Motherhood Uncensored

One, two, three, four, get your bladder off the floor

While my vagina has definitely paid the price three times over, my bladder has emerged from the post partum wreckage remarkably unscathed.

So when I nearly peed myself during a long set of squat jumps at kickboxing class, and subsequently found myself having to use the bathroom every two hours, the only explanation I could come up with was that I was pregnant.

And wouldn't you know, that's what the damn test said that I took Christmas morning.

YES +

[Damn new fangled things].

After screaming what must have sounded like the father fixing the furnace in "A Christmas Story," I took a picture and emailed my husband.

Subject: Um, Merry Christmas...

Message: I made an appointment for a vasectomy upon your return.

Okay, so I didn't say it that politely. I'm sure you can figure out my choice of words for that one.

Then I texted him to tell him to check his email. And then I called him to tell him to read the text that told him to check his email.

"What's that?" he asked me.

"A PREGNANCY TEST" I exclaimed. How can you not tell what that is, why, with my fine iPhone photography skills?

"Well, what does it say?" he asked. "I can't read it."

"DO YOU REALLY THINK I WOULD SEND YOU A PICTURE OF A NEGATIVE PREGNANCY TEST?"

Silence.

"You didn't post this, did you?" he asked.

[Ah, the poor husband of a blogger].

We both sat on the phone, scratching our heads trying to figure out how in the hell this had happened.

But even though it was highly improbable that I was pregnant, the little $8 test said I was, so therefore it must be true.

At least that's what I told myself as I finished off the dark chocolate caramels chased with three peanut butter and jelly topped bagels.

The baby is hungry. How can I deprive my baby of chocolates?

The only problem was that other than having to pee, I had absolutely no other pregnancy symptoms. And I had just had a period.

So I can't say I was too surprised that after taking a few tests the next day that might as well have screamed "NO WAY IN HELL" at me, I learned that pregnancy tests should not be kept in subzero temperatures, like in your car's glove box in case of an emergency side of the road pregnancy scare.

[I realize that you will now obsess about the fact that I had a pregnancy test in my car. I cannot give you a reasonable explanation for why there was a pregnancy test in my car other than the fact that I am lazy and sometimes just hide things in my car rather than bring them inside].

So, no folks. I'm not pregnant.

I just need to wear pads.

And kegel like I've never kegeled before.

Perspective

My husband was at work this past weekend for a four day trip back to his Guard unit, which usually causes me a fair amount of stress, anxiety, and overwhelm.

But thanks to the 45-day deployment, I didn't even bat an eyelash.

Yep, a super long stretch of parenting alone makes four days with the kids like a Hawaiian vacation.

Okay, so the only thing similar to four days alone with kids and a Hawaiian vacation was the fair amount of rum I consumed, made evident by the video I filmed earlier this week.

It's a combination of getting a few date nights with my husband, a few mornings a week to run errands alone and even take in a fitness class (I still have massive bruises people. Still.), and to get out with a friend to get a chance to hug a blog idol as she took a break from signing books for OVER SIX FREAKING HOURS to pee that's actually allowed me to enjoy the time alone with my kids.

Okay, that's a bit of a stretch.

I'm not sure if I'm blissful at the thought of parenting alone. I'm definitely a way better parent when I've got someone there to pick up the slack for me. And it would be freaking fantastic if Margot would sleep longer than 2-3 hours in a row at night.

(Sleep training, night weaning, and transition to actual crib and not a playpen in our walk-in closet to commence soonly).

(Cue "Coming out of a closet" jokes).

But I can actually almost appreciate the post-bath naked streaking through my house, heck, even an emptied sample bottle of baby oil that I only discovered because I discovered the trail of slick door knobs. And I didn't even think twice about taking them all food shopping at Super Target.

(Unofficial sponsors of my reasonably sane experience include massive amounts of free samples and Einstein Bagels).

So four days? Piece of cake.

Now the upcoming weekend with my in-laws visiting? Well that's a whole other story.

Fill up my [diva] cup!

Mazeltov!

WOHM-ish

I've been a work-at-home-mom since I left my job as a university professor back in 2005.

Okay, so really I was a stay-at-home-mom because I'd hardly qualify writing this blog as working.

But then I started Cool Mom Picks. And got a partner.

And I began writing more than just scholarly journal articles, though I'd like to think that my Mominatrix column is somewhat scholarly.

Ahem.

And all of a sudden I was doing a bit more than I could with kids running around, or in the couple hours that they were napping and the few hours at night before I'd collapse on my bed with a remote and a bunch of rich housewives bitching at each other.

It's been a challenge managing my work with my job as primary parent most of the time. And it's been even harder balancing all that within the confines of a relationship. Part of the difficulty was due to the fact that much of what I did and still do developed over time.

It was never a position that I accepted or a job that I took.

And so many people, including my husband, still saw me as a SAHM with a business on the side, when really I was a WAHM without childcare.

What a difference a title makes.

Thankfully, we've come to a place where what I do is not just "playing on the computer."

Most of the time.

And with the help of some part-time childcare now, we're both able to do what we need to do without one of us feeling guilty or getting pissed off.

But I still find working from home a challenge. The distractions are plenty, and it never fails that I'm sucked away from a project by the large load of laundry or pile of dishes. And while that's not a big deal all the time, I do feel as though I'd be able to get more work done, and thus have to sit in front of the screen for less time, if I had a quiet space where I could go to write.

And that's just what I've found.

A cool co-working space about 25 minutes from my house. I pay a small monthly fee to have access along with a bunch of other professionals like me, so I can go with my laptop to an "office" and work in the peace and quiet whenever I choose.

Of course, the challenge will be to actually get the work done there so I don't end up working there and at home all hours of the day. I'm really hoping it will let me be more focused on my work so that I can be more focused on what's going on at home.

But it's a start.

And boy does it feel good.

Use one color please

Just the other night, I had admired my daughter's creative way of coloring yet another homework sheet. Ever since her teacher decided to place the best homework up on the wall, she painstakingly colors the tiny, annoying little pictures, even if its not required.

She used to never really care about the damn coloring part, just grabbing whatever crayon she could find just to be done with worksheet #47 of the day.

And honestly, I didn't blame her. 

She's been able to color in the lines since she was about two and a half. She's a ridiculously amazing artist. And she can color in the freaking lines like a champ.

So when the very paper that I had commented upon, the one where she colored half of each shape using multiple colors - some of them rainbows, some of them alternating stripes - with "USE ONE COLOR PLEASE" on it in big red letters I was pissed.

I didn't see the "Use only one BORING color for each shape" anywhere on the paper. 

Because it wasn't there.

I've had my issues with the ridiculous grading system, like the 78 Quinlan got on a handwriting assignment that required her to write no less than 15 lower case letter "f's." I'm not surprised that by the 7th one she got sloppy. I'd get sloppy after writing four of them.

But even in the areas that she's doing well, I question the grading methods. How does a Kindergartener get a "98" in Science? 

I didn't show Quinlan the paper because she didn't need to see it.

And I don't hang over her when she does her homework to be sure that she carefully writes every fucking letter so God forbid she doesn't get a red circle around the part of the "t" that went too far over the bottom line.

I shit you not.

This is not how I want my daughter to start her entrance into the exciting world of organized education.
It can be exciting and invigorating to be a part of an amazing learning environment. 

And I admit that at the beginning of the year, I had mixed emotions as to whether she'd get it at this particular school.

But given our options at the time, it was our best, feasible choice.

I'm thankful that she enjoys it. The ridiculous worksheets. The coloring inside the lines. Her job as "bathroom monitor" where she gets to tell her teacher who talked.

She gets to exercise her inner tattle tale, apparently.

But I'm realizing that just because she enjoys it, doesn't necessarily mean it's the right place for her. She's got an amazingly creative mind - from her dress up clothes, to her imaginative play, to her insanely cool drawings. 

There's just got to be a place that doesn't limit her to just one color.