Motherhood Uncensored

And the Award Goes To...

My eyes are shut tight, my hands are clenched, I’m holding my breath… is it me? Is it me? Have I done something award worthy this year? As the pause lengthens I force myself to relax my shoulders. It’s not going to be me. I never win anything. Plus, seriously, what have I done this year that could possibly net me an award?

“But first! Let me explain a little more about this particular award.”

A reprieve! So, wait, let’s see. What did I do this year?

I took care of M when he ruptured a disk in his neck, while I was in the third trimester of my pregnancy, and cared for C at the same time.

I had a baby. I persevered through the first painful weeks of nursing said baby, while still caring for C, because M still wasn’t 100% fixed.

I worked full time, while pregnant, and caring for C, because… do we really need to rehash the fact that M ruptured a disk and became almost completely incapacitated while I was really pregnant?

I worked at my thankless job, doing everyone’s bidding day in and day out. (Why, oh why, is no one willing to hire me to surf the Internet and blog all day?)

I fed and took care of my family every day. And my daughter only got duplicate Happy Meal toys once or twice during the whole year! (For those not in the know, McDs changes the toys once a week. And, no, I’m not proud that I know that.) Most nights she had a home cooked meal.

I went back to work after a three and half month long maternity leave even though I really, really didn’t want to go back. Rumor has it that health insurance is very important. Especially when mommy’s job is going to make her go postal... er… when you have teeny tiny children.

“And the award goes to… let me get this envelope open.”

I snap back to attention. Wait a second. Maybe I do deserve this award. I’ve been giving and giving and giving! I deserve to get something back! It’s about time that someone noticed how much I selflessly do for everyone else! It’s not like I ever do anything for myself… no! It’s always about them. Bah. No one ever even asks me what I want. Bunch of ingrates!

“Darn it. This envelope is hard to open. Oh. Here we go. OK. As I was saying, the award for the mom who has finally taken time to rediscover herself, for her time spent blogging and writing, goes to Rose! All that time on the computer has finally paid off! Bravo!”

Ah… well… yes… maybe I do, do a few things just for me.

This was a guest post written by Rose at It’s My Life... in honor of this month’s blog exchange.

When I’m not busy working, cooking, running after my toddler, C, or nursing Little L,  I’m usually hiding in the bathroom thinking up my next blog post or trying to read a chapter or two of the book I’m currently wading through. When I do come up with something witty to write about, you can read it here where your usual blogger extraordinaire is blogging today.

Go on over and read her post and don’t forget to check out all the other blog exchange posts this month!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My Name is Not Julia

I’ll be there at midnight. The coordinates: 49:30:00-123:30:00.

She turned off her flashlight, checked the time on her watch: 11:50. She folded up the worn piece of paper into a neat triangle and stuck it back in her brassiere.

Julia, come back to bed, what are you doing out here? He stepped out of the tent, rubbing sleep out of myeyes. She didn’t hear him, startled, she turned around quickly. Why are you dressed Julia? What’s going on? Quickly she improvised.

It’s that horse. It’s that god damned horse! I can’tlay here with the smell of that dead horse. I’ve gotto go for a walk. I’ve got to go somewhere. It’s making my skin crawl! She started to walk away fromhim but he caught her by the elbow.

It’s the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere Julia! Luis said to stay put until he came back to find us. He’ll bring the jeep and we’ll load up. The horse died! What do you want me to do? I’m sorry that’s inconveniencing you but we don’t know where we are!  Stop being unreasonable. Come back in here and try and get some sleep.

She wrestled her arm away from him. Leave me alone. Go back in the tent if you want to. I don’t want to. Go back in the tent she thought to herself, don’t make me do this. She took a long look at his silhouette in the moonlight. She couldn’t make out his features but she could see he had grabbed his glasses, his black hair slicked back away from his eyes. She was glad she couldn’t see them. She turned her back on him and walked away.

Julia! Don’t go! It’s dangerous! You’re acting crazy. She began to walk faster. She glanced at her watch, 11:55. She could hear him following in the sand behind her. This was all wrong. She was supposed to slip away while he slept. She broke into a run.

Julia! Please! You’re scaring me! Come back here! She ran away from him, away from the ocean waves, up the beach. The stench of the horse was heavy in the damp night air. She knew she must be close: 49:30:00-123:30:00. She was running wildly now, weaving in the sand, trying to escape. He was so close she could feel his breath on her neck, but she was dodging his attempts to grab her, any part of her.

Julia! He called out to her, sure she was mad from something, maybe the heat?  Sweat was pouring into his eyes, he reached down to pull his black t-shirt over his head, the heat was unbearable, but in the darkness didn’t see that the path abruptly ended at the corpse of the rotting horse they had brought with them. He recoiled in shock, losing his balance, falling
backwards. One more time he called out JULIA!

She heard the sound of him hitting the ground and knew just where he had fallen. She checked her watch: 11:58. She knew exactly where the horse was, having traced this route each night for the previous five nights while he slept. He wasn’t so lucky. He was lying in the sand, she could hear him breathing but it appeared his leg was twisted. His glasses were lying beside him. She picked them up out of the sand and placed them on his face. She softly touched his hair.

Julia, what are we going to do?

11:59. She kissed him one last time and whispered: My name is not Julia.

Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

This was part of a previous Blog Exchange based on a prompt: Write a fictional story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

Amy - whose name is not Julia - is the author of this post. If you are looking for Kristen, she's partying down in Binkytown today. Visit here to read more at The Blog Exchange.

Cue The Harps And The Singing Angels... Now with Updates from "Oprah"

Before you all decide to leave me for my BFF, here's a picture of my brand new yummy baby. Much more to follow, including "the birth story." I'm just sort of waiting until I can lighten my load again *ahem*.

In the meantime, here are a few morsels for thought:

1) The "dry run" to the hospital = highly underrated.

2) Tiny balls + meconium + mom without glasses + weird wet-your-own baby wipes = very precarious situation.

3) Favorite line from the event: Nurse: "What was your pre-pregnancy weight?" Me: "Um, 150. On a very good day."

4) Do not ask a Philadelphia Cabbie for directions anywhere (see #1).

5) Pushing STILL does not feel good.

Now back to the "Girl Next Door" Marathon and googling "newborn baby poop colors."

--

I'm writing a love note here.

Since it's my 'time to shine' (read: before Kristen gets home and changes all the passwords), I wanted to take a moment and write a little tribute to my BFF on this momentous occasion in her life.  It's early and I have to get to a meeting, so forgive the lack of stylistic flair, I'm just coming straight from the heart.

My husband turned to me a while back and said, "You know you're Gail, right?"  I cocked my head to one side, as if to say, 'What the hell are you rambling about now?'  He explained, "You.  You're Gail.  And Kristen is Oprah."  I was still laughing as I dialed her number to tell her that I will be getting a wing in every mansion that she buys.  Every one.

Being the BFF, I do have some very choice bits of info that I guess aren't available to the general reading public (and for a small fee...) 

In all honesty, though, to do a tribute I don't have to tell you anything about her.  Because you already know her.  The things that you read here, that you laugh at, cry about and get pissed over--they are the very same things that we've laughed at, cried about and have gotten pissed over, just days before.  She's really real.  What you see is what you get.

For the last 12 or 13 years, our friendship has been one of the most important relationships in my life.  Beyond being super talented, super driven, super successful, super funny, super beautiful and all of that, Kristen is just plain super.  She is warm, she is loving, she is thoughtful.  She is smart and quick witted and insanely fun to be around.  She is one of a very few people who can make me laugh so hard that I want to stop but can't.  She is sensitive and deep and minimizes even her worst pain... finding funny in dark, scary places.  She has been through a lot. She is an honest-to-God-survivor of some really fucked up shit.

And she's a kick ass mother.  Kick. Ass.

Don't ever let her tell you any different.

**Kristen and baby Chalk (as we're all still calling him, BTW) will be home sometime today.  I'm sure she'll be back to the blogiverse soon.  I know that she misses all of you and appreciates your comments and well wishes.  Look for me as the future Editor-At-Large of Kristen's magazine, 'Special K.'

Change is Routine

If I have one birthright, it is the ability to change my mind.  As the only girl in a house full of boys (ok, I didn't count the cat - she's a girl), I seem to be the only one who is at peace with change at a moment's notice.  My husband needs weeks to prepare for just the planning of a vacation.  As for my son, if the plans we have for a Saturday afternoon get changed a little he has a hissy-fit.  And the baby? Well it's all about routine with him, because if he doesn't get his morning nap, there will be hell to pay.  I find routine mundane.  Routine to me is death. Yes, I like the predictability of my bagel with butter accompanied by my iced tea in the morning, but beyond that, I'm pretty much game for anything as long as I'm having a good hair day.

I try very hard to plan fun things with my kids on the weekends, but is it a crime if I decide that maybe I don't feel like going to the indoor playground at the mall and want to venture outside instead?  Or why must my son always insist on riding his scooter to come get the mail with me, why not shake it up a little and take his bike? Clearly he has not inherited my spontaneity gene. But I've come to discover (that old wisdom thing really does come with age), that it is probably not because he didn't inherit my genes, but because he is not female.

I have to blame some of this lack of clear direction on my hormones.  I am a moody person.  And my mood changes based on the time of the month.  Perhaps this accounts for the fact that my blog posts range from funny to blah to boring to reflective to downright suicidal.  There is no consistency in my life or in my work.  The week after my period I'm at my best.  Then I slowly start to take a downward spiral from general fussiness in week 2 to "don't-come-near-me-or-I-will-blow-your-head-off" by week 4.  Luckily hubby knows the zone in which he can cross and not cross, consequently we have continued to remain a couple after more than 10 years. So all this constant hormonal change, all this moodiness, reluctantly spills over into my daily work where I am always trying to institute a successful routine.  The very thing that I just called death. (Did I mention I'm quite hypocritical, too?).

So I can only conclude that my inability for routine is the balance within our household that makes it all work.  Because majority rules.  Maybe they are all here on this earth to keep me grounded.  I'm a hard person to love during week 4.  They all seem to take it in stride though.  So it seems change is my only routine.  And it's in the form of a big red spot.Every 30 days or so.

**When Kate is not complaining about her period, she is a WOHM and has a 5 year old and a 12 month old and writing about it on Eucalyptus Pillow.  Come visit Kristen there today, and come back to get your fix daily.**

It's the New Year's Day Blog Exchange. Check out the other participants and join in for next month. Click here for more info.

Happy 2007!

Green

Back in August, my daughter adopted a friend.  He is green and lives in a garbage can.  You probably know him as Oscar the Grouch.  I spend a lot of time with him, so I can call him “Oscar” or “Ah-ga”.

Some might think that an Oscar the Grouch toy is an odd choice for a security item, and in many ways, I guess he is.  This particular Oscar has a couple of hard plastic pieces (forming his mouth and the bottom of his garbage can), so he’s not a very good cuddler.  He’s also (according to his label) not machine washable, though after a nighttime puke incident several weeks ago, he was summarily thrown into the wash and emerged without any ill effects.  Also, Oscar the Grouch the character isn’t one of Sesame Street’s more loveable cast members.  He can be mean, dirty and rude.  But that isn’t how my daughter sees him.   The Oscar the Grouch character is not my daughter’s Oscar.  He’s her soft and cuddly (and smelly!  Oscar might need to take a trip down to the laundry room again) buddy, who helps her fall asleep at night and comforts her after traumatic events.  He’s her near-constant companion.

As I have spent more time with Oscar and my daughter, a funny thing has happened to my perception of Oscar.  I no longer see him as “Oscar the Grouch”, the guy who loves trash, lives in a trashcan and is best friends with a worm.  When I hear Oscar’s “I Love Trash” song, or someone mentions any of the above traits, I have to stop and remember that that is what Oscar the Grouch is about.

So if you see my daughter, Oscar and me out and about, forgive me if I look at you strangely should you mention one of Oscar’s more typically grouch-like traits.  Because to me, my daughter’s favorite toy bears only a slight resemblance to the Sesame Street character on which he is based.

Erin is a mother to a 15-month old toddler, Emily, with another due in July.  She tries to divide her time between blogging, working and mothering (sometimes more successfully than others).  Her blog home is The Looney Bin, which is where you will find Kristen today. 

Make sure to check out the other folks today writing on the topic "Red" or "Green" and leave a comment. Click here for the list.