Motherhood Uncensored

I Spent the Entire Day at the Philadelphia Airport and all I Got Was a Ziploc Bag and an $8 Sandwich

Clearly, someone is trying to tell me something.

I should have known when everything fell right into place for our little weekend trip to Hotlanta. Nothing forgotten. Happy children. Cheerful mother-in-law.

But then, we arrived at the airport to find every single person in Philadelphia trying to fly to Atlanta today. I know, the CNN Center is just fabulous and I love me some Japanese Prune Coke at the Coca Cola Museum. However, I'm not sure that's worth the hellishly long lines at the ticket counters and security -- with two children, two car seats, a stroller, three bags, and a mother-in-law.

I was hoping that with the huz being employed by an airline I might get some special privileges.

Apparently that was the ONE free ziploc bag for my Preparation H cream with the butt tip that stopped the x-ray tray in front of half of the city.

Nice.

As airline employee dependents, you fly standby. No special red carpet, no stickers, and no cute set of wings. And, clearly, no special treatment. As I learned, do not for the life of you mention the word "pilot," at least to gate agent Mr. Sherry F., a man with a very weird first name for a man who's not a pre-op trannie, because he will not offer you the two open seats on your flight because "you are a party of four."

Yes. Four humans -- two of whom are small children and can clearly sit on laps and take up two seats.

"Don't make me whip out my boob and nurse right in front of you, Mister" I thought, considering the possible ramifications (and exciting blog post) of such an action.

But alas, I didn't think Mr. Sherry F. would have cared. And so started our long field trip day at the airport.

We had a picnic lunch under the large overhang at Gate E-3. We tested the various toilets and sinks at each of the two women's restrooms. We ate large amounts of candy, including gummy bears, lollipops, and twizzlers.

We listened as my daughter cheered for the arriving planes and cried loudly as they left without her. And we watched solemnly (and looked away, as many of our country people are doing) as the casket of a soldier was loaded onto a plane with a military escort and salute.

And we cried when the third flight was over sold with no chance of us getting on it.

So, our trip to Atlanta was not meant to be. We'll have to meet Ted Turner and indulge on an hour long sugar high sampling of cokes another time. And while I have to admit that the airport was almost as exciting as the zoo (less animals, air conditioning, and just under half the stench), I'm pretty sure you won't see me listing it as an "Indoor Listen and Learn" activity at Gocitykids.

And our only saving grace was that we at least got our parking free. And that my children are gems.

Maybe that's what someone was trying to tell me.

We know it's hard mommy. That's why we read our own bedtime stories sometimes.

I Can Now Officially Blog on the Shitter.

Wait. Hold on a second.

Okay. I'm now officially blogging on the shitter thanks to fucking broadband.

WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

No more clearing the history on someone else's puter, Yvonne.

I won't show off and attempt to nurse my son, take a shit, and write this post while on the shitter, but just know, I'm pretty damn good at multi-tasking.

The joyous weekend return of my huz on Thursday lasted as long as a decent hangover. It only took a conversation about how I used the "wrong" spatula for eggs, a 10-minute question and answer session as to why I haven't had enough time to send out thank-you notes for our son's christening gifts, and my favorite, an interrogation about which of his friends I fantasize about (er, if you're going to read my blog, make sure you actually read it) to make me appreciate that which is our current long distance relationship.

Clearly, he provides support and comfort way better over the phone about 6 states away.

I imagine it doesn't help that I crashed at around 8pm every night he was home. And that he had to argue with his mother about whether planes can fly in fog because, well, you know, she's an experienced pilot and all and from her experience sitting in an airport with pilots while they waited for the fog to clear.

Right.

It's a tough crowd here people. Tough.

But the last time I checked, attempting to keep two children alive and 4000 blogs running takes precedence over thank you notes and spatula choice. And is he really surprised that I'm fantasizing about other people when he takes the time to tell me that I'm indeed using the "wrong" spatula?

Shouldn't it be more important that my power breast milk has grown my son clear out of size 3 diapers at a mere 4-months old? Or that my daughter completely covered her face and potty seat in red tar Clinique Cream Blush and it only took 134 baby wipes to get it off? Or that I'm so old that the Real World is doing reunion shows and I remember the name of every single cast member?

Jesus H. Let's get our priorities straight people.

But he need not worry. I'll have all the time in the world to learn correct spatula etiquette, send the thank you notes, and masturbate to the thought of all my friends' husbands while watching Real World Reunited: Las Vegas because Babysitter #1 and #2 come for a test drive next week.

I just hope that the in-laws don't scare them away.

On second thought, maybe the in-laws are the least of my worries.

See You Later, Original Sin

*Updated: The Blog Exchange Tribute to Mothers is today. Start here and then follow the links. Click here for more info on how to get involved.

I've never been one for traditions -- so much so that I've been accused of being devoid of sentimentality. I read cards and then throw them away. I purge my daughter's wardrobe regularly, barely taking time for one last sniff and face rub before I toss it in the Goodwill box.

And so a Christening is pushing it for me.

But I've also never been one to deprive someone else out of something they feel strongly about if it means a lot to them and doesn't aversely affect my beliefs or personhood -- the mother/son dance to Celene Dion at my wedding (I nursed in the bathroom with ear plugs) and even allowing my daughter (and now son) to be baptised with holy water (hey, it's water, not turpentine, right?).

I don't believe in original sin, or necessarily in any prayers that are said and any blessings that are made. But I do love the idea of what a Christening, Baptism, Bris, or Dedication represents.

My intention is not to make a mockery of religion by standing there and saying "we do" to questions that involve me raising my child in a religious household. It bothers me, just a bit, to say words that I don't mean or sign the cross when I just don't think it's necessary. But yet, instead of outrightly refusing to go through with the Christening, I dress my little feverish boy in his little white short suit and dip his perfectly round head in a big bowl of water because when you peel away all the words and readings, it's asking us to be good and honest parents to our son. And there's something beautiful and fulfilling to say that out loud.

Today I proclaimed to my son, a little person and not this creature or parasite (a cute size-3 diaper wearing one, of course) who takes up every inch of my existence and can make me frustrated, thankful, and annoyed all in the matter of 5 minutes, that I will do my best to be his best mother. And as I held him over the bowl of water, his sweet face and piercing smile looking up at me, I was reminded of the joy I felt when I found out I was pregnant and stayed pregnant (after two miscarriages) until I saw him in my arms for the first time. And it is that joy that I wanted to share with my friends and family -- through this ritual and his party.

I suppose I don't need to stand up in my Sunday best or buy a vanilla cross cake to remember all that. But putting aside all the Bible verses, smelly oils, and very long prayers, we are celebrating my son's new life. And if this is how we decide to celebrate his "official" presence into our family and our world, then so be it. I may roll my eyes at the formalities, but inside I'm glad that I'm not the only one that's rejoicing over his presence.

And if the Father wants to put in a good word for him, I can't imagine it will hurt. We've got a lot more time to fuck up as parents -- might as well start him off on the right foot.

Joisey Girl

I spent half of my life trying to get the hell out of Jersey, and the last five trying desperately to get back. I'm not quite sure what it is about Jersey that people seem to loathe, including the folks that live there.

Okay. I get the high car insurance. Highest in the country, actually.

Oh. And no left turns. They have these things called "jughandles." Basically, you have to make a right (either before or after the light) to make a left. Personally, I think left turn arrows are highly overrated.

And then there's the whole Jersey accent that is really a combo of Philly and NYC slapped together with a speech impairment (thanks Governor Kean) that makes everyone think we talk weird.

Or weirdly. (Sorry I'm from Jersey).

Sure. The bad drivers. The landfills. The "haha garden state." The weird roads.

And the hair.

Oh. The. Hair.

But c'mon people. Lest you forget the good things that Jersey has brought to this earth. Hi. Bon Jovi? Full Serve Gas? The Boardwalk? Cheese Steaks?

Oh wait. That's Philly. Damnit.

Seriously, Jersey gets such a bad rap wherever you go. It's not NYC. It's not Philadelphia. So apparently it's not cool. And to be honest with you, I've grown up just saying "I'm from outside Philly" so not to have to deal with the wrath of the Jersey haters.

But today I'm proud to be a Joisey girl because if I so had the desire, I could be legally united with another Joisey girl in what is the fifth state to allow legal civil unions for gay folks. That's right. They can enjoy visitation at hospitals, adoption rights, and even give their partner insurance.

Who woulda thunk it?

And I know that a civil union does not a marriage make, however, take it from me. I'm married and it's not all that it's cracked up to be people.

So congrats my gay friends. Enjoy your legally united gambling excursions and some salt water taffy on me!

An Open Letter to the 18 Year Old Receptionist at the Spa

Dear Miss:

Let me preface this by saying I'm pregnant. I don't get out much. And I'm living with my in-laws.

I know you don't know what any of those things are yet, I hope, and let me tell you, you shouldn't. Continue to enjoy what seems to be your obsession with post-Justin pre-baby Britney Spears. Because really, it's all downhill from there.

And clearly, that's saying something.

I realize that it must have seemed a bit odd, me waving you off as I decided to test what turned out to be overpriced room sprays...

ON MY WRISTS.

But let me assure you. I'm really not that uncultured or stupid.

Much to my horror, I had just been awakened from my 60-minute facial by some woman named Elizabeth claiming to be an aesthetician. Clearly, I had seen Johnny Depp rubbing my face. Smelling of clove cigarettes. And raw passionate sex.

In a nutshell, I was discombobulated and clearly out of sorts.

So, I thank you, with every pregnant breath I have, for not pointing out that I was indeed leaving the spa doused in "Summer Fresh" and "Lavendar Escape," your new line of aromatherapy room sprays, and for checking me out with an absolutely straight face - not even one eye roll or chuckle to be seen.

I'm not sure I would have had as much willpower. And for that, I admire you. You go with your blonde streaked hair, and brown-lined lipped self.

You won't hear any complaints from me.

Ever.

Sincerely,

That Pregnant Woman