Motherhood Uncensored

Who's responsible for the Beyonce' hospital debacle? We are.

When I heard that couples were blocked from seeing their babies in the NICU due to the birth of Beyonce' and Jay Z's baby girl Blue Ivy last week, I tried not to cringe, hoping that reports had been sensationalized by hasty post-partum attention seekers.

And indeed, a post on People's Celebrity Baby Blog included a statement from the hospital's executive director citing that no parents were kept from seeing their babies and that they hadn't paid some ridiculous amount of money to remodel the hospital wing.

But that's not what the New York Times had to say. According to reports from several families, cameras and windows were covered (a major security issue) and parents were lied to and separated from their babies, being told that if they left the NICU, they wouldn't be allowed back.

Whatever actually happened, it's clear that the Carters were attempting some level of privacy, which given their level of stardom is nearly impossible. The risk of other patients and hospital staff taking photos and selling them is probably high, though I would assume if discovered, those employees could be terminated for breaking confidentiality.

Unfortunately, their quest for normalcy cost parents on the same unit time with their babies.

Completely unfair. And yet, with deeper analysis, completely driven by our own culture. Perhaps even some of those same parents who were complaining.

When you and I pick up a rag mag, which by the way used to be National Enquirer and those other questionable publications that we'd roll our eyes at but now include the Peoples, US Weeklys, and the Life & Styles, we're fueling the fire.

The money we pay trickles down to the paparazzi who are paid to get the photo of Blue Ivy Carter.

Oh I'm guilty as charged, as I clamor to grab the latest of all these magazines during my mani-pedi visits and hair appointments, somehow justifying it since I'm not shelling out the $4.

I've watched E!, Access Hollywood, yes even TMZ. I've told myself that Entertainment Tonight is a more respectable.

It's Mary Hart for god sakes!

And I've read celebrity blogs, even the positive ones, flipping through slideshows of pictures of celebs, many of them with their children as they do nothing but walk to their car, push a grocery cart, and just try to go about their every day business like I do with my kids.

Just without a bunch of photographers screaming at me.

There's always been a celebrity fascination and I'm sure there always will. That will never change.

But we've gone from intrigued and curious to voracious and entitled, like we have a right to gorge on their personal business like we're eating at an Old Country Buffet.

Our admiration has turned to exploitation, and I just don't want anything to do with it, especially now that there are kids involved. 

So as we point a finger at the Carters, who clearly could have done a better job at balancing their own needs for privacy with the other patients at the hospital, let's take a look where the other finger should be aimed.

Next time I go to the hairdresser, I'll be reading something else. Maybe you should too.

The Elf on the Shelf. That asshole.

When I was a kid, just the threat of Santa's impending arrival was enough to scare us into good behavior and cleanliness.

One year when I was being particularly difficult, my parents swiped my stocking and returned it to the fireplace with a note from Santa with specific requests: Clean your room, make your bed, and practice your freaking violin without complaining.

Or else.

On Christmas Eve they'd jingle bells. Clop around like reindeer.

Yes, they were overachievers.

But that was 1986. 

Now there are hand-signed letters and voice mail messages from Santa. You can track Santa with an app on your mobile device.

And there are elves. Weird footless elves.

I bought into the Elf of the Shelf a couple of years ago, like many parents, out of desperation.

THIS WILL MAKE THEM BEHAVE, I thought. 

I basked in my brilliance.

Then I realized that I had to remember to move the damn elf. 

What, he likes to sit in the Christmas tree! It's warm by those eco-friendly LED lights.

And find places to put him.

Yes, he's back on the bookshelf again but look, he's sitting on a book this time!

Your stocking was just so cozy he couldn't help himself.

One time I hung him from the television brackets and felt pretty darn proud. I took a picture.

But apparently that's nothing. Every day my Facebook and Instagram feed scoff at me. 

Pshaw to your elf pinned on the bulletin board, Kristen!

{C'mon that's a good one!}

Apparently I'm surrounded by Elf on the Shelf overachievers.

Yesterday a neighbor dad updated that their Elf had stolen their kids iPod, downloaded the "Elf" movie, and was caught watching it.

Well, I know who's getting my kids if my husband and I get hit by a truck.

It must be that I got shafted on Elves and somehow picked the Fundy Christian Anorexic Elf who doesn't drink booze or eat anything.

And he certainly doesn't do any sort of fancy tricks that might be considered ungodly. None of that Cirque du Soleil hanging upside down from the bannister.

And most of all, he doesn't seem to be getting my children to behave very well. I mean, you shouldn't really have to yell "The Elf is going to report back, right ELFY, and you're going to be in big trouble now!" should you?

In fact, the only thing our damn elf does is teach my kids math. Just ask Margot:

"Mommy, our Elf on the Shelf does a patterin. Move, no move, no move, no move, Move..."

 

The truth about being tall

It never fails that everywhere I go, at least one person comments about my height. 

And it's never as cute as the time these little kids in my music therapy group had a conversation about it that went something like "Wow, she tall! Yeah, she eat wotsa bwoccowee!"

It's more like an entire conversation based around the fact that I am tall. Something I have absolutely no control over. And good God I'm tired of telling people "Yes, the air, it's so clean up here!" Or, "At least I don't need a step stool in the kitchen!" Because that's what we tall people say when someone tells us we are tall, which we actually already know, and are unsure if you mean this as an observation or a compliment.

Would you say "Your hair is brown!" to something and then expect them to say "Thank you!"?

I get everything from "I never knew you were this tall!," which is fair enough if you're meeting online friends for the first time but not when you're a relative that's seen me several times.

And happens to be a grandparent to my children.

There's also the "Oh, it's just the gigantic shoes" which is partially true, but I'm still tall without them on and psssst still taller than you.

Also, note to yourselves: The word "gigantic" should never really be used in anything you discuss physically about a woman unless you're talking about her brain. Or balls.

And then there are the pick-up lines, which oddly always circle around sports. Like "Hey, did you play basketball in high school?" or "You must have been a volley ball player" which I'm not quite sure how that's supposed to segue into any sort of meaningful conversation or hell, even a one night stand. 

Bad "playing with balls" puns? Yes. Me putting your balls in my mouth? Probably not.

But this past weekend, amidst all the gasps and gushes about my height, I got the best comment ever:

"Your height is INCREDIBLE!" this guy told me in passing, with admiration and gusto and not an ounce of skeeviness. 

Too bad he was homeless, otherwise he might have been able to get me back to his place.

Shoegate 2011

A few days ago I couldn't find my shoes. My new, one-time worn TOMS that, as you can see, should not be easy to lose.

We're a shoes-off-in-the-house type family, with a gigantic plastic bin by our front door that we use to hold all the many shoes you might imagine four kids might have. Or, at least, four kids of a shoe addict.

Since my husband and I can usually only fit one pair of shoes in the bin, ours generally end up next to it, or somewhat near it, for the most part, save the times when I'm home alone with all the kids and in my haste I dump them in a kitchen corner or by the garage door. Never in a spot where people could trip over them. And certainly not in a place, like on a dinner plate or on his pillow, where someone should be bothered by them.

So after searching around for a good ten minutes, I asked my husband where my shoes were and he proceeded to tell me that he had put them in the garage.

And by put, he meant "carelessly tossed them the fuck out of this house" because I found not just one but two pairs of my TOMS in the garage, not neatly placed on the steps (which still, WTF?) but tossed. Angrily.

To which I sort of lost it a little, not because I actually care that my shoes, my nice moderately expensive shoes, are on the ground of our garage, after probably being smacked against the car wheels.

But because not only were they not in his way whatsoever but because he leaves his shoes out all the time.  And his suitcase. And his backpack. And his dirty laundry. And...

You get the idea.

And I step over them. Or look at them and sigh. Or move them. Or just put them away. All without being one ounce of an asshole about it.

So I made note of such, in a not so pleasant manner, which was made worse by the fact that he completely denies it "WHAT IS THIS LAUNDRY YOU SPEAK OF?" and then left the house for an impromptu night out, at which point I returned home to find the laundry of which I spoke mysteriously in the hamper.

Good thing, because I was about to give my TOMS a little company in the garage.

How to get that Neutrogena glow

Last week I was on my weekly trip to Target, which usually means I go in with a few things on my "list" and then walk out with four bags and a $150 receipt.

I can't quite pin down exactly what it is -- the fluorescent lights, the bullseye logo, the adorable pumpkin placemats and matching plastic tumblers OMFGIHAVETOHAVETHEM -- but I don't think it's humanly possible for me to leave Target only purchasing exactly what's on my list.

This time I was just about to checkout with my armful of stuff (which consequently is a technique I've tried that involves not taking a cart or basket so you will only leave with what you can carry which turns out is still four bags full) when I mistakenly took my walk of shame past the beauty section.

And there it was. A microdermabrasion system.

And then, the wheels started turning:

"Julie has one of those. And she loves it. But I think hers is a Clairsonic. Hey, I know Neutrogena. They're good. And only $19.99. Ooooh a $3 off peelie!" and just like that, it ended up in my arms.

I excitedly rushed home to electronically scrub the dead skin off my face, loaded up the batteries (included FTW!), and started rolling it on my face. 

And then, as my face foamed and got a little red and sort of stung but felt $16.99 younger by golly, I realized something.

I turned it off.

I took off the cap with the attached pad.

I turned it on medium. Then high. Then medium again.

I put my finger on the flat, plastic surface.

And then...

Well, let's just say now I know why everyone swears by them. Because last time I checked, a good face scrub doesn't give you that youthful glow.