Motherhood Uncensored

Mommy laid an egg

As a parent, using the bathroom alone is a luxury.

I'm not sure why it's so surprising since you give up your right to privacy when you have kids.

What, you didn't know that was what you were signing when you left the hospital?

And if you're like me, you adapted pretty quickly, with the bathroom door suddenly lock-free and revolving. No quiet respite to catch up on emails or flip through an old catalog.

Hell, I'm lucky if I get a private wipe.

Then your kids get old enough to acknowledge their sense of smell, which miraculously sends them running but not without some sort of embarrassing comment that ends in a chorus of "Ew gross!" by small, ungrateful children who, as I remind them, used to sit in their own crap BY THE WAY.

But during that week, I tend to be a little more discreet than usual, which is easier in a house with four bathrooms than it is in a small condo with one, which was the case this past week on our family ski vacation when my son walked in after I had just done the desperate tampon search and rescue.

Don't tell me you've never done it because you, like me, had the one friend who accidentally put a tampon in with a tampon already in which then got stuck except she didn't know and it started to smell and hurt and then the doctor had to tell her that it was an old tampon that was rotting inside her vagina and now you can never change a tampon without replaying that entire story in your head even though you don't even need a string to get a tampon out anymore.

I digress.

So that is perfectly fine (or at best, relatively fine, mostly ridiculous) when you can lock a bathroom door, but when your son walks in, well, it's mildly upsetting.

"MOM, YOU'RE BLEEDING FROM YOUR HEINEY!" he screeched.

Maybe "mildly" was putting it a little lightly.

"Vagina" I corrected him, as I bumbled around, then offering to explain it to him after he shut the door, much to my husband's audible disdain, which was actually less complicated and more comfortable than I expected.

He stared at me while I gave him the Emergency Menstruation Talk: Version 5-Year Old Boy with an expression of horror and fascination which is much like how I imagine my face looks when I'm watching a UFC match when someone is getting the shit pounded out of them and you don't want to watch but yet you just can't flip the channel.

Or Hoarders.

I asked him if he had any questions and he shook his head, slowly backing out of the bathroom, watching me as if I might pull a dancing rabbit out of my armpit next.

Then he turned around and yelled "MOMMY LAID AN EGG IN THE TOILET! LIKE A CHICKEN!" which then sent all my kids running in.

Imagine their disappointment when they didn't see an actual egg in the toilet.

And my evil grin when I served them eggs for breakfast.

 

5 things SAHMs can learn from working mothers

For all intents and purposes, I am a Stay-at-home-mom.

A SAHM, if you like acronyms.

On some days, I get to add "/WAHM" to that title, which doesn't necessarily change what I do, but just adds another complicated layer of challenges. And lack of sleep.

The longer I parent under this amorphous title that really just ends up leaving me exhausted and pulled in about fourteen different directions, the more I find myself taking cues from my friends who are working mothers.

You know, ones who "leave" in the morning and come home in the afternoons or evenings. The ones who I (the neophyte mom) have judged, the ones who are often called "selfish."

That's worse than being called a "whore" if you're a mother these days.

But as I read the posts and Twitter updates from Amanda, as I observe (albeit briefly) the daily goings-on of Whitney, and I enjoy the company of Liz's amazing children, I'm gleaning valuable parenting wisdom.

Because as someone who is always around her children, I can learn from parents who are not. 

Sure, these are generalizations based on my own observations. There are shitty parents all around, working or not. And I know they probably feel the same way as I do -- juggling way too many balls, wishing desperately for more hours in the day.

They're not perfect. No one is.

Maybe these choices are fueled by guilt. Who knows? Who cares?

These women, as well as others that I've seen (like neighbors and friends), are doing something right. And I'm indebted to them for teaching me how to be a better parent and person.

1.They value the time with their children

As I'm trying to bolt out the door that my sitter arrives just to give myself some breathing room, I find that working mothers are much more vocal about spending time with their children because they don't have that much of it. That bedtime story they read every single night. That short conversation over dinner. Those little moments of their day are magnanimously important.

2. They spend quality time with their kids

While I'm around my kids most of the day (and night), I rarely spend time actually playing with them. I've observed many working mothers spend much more actual quality time with their kids, whether it's a trip to the playground, baking cookies, or a coloring marathon. They're attentive and focused on them, even if it's only for fifteen or twenty minutes here and there.

3. They take time for themselves

It only took me four kids to understand that personal time isn't being selfish, which is a common theme I've long seen with working mom friends. Maybe it's because they actually need to look presentable for meetings and presentations, or because they've got regular, consistent child care that allows them to get to the hair salon more than a few times a year. But they value it. And they do it.

4. They ask for help

I used to think that asking for help was some sort of parenting flaw, when really, it's the smartest thing you can do. Maybe working moms have the extra finances to be able to outsource some of the housekeeping, child care, even small errands, but the overriding lesson I've learned from them is that they ask for a hand (or more) if they need it.

5. They turn off

One of the challenges of being an online entrepreneur is that the Internet never sleeps. I'm only just starting the habit of turning off during the time I'm with my kids in the mornings and evenings. My working mom friends are much more diligent about dialing down the technology and powering off in the evenings (and early mornings). Their jobs might lend themselves to being more conducive to that, of course, but it's a habit I need to establish for myself regardless.

So what have you learned from parents who have different situations than your own?

For Susan

I'm not quite sure when or how I was virtually introduced to Susan. I met up with her friend (and now mine) Marty on my long drive from Philadelphia to Atlanta and she told me that they were both from Mississippi.

"And you read my blog?" I asked, which at the time was not full of high praise for the Southern state.

I joked that Susan was probably the best and smartest thing to ever come out of that state.

*****

A few years ago I wrote a post about my boobs (shocking, I know) whining about their post-partum state.

Little did I know how they'd be after a couple more kids.

And amidst the virtual nods of agreement, there was a comment from Susan.

"At least you have breasts," she said.

Admittedly, I was completely taken aback. She was right; I was lucky to even have breasts to complain about.

*****

I know she wasn't feeling well but Susan came out to my DC book signing a couple of years ago, at a pole dancing studio of all places.

We spun and fell. She watched and laughed.

We all did.

*****

I don't think it's possible to live every minute being reminded that we are lucky to have what we have, because we are human, after all. I believe it's fair to have those moments of self-pity and hopelessness because it's in those moments that we get the opportunity to rise up. Overcome.

We wouldn't be able to look at ourselves and say "I'm lucky to be standing here with my floppy post partum belly and uneven breasts."

To see our children, our lives and say "This life is hard. And redundant. And exhausting. But thank God I have it."

*****

To know Susan is a gift that makes me want to live more admirably, with a grateful, inquisitive spirit, as a parent. And a person.

I'm not perfect.

I still sometimes complain about my uneven boobs.

But then I toss them over my shoulder and go on my merry way.

Thankful.

Love to you and your family, Susan.

Note to self: This is why they invented the Internet

My husband and I smartened up for this recent visit from the in-laws and scheduled a much needed date night. And a few fancy drinks and an Irish car bomb later, we found ourselves scrambling around our bedroom for lube using an iPhone as a flash light and doing our best not to wake the baby who still sleeps in our closet.

Now my my drawers are usually overflowing with lube since many companies so generously offer up samples for me to try and write about on my sex column.

But apparently after the tragic foyer oil slick incident of 2011 caused by a nosy toddler and a not-so-toddler proof bottle of lube, I must have tossed them all.

Of course, that didn't occur to us when we were stumbling around in the dark, which we continued to do for long enough that if we didn't originally need lube, we did, in fact, desperately need it now.

So the next day, after waking up to a bathroom counter full of random massage oils, a sex candle (who knew?), and my long lost diva cup, I was determined to never find myself in such a desperate predicament. My solution: I'd stop at the grocery store after my dentist appointment to pick up a few things, including a bottle of lube.

A brilliant idea, in theory, except I quickly discovered that my store keeps them behind a locked glass cabinet, along with other dangerous items. Like ovulation kits. And pregnancy tests.

Now given the rarity of such debaucherous date nights, I could have probably just gone home, ordered all sorts of various lubes online, and saved myself the embarrassment of having to ask the young, attractive pharmacy tech to open up the glass cabinet.

Because if there's anything that says "I'm having THE SEX!" it's lube. I suppose it could also say "I have a masturbation habit!" or "I had four kids and it's like the Sahara down there!"

But I was hell bent on getting my lube, damnit, so much so that I boldly asked him if he had the key to the cabinet.

He nodded and headed my direction.

And then I sort of freaked out.

Do I pretend like I know what I want? Or do I peruse the various offerings?

Do I offset my purchase by grabbing a few ovulation kits?

Should I say something funny?

Damn, that KY tastes like crap. Blech.

Is that the biggest bottle you have?

It took me 2 days to get that one off my thighs.

What? No watermelon? Bummer.

I hear this one's great for anal!

Instead, I just grabbed the big bottle of Astroglide, mumbled something like "This one is water-based, right?" and walked quickly away, not looking back.

You never look back.

Then I headed straight for the self check-out line.

I may have willingly given one person a bit of entertainment at my expense, but hell if I was going to give that pleasure to yet another one.

{photo via}

The things moms have to do for time alone

After declaring 2012 as "the year of me," I promptly started training for another half marathon, scheduled a much needed hair appointment, and showered.

Four kids, people.

I would have gotten a New Year's wax but the joint is closed for renovations.

The nerve.

After checking off all the relatively fun stuff off my list (yes, the wax is so good I consider it fun), that left the not-so-fun stuff, like finding a therapist, which, by the way, is so much more awesome thanks to the Internet because hellloooo online appointment booking system so I can type my "reasons for seeking therapeutic intervention" into the small comment box in 200 characters or less and not talk to a human.

And tracking down a dentist.

I actually used to work for a dentist in high school and college, so I've never really had to find one, so when my tooth broke a couple of years ago, I made the mistake of asking Google instead of a neighbor and ended up with a huge bill for cavities I may or may not have had. 

The real victims of motherhood: Your teeth.

So I've put off going back since then, using the lack of recommendations for a new dentist as my excuse. Except I got a few from my kids' dentist and accidentally lost them.

Twice.

Now compared to the other doctor appointments women have to endure, the dentist is really quite a treat when you think about it. You don't have to weigh yourself (or pee in a cup), you get to keep your clothes on, and the metal objects being stuck in you actually belong there.

Also, drugs. Legal ones!

However, it's not the first thing that comes to mind when you've got a free afternoon. But damnit, it's the year of me, and suddenly last Friday before the long weekend my tooth started making me feel really guilty, so much so that I had to go to the dentist at that exact moment, which isn't the easiest task since I didn't have a dentist.

And for some reason, dentists in Atlanta don't work on Friday. Even the sucky, money grubbing ones.

So instead, I sent my kids to the dentist with my husband and called to get her recommendation yet again, who, by some miracle happened to have an opening for me that day.

I might have been the first person in that office's history who was screaming "thank you!" on the phone when they offered to fit me in.

It turns out that my teeth are fine, for the most part (yay obsessive flossing habit), save the grinding which made them extra sensitive. And I found an amazing dentist who I'll be seeing for a few more visits.

Four kids, people.

But you know what that also means, right? Scheduled time alone. In a comfy chair. Maybe even asleep. With no children anywhere.

It's practically a spa day.