Motherhood Uncensored

I believe this much is true

Susan is gone.

And my tears for her are, in part, selfish.

Not just because she was an amazing human, as you may have read as people honor her across the blogosphere, and that I won't get to see her bright face again.

But because in losing beloved Susan, losing myself becomes that much more real.

It's an inevitable connection.

I was often comforted by the belief that my sister would be waiting for my mom. Somewhere.

Heaven. The After Life. The place where we go that no one knows until we actually get there but then we can't tell anyone about it.

That was until I had kids of my own and realized that there was no way I could ever be kept away from my children.

And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. That the circle of life continues on, as we give birth to the family that came before us. And so on and so forth.

Around and around.

I see my sister's eyes in my own daughter. I see my friend's mom in her children.

And I don't think it's just a coincidence.

I won't know if I'm right until I leave and come back again.

But it gives me great comfort that Susan will always be with her family. Maybe waiting patiently in the stars that she loved so much until it's her time to return, when her children will be holding her like she held them.

Because these babies of ours, they are our blood, our tears, and our souls.

Together we are mighty crews of earthly warriors and explorers.

Never separated.

Eternally connected.

Waiting patiently for rebirth and reunion.

Soon, dear Susan. Soon.

In lieu of flowers, the family of Susan Niebur is asking for IBC Research Foundation. Please donate.

I'm a Feminista

I’ll buy my daughter a dolly, but she’ll get a set of matchbox cars and a fire engine too.

I like men, but that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with all of them.

I might carry a purse, but I’m not afraid to hit you with it.

I have class. I’ll flip you off with my nicely manicured finger.

I like to wear skirts, but I look hotter in pants.

I have style. I’ll give you hell in my Manolos and Seven jeans.

Just because I listen to your shit, doesn’t mean I’m going to take it.

I wear a bra, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to burn it.

I have grace. I’ll kick your ass with a pointed toe.

I might be married, but I’m nobody’s bitch.

I shave my pits and legs. And I’ll shave my head too if it means equality for women.

I’m a feminista. What about you?

*Search feminism at  Cafepress for shirts.

**We're starting fun give-a-ways at CMP. You should check it out.

I May Look like a 97-Year-Old Woman with Bitter Beer Face, but Damnit, My Teeth are WHITE!

In celebration of my newly weaned daughter and self, I decided to whiten my teeth. Yes, I'm CRAAZZZZYYY, hadn't you figured that out by now? I know I'm not the only anal-retentive bfing mama who religiously checked the packages of all products to see whether they were usable by nursing mothers - and if you were like me, you knew that whitening teeth was off limits.

Suffice it to say, I had reached the point of desperation. It's one thing when your teeth are naturally off-white - just don't wear full on geisha make-up outside of your homestead and honestly, no one really notices your "egg-shell" white toofers. BUT, when you realize your teeth are looking more like the color of your URINE as opposed the LOVELY white of the porcelain pot you piss in, you realize that it might just be time to slap on the ole whitening gel.

It wasn't but two days after weaning that I bought me some Crest White Strips Premium. When I had done the celebratory tooth whitening before (finalized divorces deserve parties too you know), I had seen miraculous results - and it wasn't just me. People I hadn't seen in awhile would marvel - WOW, your teeth are soooo white! While it scared me to think about how UN-white they were for them to actually notice the change, I was very flattered and glad that my $24.99 had not gone to waste.

So, this time, I decided to purchase the Premium version - thus providing significantly whitened teeth in only 7 days. And let me tell you, it's worth it. Fourteen days of those damn strips on your teeth - 2x a day for 30 minutes each - has to be a form of Chinese torture. Seriously.

I haven't quite figured out what the hell they put ON those strips - but they warn you in VERY small print that if you get it on your fingers, it may turn them white as well. Doesn't that seem just a bit WRONG? Oh, and be on the look out for tooth sensitivity they tell you (i.e. shooting pain in your tooth).

Even more ridiculous is the notion that you can do other things while you are wearing the damn strips. WHAT other things exactly??? - because the only thing I can do is sit on my ass and watch tv. Like I just got my nails done about 3 days ago and I'm still walking around touching everything with ONE finger.  "Don't bother me right now - I'm whitening my teeth" - or actually, it sounds more like this:

adkfjdlkfjddkfhhhhhhhhhhfhhhhhhhhhhh afdkfjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjdkkkkkkkkkkkeee *spit drool slurp*

Um. You can't talk to any living being with those things in unless you are practicing your impression of Daffy Duck - Sluffferring Slucccatassshhh... pfdddllllffff. Let's face it - you can't do  a damn thing with those things in your mouth. And not only that, but you have to concentrate extremely hard on NOT touching them with your tongue or swallowing whatever crazy-ass shit is on there. That in itself is quite a feat.

And if you can make it through the 30 minutes of pure hell, then you get to wipe the goop off your teeth and figure out how the hell to get the nasty taste out of your mouth. Have you ever tried WIPING off your teeth? I mean what exactly do you use? A towel? A tissue? A babywipe? And make sure you have plenty o' chapstick on hand, because while you may have just whitened your teeth, you also thoroughly dehydrated any semblance of a set of lips you might have had.

But, with all that said, I guess it's worth it. And even though I may look like this:

Damnit - my teeth are pearly white - and that's all that matters.

The Ghost of Jewelry Past

I have been accused on more than one occasion of lacking sentimentality. And while the accusers happened to include an ex-husband and a current mother-in-law, I still take it to heart. What they don’t happen to know is that I’m what you call a closet-sentimentalist. You may not see a shadow-box with the receipt and chopsticks wrapper from our first-date dinner hanging on my wall, but I do hold onto items that are precious to my heart – romantic cards, concert tickets, and even my pregnancy tests (the ones from my daughter...).

I also, for some reason that I have yet to figure out, hold onto old jewelry. You would think that a girl who on a rather regular basis purges her closets and drawers of any items not worn in the past year would do the same with her jewelry box. Maybe it’s because I don’t have much jewelry and if I did empty out that damn box (which is not really a box but more-so the entire top surface of my dresser and the remains of a severely damaged jewelry container nearly lost during a late-pregnancy meltdown), I would have nothing left in there. But, most likely, it’s because the each piece holds little memories, of myself and others, and I couldn’t bare seeing some person walking around on the street with something that at one point in time was very dear to my heart.

With that said, I rarely wear jewelry. I have about four pieces that are in regular rotation and maybe four others that come out on special occasions (like going to a store that does not sell food or eating a restaurant that does not have a drive-thru window). And even more rarely do I dig down in that box of mine to take a look at what I’ve collected. I know the memories are there – and I’m perfectly fine leaving them tucked away.

Well, it seems as though my curious 20-month old happened upon said box yesterday and her little sticky fingers found their way onto all of my jewelry. Nothing I have is very valuable – and to be honest with you, I was happy that she found something to occupy her time that didn’t involve a small somewhat androgynous clown kid and a green frog. But nothing will send you right back to 1989 than your little toddler sporting a few plastic neon bangles and a sterling silver I LOVE YOU filigree necklace.

Just when I thought I had reasonable control over my bowels, she then hands me two very large, shoulder skimming hoop earrings – of which I proudly sported under my newly coiffed bob and Jeanette Garofolo bangs in 1997. And, as if she felt my tortured mind raging outward, she handed me my lovely red leather cuff (with snaps and studs, of course) and a very golden ring with a diamond the size of a beetle turd – a sad excuse for a birthday gift in 1994.

Seeking refuge from the flood of rather average memories of boyfriends past, I handed her my husband’s box of jewelry past. I have to say that seeing his large golden chain and square D pendant (filigree and all) circa 1991 ala Run DMC made me feel way better. But, the playboy bunny stud earring nearly sent me over the edge.

So what is it about jewelry that holds so many memories and speaks so loudly about our past? Perhaps it’s the fact that most jewelry, particularly the costume jewelry, is representative of certain fads from certain times. Or maybe it’s that we received the jewelry as a special gift – and thus associate it with that memory. Well, whatever the reason, I know that the ghost of my jewelry past had a lot to say. Too bad I couldn’t hear anything through the damn jangling of 14 skinny gold-plated bangles and 8 silver puzzle rings.

The Good Enough Parent

It seems as though MANY people (or at least me and my husband) have at least ONE good enough parent, hence leading to the large number of guys and gals, such as myself, with wavering self-esteem, a high-level of self-consciousness, and a fear of failure.

By Good Enough parent, I mean the one for which NOTHING you did was good enough. It didn't matter if you got 5th place in the middle school spelling bee, graduated early from college with magna cum laude honors, and was a generally good kid. You still weren't good enough. Something was STILL wrong. Should have been 1st place, summa cum laude, and a GREAT kid (enter a comparison person - you know "janiejoeblow is a doctor now... blalblabla." Oh, fuck her, seriously?

These parents make me want to vomit and cry - both at the same time. The damage they cause is deep. The pain they cause is deeper. It's a fact of life - kids want love and approval from their parents. Sadly, many parents don't have the capacity to give it (most of them are still trying to gain approval from THEIR parents) and then we are left with the result.

The sad thing is that EVEN though the parent may be DEAD (like in my case), you still carry the complex. Granted, it's gotten a lot better these days, but even so, is it because I've done a lot of "great things" or is it just because I like myself more and don't give a shit? I mean, I've accomplished a lot and I still sometimes feel like less than human, you know? I'm a great person, a caring person, a good mom, a smart lady, and I STILL sometimes feel like I'm not good enough. For whom, really? Just because I don't like to clean, OR I don't cook well (although it's getting better), OR I have stinky feet. Seriously, who the fuck cares? I'm all about compromise, learning, and growing (and foot cream) BUT, does that make me LESS than human and not worthy of approval and respect. NO WAY... But why do I feel that way?

My hubby has a living good enough parent (so now I have one by proxy - it's bad karma I tell you...) - and what shocks me is that he still shares things with her that I would probably not even tell my good enough parent. Why choose the misery and pain when you can avoid it? I think for him, it's hard to be the caretaker husband type (which sleepy, frustrated mommas like me NEED now and then) when you yourself are still searching for the care/approval that you never got. It's hard to be the back patter when you need some pats yourself. It's a huge cycle that needs to be broken.

The result is this: We try to seek out approval from where we can get it - hence the overachiever, perfectionist mindset - the obsession with looking HOT on an hourly basis (I've given that up since the daughter popped out). We avoid situations in which we might even remotely fail - which may disallow us the pleasure of our true life calling (or some may say, if it didn't happen, it's not your life calling... fine... whatever). We settle for less than what we are worth. We are afraid to trust and love. We are dreamers and half-doers. We are critical of others only because we (in some small way) wish WE could be like them. We care - and that's half the problem.

The lesson is this: Don't be the good enough parent with YOUR kids. Let their scribbles be fabulous, their C in Algebra be OKAY, their choice of profession be GREAT. No comparisons to anyone but themselves. Put aside YOUR expectations and dreams and allow them to have their own. Love them for who they are and not who they COULD be or SHOULD be. Don't talk about how great they are BEHIND their back and never tell them to their face. Show them the world as an open book FULL of beginnings and opportunities and choices.

And, remember, YOU don't need to have done anything amazingly wonderful to be GOOD ENOUGH. You don't need to make tons of money, have model looks or moonlight as Mr. Clean. You are good enough just as you are. We all want to improve ourselves - but that doesn't change the inherent goodness we possess.

You are good. You are great. You are good enough.