Motherhood Uncensored

Victory

I was Quinlan's age when the relationship with my dad started taking a turn for the worse. It was just after  my 5th birthday when he held me in a choke hold up against a brick wall at a train station for talking too much.

Thus continued years of drinking and yelling. Hitting sometimes. Fearing always. And enough to make me quite certain that I did not want to have kids.

I did not want to risk carrying on that legacy.

So when I got pregnant with Quinlan, I vowed it would never be like it was for me.

It could never be like it was for me.

There are days when I yell. I've had a few mother beast moments that I still find it hard to forget.

And lately, with what's been a combination of weird hormones, a month long withdrawl from sugar and booze, and my husband's travel schedule, I've been scraping by, shoveling dried fruit and black tea down my gullet and trying not to scare my kids with a mix of irritable snaps and crying spells.

Hell, I was even crying on the treadmill after catching the tail end of "The Express," in particular when he wins the Heisman Trophy.

There is something so powerful about the idea of beating the odds and winning. The standing ovation, that public experience of victory, is something that few of us, and certainly not me, experience.

I admit that I was envious of that feeling, now realizing that I'll probably never be winning that Academy Award I used to dream about as a kid.

But then I realized that we all have those moments in our lives. Granted they don't involve amazing performances on a football field or in a blockbuster movie, but we all have victories to celebrate.

And so when he accepted his trophy, I accepted mine.

A victory in breaking the cycle. And starting a new legacy for my kids.

I may not be perfect. But I'm aware. And that's more than half the battle.

Back to me

The last time I visited the doctor I was suffering from the same viral alien invasion.

I was also 182 lbs.  

I remember feeling completely defeated, in sort of a knowing shock - "What? I can't believe I've only lost 15lbs of baby weight she says while eating an entire pack of Fig Newmans while watching Law and Order reruns on the couch."

It was soon after that I started the 30 Day Shred, documenting the ups and downs of the daily workout and weight loss challenge on a separate fitness blog so not to bore you with the exciting commentary "DAY 4: OMG I FEEL LIKE I JUST GOT FUCKED IN THE ASS WITH A LEAD PIPE."

So when I stepped on the scale yesterday, about eight months later, it stopped at 150.

Even the doctor noticed as he perused my chart. "Wow. You've really buffed up since the last time I saw you," he said.

And so I have.

The journey back to sizes of yore has been less about the cute clothes and smaller underpants, and more about feeling like the old "me" again.

I wasn't necessarily crying every day about the extra 35lbs I was carrying.

Okay, maybe I was. A little.

But I felt lethargic and weepy. I was moody and irritable. I was staring longingly at my old clothes and wondering if I'd really ever get back into single-digit sizes.

I know it shouldn't matter how many chins I have or how many sparks my thighs make as they rub together, but it does. My weight and appearance are indelibly linked to my self esteem and my overall state of being.

I am superficial and vain.

I am human. 

So when I'm able to slide into my old clothes, I don't expect to be magically transported back to that woman I used to be.

I'm not sure they have a time machine that can accommodate three car seats and snacks and 14 matchbox cars.

But lately, I feel as though I've finally found that sweet spot, where the hair on the bow meets the perfect center of the violin string and the notes resonate and sing.

God, it sounds so good.

Mommy's New "Stamper"

 

 

 

Any guesses as to what it is and what it means? If it helps, you're looking at it upside down.

The Super Secret Bastard iPod Song

If there's one thing that my husband and I don't argue about on a daily basis (His obsession with golf shirts -- eep, a Moroccan themed bedroom -- double eep), it's music. Sure we've got our own personal tastes. He tries to convince me of intrinsic musical value of "traditional irish music," like some guy singing about wearing no underpants has some higher meaning. And I continue to explain to him that while I don't listen to the Dixie Chicks, I still think they are three very talented girls -- although I admit the little [yeller] singing one does sort of resemble Jack Black with a southern accent.

So, when out of the goodness of his [cheap ass] heart he offered to load up all his downloaded music onto my new iPhone so I could actually listen to music during the day, I had absolutely no qualms.

Now don't get me wrong. Letting someone else put their music on your mp3 player is pretty damn brave. It's one thing to pick a song on a juke box or request something from the DJ because when it comes down to it, if you happen to like Stacey Q. and her one song and her kinky blonde hair atop her size -2 body, you can always just stop the urge to sing along and point the blame on some other poor unsuspecting soul.

"I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I. I need you."

But my husband has really great taste in music. He listens to all the local college alternative stations and writes down new music to download by groups whose names are rashes or shirt patterns on scraps of paper that I get to fish out of the washer in small tiny bits. So not only would I be getting some great music, but chances are I'd be upping my cool factor as well, you know, just in case I find my large pregnant ass and two children in a situation where I'd need to discuss some obscure song.

And not surprisingly, he didn't disappoint.

That was until I hit what could only be described as "My Husband Dancing With Light Sticks at Some Bad Club in 1996."

There it was. In all its ass bumping, arm pumping, female voice singing about who knows what because who the hell cares we're drunk and dancing with light sticks MUTHAFUCKAS! song.

It's the bastard iPod song that everyone has. The one song that you just fucking love for whatever reason. And the one song you do not want anyone to know that you actually know every single word of -- that is if it's possible to sing along to some dj's club remix of a remix of some crappy European song.

Of course, I shouldn't talk considering I can sing all parts (including rapper and Female "Hook" singer) to Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. If you don't believe me, just ask all the poor souls who listened to me sing it a few months back.

And I was stone cold sober.

What's your bastard iPod/mp3 song? C'mon, spill it.

My Body is a Wonderland [Ranch]

I don't dream in metaphors. It's probably because I have no brain power leftover to try to interpret what some oddly attractive green monster wearing my underwear on his head doing the macarena in my bathroom means.

So, I clearly got the message when I had a dream that my then serious college boyfriend left me at the altar and priest said to me "just because you've been together for three years doesn't mean you need to marry that asshole."

Amen.

And when that same boyfriend and I were sitting naked in a tub last night and he said "Your body looks great for having three kids," I got it clear as day.

That and one hell of a... well... yeah. You know.

I've been coming to grips with the effects of childbirthing and rearing on my dear old body. I wouldn't consider myself a vain person, but watching your breasts become ever so uneven and saggy is disconcerting to anyone. The stomach is floppier. The ass is flatter. And there's just an uncanny amount of extra hair.

I'm not sure which is harder -- loving a body in transition or dressing one. Clothes (and boobs too, I guess) are either too big or too small and never just right.

Sure, maybe some of it is fixable with the right shirt and a good pair of jeans if you've got the time to search for them, but there's plenty that requires a bit more effort. Extra treadmill minutes. Extra spa hours. Extra saline in those breast implants that have my name on them. None of which are feasible (or even realistic) when you've been pregnant or breastfeeding for most of the last four years.

And it's made even harder when you're focused on about 5,679 other things, like well, your child's life and sleeping for longer than three hours in a row (to name a couple), that you just don't become as concerned that arms wave back.

That is until you're standing, naked in front of the mirror, staring at yourself. Remebering what used to be and seeing what is now, and crying a little.

Or, a lot.

Because beauty past and beauty present is just a bit hard to swallow.   

And so I've come to slowly realize that the body that used to be one hell of an amusement park ride has become a rusty old merry-go-round and rinky-dink roller coaster. And I just don't have the cash laying around to invest in upgrading it, at least anytime soon.

But at least I'm reminded, thanks to one little dream, that it's most definitely still worth taking for a ride.