were just kisses

Call it nostalgia, a cocktail of sleep deprivation and hormones, or a mini mid-life crisis, but I find myself having more and more flashbacks to "how things used to be."

Don't get me wrong. My marriage is in one of the best places its ever been.

It's not about finding someone else to light my spark or seeking out a "no-strings attached" fling, which only really exists in the romance novels anyway.

And it has little, if anything, to do with the weighty cares or worries that accompany parenting. The joy my children give me, which is evident about every other Tuesday and religious holidays, is a more than generous trade for those long quiet days in my office, late night parties, and spontaneous lifestyle.

But the way parenting has changed our relationship is something I'm not sure I'll ever get over.

Even though we only had eight months together before I got knocked up, something was strikingly different between us the instant I found out I was pregnant.

I've figured out that much of what my husband did in the romance department was part of his courting ritual, or at least, that's what I've decided to tell myself because my head hurts trying to figure out exactly what it is without me concluding that his libido was somehow attached to Quinlan's placenta and has since disintegrated into some Mississippi cesspool, which is almost the entire state.

And honestly, I think I'd just end up continually disappointed if I expected it to somehow magically reappear, at least on a more than three times a year basis.

I don't want the nightly romps between the sheets, nor do I need the spontaneous waist grabs and random kisses on the neck.

But that doesn't mean I don't remember how it was.

When we could lay awake together in each other's arms without falling instantly asleep at 8pm on a Friday night and when we could jabber on over dinner without being interrupted by screaming children or an ass wiping request.

And when kisses were just kisses, and not to say hello, goodbye, or "how's about that blow job you mentioned last week?"

Will the mommy blogger with hemorrhoids please stand up?

I get a lot of PR pitches in my email box, and most of them amount to someone telling me about an extremely exciting new survey conducted by Oscar Meyer and would I like to share this fascinating information about working moms' lunch habits with my readers.

Can you believe that 65.8% of working moms bring their lunch from home? And 69% eat at their desks?

See, now you can't say I withhold important information from you. Aren't you so glad Oscar Meyer and his weiner care so much about the lunch habits of moms?

But last night, the subject line read: New Client Pitch: *Hemorrhoids Treatment Product

[*side note: I type that fucking word so many times and I still misspell it at least twice before getting it right]

And given the state of my ass, I had to click on it. Apparently this lucky pr person was trying to figure out if I'd be interested in getting more emails regarding a product that has shown effectiveness in clinical trials for treating people with 'roids. And spider and varicose veins.

Not sure how that works, but who am I to question?

"We were tried to narrow the list as much as possible," she wrote. "But it's hard to tell who would want this."

Is she kidding? A 'roid treatment that's sold at Henri Bendels and Saks Fifth Avenue? Sign me up. I don't have a high class snooty asshole or anything, but it's got to be just as good if not better than the cheap stuff, right?

"Please don't flame us," she added.

I had to laugh at the unintentional pun. Flame lest ye be sitting on a flaming asshole.

But then I realized that eagerly emailing back for samples would mean that I was admitting to some random PR person that I indeed require the Hemorrhoids Treatment Product.

And yes, while I (and other fine bloggers) have admitted this on my blog, and in person to a few friends and the 17 year old check out guy at CVS (well, I didn't actually say it but the four packs of Preparation-H wipes sort of did that for me), I've never actually had to ask someone for it.

So I thought about it for all of four seconds and replied:

"I'm sad to admit that my ass would love to see samples."

I'll let you know how they work.