Mommy Materiality

No matter how hard I try to be the best mom possible, I still fear judgement from other moms when Pumpkin and I go out or when I talk about her with other women who are or will be mothers. I am blessed with a mother and mother-in-law who keep their opinions locked in a vault and allow me to make my own decisions as a mother, but I know they think otherwise when a lingering worried glance, small shake of the head or pursed lips appear before they quickly look away.

And the unending advice that comes from my friends, now mothers, albeit helpful, often remains part of the "information overload" age we live in. When in doubt, I usually revert back to what I know, the instinctual behaviors I don't question.

I hold this truth to be self evident, that all women are not created as individuals, but exist as their mothers, version 2.0.

Good, bad or indifferent, if a crazy day causes my personalized adaptation of mothering to escape on sabbatical, I can be found speaking, acting and even looking exactly like my mother.

Tragically, it didn't end there. On Pumpkin's 3rd birthday, Mimi came for a visit. While I changed a pull-up, Mimi nudged me and whispered, "She's got our butt!" I suddenly felt blind sided by Marty McFly's space-time continuum; there we stood as past, present and future representations of myself.

I wondered what use this knowledge would serve, except to reaffirm the truth: the more things change, the more they stay the same. No matter what judgements or differences in opinion come from other moms or even myself, certain other truths must also exist.

I've discovered a few that withstand the test of time, like my black maternity yoga pants, aka. Ol' Faithful. The elastic on them could survive an H-bomb if tested and they allegedly go with everything, so long as it covers my buttock region.

Mommy Truth #1: Stains are 10% circumstance and 90% sheer exhaustion.

I see them. I know exactly when they happen or around the time the saucy, chocolatey, ketchupy or cheesy morsel makes its permanent mark in the history of Pumpkin's shirt, shorts, sweater, pants or even socks. I'm just too tired to do anything about it sometimes.

Mommy Truth #2: Pay attention to what you nod & smile to.

Many of Pumpkin's daily conversations land in Why-ville and end with the "Because that's the way God made it," response. Sometimes, however, she ponders the things she already knows and will ask me the questions she just got the answers to, excited to show me what she just learned. In those instances, I pull a Queen Elizabeth and nod & smile.

Recently Pumpkin began asking me questions when she discovers I'm in nod & smile mode. A couple of weeks ago, I helped scoot her down from her little potty seat unveiling brown embellishments all over it. Apparently, I nodded and smiled to what Pumpkin now dubs her Poo-Poos Discovery Adventure.

Mommy Truth #3: Everything is in a constant state of degeneration; don't fight it.

I've spent the better part of the last four years battling with the laundry pile. Many times I retreated, waving my dingy white flag or whatever color hand towel still remains outside of the laundry room.

I battled, refusing to relinquish myself to the power of darkness that exists beyond the teeny black holes in the washing machine. For the 2 minutes I declare myself victor, a bi-annual event, I will fight off any potential contribution to a new pile of dirty laundry, replacing bibs and even socks with doubled up Brawny and scotch tape. (See Mommy Truth #1.)

Mommy Truth #4: Functional plumbing is optional.

I had no idea what this phrase even meant until I delivered a child. Nowadays, if I laugh too hard, I might as well get in line behind Pumpkin for a pull-up. This side effect of motherhood also signals the beginning of my digression back towards infancy as an older adult.

Mommy Truth #5: Shopping with child in tow rivals the spacewalk.

Hands on everything in sight, fingers pointing and questions flying can lengthen an ordinary 20 minute shopping trip into an hour long cataclysm. After the random observations made aloud that put Joan Rivers (and me) to shame, I avoid grocery shopping until the last possible moment. "Mommy, look at that lady's bootie! It's huuuuuuge like a triceratops!" Horror! Thank goodness little miss loud mouth can read my well practiced no-no face.

Mommy Truth #6: Grandparents can double as angels and demons.

Need a night out? Call Grandma. Need an extra pair of hands around the house? Call Mimi. Need a break in general? Call Papa. Need a child to tell you to take a time out while racing around, completely wound up at sleepy time? You can thank your parents for that as well.

Mommy Truth #7: Baby weight sets the bar.

I have never forgotten my record weight when I was 38 weeks pregnant, nor should I. In vain, I insisted my Ob/Gyn's nurse document in my medical chart that I weighed myself "shoes on this time," as if any ounce or two of cushion and shoelace affected my overall BMI range. Whenever my weight fluctuates, I always measure myself against that number before estimating whether or not I view my loss or gain as acceptable.

Thanks to my new post-baby bodily configuration, I can no longer reference how well my clothes fit as a reliable indication of improvement because the legs fit better than ever, I just can't button my pants. Simply put, my waistline looks like a knife cutting through bread dough that sat covered for an hour, letting the yeast rise.

No matter how awful or ugly they appear sometimes, Mommy Truths help us get through our day because more than a long, peaceful nap, we need to feel comraderie amongst ourselves as women. Mommy Truths are the glue that hold us together because whether we stay at home or work while juggling family life, we share more similarities than differences and do not stand alone.

Jaws + Me = BFF's

Despite the every day grind of housewivery, a certain simple, yet arduous task takes place that can change the entire ambiance of a room: vacuuming.

This relatively simple task often becomes the last chore on the list because it requires removing toys and other objects out of the way. In the likely event that the mass of toys becomes too large to move, vacuuming around them morphs their existence from play things into "immovable object" status, along with couches, bookshelves and dressers.

The time commitment involved once the vacuum has left it's nearly permanent home quickly evolves into a bit of a vortex. Pumpkin scampering across the vacuumed floor with her trail of crumbs and coloring book bits also turns a once over into a thrice over.

Depending on the weekly schedule, vacuuming occurs at a varied interval of tidiness: daily (for Pumpkin's allergies), every other day, a few times a week, weekly and bi-weekly even. Admittedly, the first-Tuesday-of-the-month city siren tests and my vacuuming schedule have run in tandem in recent past.

Fortunately, most judgement of the cleanliness of a room melts away at the sight of a vacuumed floor. What Mom could deny the beautiful pattern that vacuum precision makes in the carpet, swoosh by swoosh of the running brush and suction, like waves in the sand? God forbid the pitter patter of little feet again leave their mark on the evenly placed rows that can take years of practice shoving and yanking such a noisy appliance.

My frustration and boredom living the life of an at-home mom/housemaid began smoldering like Manua Loa. I decided to mix it up and pulled out the hose attachment for some cheap thrills.

Typically, I would only use it to suck up live bugs and spiders because I didn't want to feel them crunching in my hand or clean up the mess they left behind.

Hose attachments make eradicating insects scads easier with the range of suction they offer. I rarely needed to touch the end of the hose to the bug. I simply placed it in their general direction and waved it around, somewhat purposefully. A tiny, "click -click" down the hose and I knew my prayer was answered.

The hose attachment could also complicate matters as quickly as it alleviated a desperate Bug vs. "Brave Mommy" situation. With one foul swoop, the vacuum screamed up an octave, about to dislodge my curtains from the feeble screws that held the hangers in place.

Today I started with the hose aimed at a tiny knot of white string beneath Pumpkin's bed that stared squarely back at me for months because the vacuum couldn't reach it. It felt like a shoot out at the OK Corral. I flipped Jaws from floor to hose suction immediately. I aimed....adios, amigo. Truth be told, I'm just a lone cowgirl following the Hopalong Cassidy Creed, number eight, "Be neat and clean." (It's for real: http://www.hopalong.com/creed.htm )

Next, I moved on to a giant ball of carpet fluff that laid there for equally as long as the string, if not longer. Soon after I started to notice the crumby carpet at the wall's edge of where the vacuum ceased to suck. The floor boards looked a little grayer than they should, so I gave it a run by with the hose as well. I moved on to the sides of the doorways in the hallway and caught a couple of loose strings of carpet and more dust all disappearing in an instant!

One might assume this was my first contact with a hose attachment, and honestly I did use it fairly infrequently because I rarely had the time after vacuuming the rest of the floor.

The 2 minutes of sucking the corners of the carpeted floors easily turned into 20 because, inexplicably, I started to feel like Super Mom. My self esteem grew from average to extraordinary. I felt like such a good Mom removing the nitty gritty household dust and dirt. Soon I began having visions of "ching" sounds and sparkles gleaming from the corners of my house as neighbors passed by while I twirled like the poised June Cleaver.

The master bath satisfied my need for clean the most. Some might argue the "kid(s) bathroom" exists as the dirtiest room in the house. However, if a guest needed to use the bathroom, I would suggest waiting in line before offering up the master bath.

All moms know that no matter how dirty little kids can get, adults will grow things that put grimy kid bathrooms to shame. Even with my scrutinizing gaze, I didn't notice what lay on the corners and perimeter of the master bathroom floor that soon disappeared in nano seconds! Mommy's Magic Wand suddenly became the perfect remedy for a private matter. Thank God for HEPA filters.

Shhhhhh!

A tradition has long since existed that involves quiet time for parents and children as well: the nap. The blessed nap. The God given break most moms get from cleaning up, washing up, vacuuming up, wiping up, hanging up, picking up, sweeping up, making up, timing out and settling down.

Naps became as precisely necessary for me as they'd been for Pumpkin. They also keep mommies sane so we can live yet another day with a full head of hair and some semblance of time.

I waffled for more than a year on sleep separation techniques. I remained caught in a stale mate, debating whether to put Pumpkin to bed fully awake, letting her figure out "seepy time" or instead rock her to sleep and try sneaking stealthily out of the room, spy girl style a la Catherine Zeta Jones in "Entrapment." Very slowly, I inched the knuckles of my toes, then the ball of my foot and finally my heel step by careful step, across the room.

I mapped out and memorized every floor squeak. I banished every noisy toy to the bottom of the bin. I oiled every door creak with Pam cooking spray, literally -that's all I had on tap.

On the off chance I'd hit a noisy sector of the nursery during my exit, I would freeze and peek back to make sure Pumpkin's eyes remained shut.

To my demise, the rocking and sneaking quickly evolved into rocking and sleeping for Pumpkin and I. I entered the rocking chair cocoon as Mommy and emerged as Quasimodo, trying to re-align my spine during dinner, hair awry. I didn't mind awaking to a sleepy headed Pumpkin, but the physical toll started catching up with me. No matter how badly it hurt for the rest of the day though, I still fell asleep with her again at nighttime.

On the times I could summon my inner chakra to fight off falling asleep and manage to sneak out, I had to rely on the Household Nap Time Rules that served me since Pumpkin's arrival in order to prolong happy hour:

-No yelling
-Almost no talking
-No thinking aloud
-Doors must not shut, only close with careful, cautious attention
-No "Ring" or "Vibrate Mode" allowed
-No running household appliances, except the frig
-No running or walking, period, only tip-toeing allowed
-No using the bathroom by baby's room
-Don't even flush in another bathroom if "seepy time" begins or wake-up time nears
-Absolutely no music
-Closed captions only on TV
-No sex because I don't even want to think about doing this ever again until I'm so far removed from said developmental stage, I can hardly remember the strife

Unfortunately, but typically, naps begin to decrease, one by one by one into the golden Tuscan sunrise. Almost without notice, Pumpkin started to play in her bed the entire length of her nap time creating the Sans Nap stage. This part of baby growing up goes against every grain of motherhood and its joys.

Now that the days have gotten longer, my need for an extra cup of caffeine and live-in maid becomes more desperate. I don't have more time to finally fold the permanently wrinkled laundry while catching up on last night's Grey's Anatomy. I've also begun shutting off the radio instead of cranking up my favorite tunes and singing along when I run errands because a little silence sounds nicer.

My hope for the bags under my eyes to slowly fade has diminished now that naps have nearly gone. Eventually, I devised a solution and thought it fitting to add Botox to Santa's list this year. Something's gotta get tightened up soon, and we all know Palmer's Cocoa Butter lotion for stretchmarks is a joke. If only I could borrow God's giant eraser...

Movers & Shakers -mini blog

Expecting your first child is overwhelming, but perusing the aisles of Babies 'R' Us to register for your own baby shower can cause a mini panic attack. Given that Sean had never changed a diaper before Pumpkin's arrival, his presence there became the inverse of me shopping at Circuit City without an agenda, forced entry followed by aimless wandering.

After an extended period of debating which newborn diapers to start with, I hurried to finish so I could go home. I'd fought off the need to piddle for nearly 30 minutes instead of the measly 5 minutes I grew accustomed to. In my haste, I began scanning items that didn't serve a purpose while other things like changing pad covers and Desitin should have been in a quantity of 38 instead of a polite 2. Also, if it looked cute, it made the registry, including Pumpkin's first car seat/stroller.

I recently upgraded our stroller from the one we had selected for our baby registry almost four years ago. I brought it along every place we went mainly to save time because it seemed I arrived late everywhere. Expecting a newly walking child to commute from car seat to entry way from a parking spot in practically China could add an estimated 5-7 minutes of tardiness. I'd also seen enough rushed Mommies urging their tiny tots along, practically pulling a little arm from its shoulder socket, sometimes unaware their child has ceased to walk for the last few feet and may require knee patches and Neosporin at home.

The old stroller traveled countless times in and out of doctor's offices and exam rooms that barely fit the patient let alone the 1967 Cadillac Eldorado sized child-portation I pushed, sometimes shoved around. It even needed an actual kick to jump-start it into motion sometimes. No quick, graceful departure exists with a stroller either. Leaving usually involved straightening up the slouched child, removing toys from the tray cups and situating a sippy with a side of goldfish until I'm finally off with a "Humpf!"

The rear wheels would lock on their own at the worst possible times. When the locks finally functioned as expected, the front swiveling wheels would shudder at any speed greater than 1 mile per hour like choosing the unlucky shopping cart at Target. Unfortunately, people don't expect that kind of wheel wiggle and noisy, erratic shaking outdoors around 10am with a concerned looking child white knuckling a "nice walk at the park."

This time I consulted Consumer Reports and shopped around like the frugal Mom that I am nowadays. The new stroller has mini-bike wheels with chrome spokes and best of all, a much smoother ride for Pumpkin. Welcome back, daily walks. Welcome back.

It's Not Dirty, It's Multipurpose!

With so much media coverage of Michael Jackson's passing, one thing in particular caught my interest -a single, white glove glitzed in Swarovski crystals. This iconic accessory became his trademark. I might have gone as far as wearing my sole surviving winter glove with the other cold hand jammed into my pea coat pocket, but I couldn't escape the "Billy Jean" chorus in my head.

Unfortunately, the stigma of homelessness hasn't stopped this mom from wearing her own signature accessory: Mommy Shirts. These battered pieces of clothing, some held together by threads washed dingy white from their original coloring, have been worn from early child rearing days to the more recent assertive autonomy adventures.

Mommy Shirts have grown wide as I grew wide because the breastfeeding/pumping did not, in fact, have a positive affect on my waistline. I might have dropped a dress size had I committed to breastfeeding until Pumpkin started college, but I'll never know for certain. Contrary to popular trend, I still believe if the child can chew pork chop, they can drink from a glass. Instead of shrinking beneath my Mommy Shirts, my painfully large chest continues to give me back and shoulder aches. And despite significant weight loss, they also continue to cause shame, currently resembling grapefruits in tube socks. Very sexy, I know. I consider this my "Greek Tragedy" phase of life: every stretch mark and saggy skin fold has an epic story of pre-baby beauty and tenacity.

Not every shirt I owned had Public Shirt potential, but avoiding permanent stains on practically every top became the impossible dream. My formidable foe: the bodily fluids. If feeling like a schlumpadinka didn't dampen my spirits enough, my leaking breasts would. I always had a Mommy Shirt packed in the diaper bag in the event of a very personal, very embarrassing water-main break. Just looking at Pumpkin 2-3 hours after the last time she fed could cause anything from a few drops to a freaking geyser registering a 7.2 on the Richter Scale.

My pathetic cotton tops evolved quickly from simple, at-home lounge wear to bib, burp cloth, tear wipe and snot stop, a catch-all for human emissions. If the baby bib covered in pureed sweet potatoes couldn't wipe any more schmutz off of Pumpkin's face, I offered Mommy Shirt. If the burp cloth sat too far out of reach when baby had "I'm gonna spew in .2 seconds" written all over her face, Mommy Shirt to the rescue! Eventually, I began to prefer catching spit up in one foul swoop of my stretched out top because I loathed scrubbing vomit off the floor or carpet. Unfortunately, scrubbing it into the carpet seemed more like what I had regrettably accomplished.

My toddler of a Pumpkin still asks if she can wipe the tears from her eyes, sputum from her nose or her sweaty forehead on my Mommy Shirt, even if I'm not wearing one.

A revelation dawned on me after daring myself one Tuesday to toss all these nasty clothes to the big laundromat in the sky, joined by random lost socks and forgotten undies: I wouldn't live in these nasty shirts forever. I could return to primping, make up and actual outfits instead of thrown together sweats and T's as Pumpkin grew more independent. I had to migrate back to pre-baby me so she could catalog what I remember as a child, the fascination of watching my mom put on mascara and curl her hair. I had to show her the importance of taking good care of herself because she has value as a female.

Slowly, two categories of attire emerged: the stained Mommy Shirts that should stay home, and those that pull a look together, manipulating people's perception that I'm a woman first, then a mother. My at-home shirts saved me hours of angst with the Shout gel and toothbrush at a quarter past midnight. Yet, if I planned to protect future cute tops from becoming casualties of child rearing, I would need a new means of handling sneezes, snot and leftovers in the corners of Pumpkin's mouth.

Herein lies my conversion to the mega purse/small suitcase filled with gum, wallet, hand sanitizer, random toys, the occasional crayon, stale snack and a giant folded stack of Kleenex. Only the innermost of the tissues are viable, free of crumby purse debris. I've also needed my own bib to serve and protect the Public Shirts. Nowadays, I'll don a cute top exactly three minutes before I make my exit and maintain a safe distance of 3-5 feet if markers or juice are present.

God bless the Mommy Shirts that got me through early motherhood. I'd much prefer to send them on a historic voyage out to sea like a Roman soldier, shooting a stinky diaper from shore to ignite the barge as it burns into oblivion. Garbage day Wednesday will have to do instead.

Like the Corners of My Mind

Cleaning up after Pumpkin's dinner tirade one night, I caught a commercial for an Alzheimer's medication. The woman in the commercial left her keys in the frig, not too different from my experience of finally discovering my cell phone in a toy bin after spending hours looking, waiting and listening. I searched the web and found a check list of the 10 signs of Alzheimer's (http://www.alz.org/). Having read them, I'm almost convinced my journey through motherhood could easily pass as another form of dementia.

10. Changes in mood and personality. They may be easily upset at home, at work, with friends.
Two temper tantrums, 1 nap refusal, 2 more temper tantrums, 4 loads of laundry, play time, clean up time, vacuuming, dishes, bath time and bedtime now elicit the readily available tears. And when I say tears, I mean the ugly cry: shedding crocodile tears which result in swollen under eye skin, puffy enough to float myself behind Big Bird in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Also, I'm not sure if it happened after changing the 83rd diaper explosion followed by picking up Sean's dirty clothes off the bathroom floor or waking up every 2-3 hours the entire first year, but my anger threshold took a nose dive into the Pacific.

This change in inertia also sparked an occasional curse word. Not something I'm proud of in the least, but since my departure from sweet, polite single-dom I've now embarked upon rip roaring motherhood & I'll regrettably let one slip without a second thought or even a blink. Ever hear an innocent child swear? Mama's got alot of nerve looking as surprised as everyone else...

9. Withdrawal from work and social activities.
If only my butt fit into the jeans in my dresser drawer, I would go out, but how am I supposed to know I don't fit into them when wearing sweatpants practically every day? On the off chance I do leave the cave, what do I talk about? The kiddo.

8. Decreased or poor judgement.
-"NO. I don't want you to comb my hair anymore! I like it how it is."
-"OK, Pumpkin."
Two days later, the rat's nest of the universe planted itself in the back of her neck. Awful, torturous and massive. Baby got her first hair sculpt that day, special thanks to the sewing scissors.

7. Misplacing things and losing the ability to retrace steps.
Where in the world is that wretched sippy cup with none other than....milk in it?! Ah, of course. Waiting three long days for me, chucked underneath the driver's seat in the car. Surprisingly, my intolerance to mold has never decreased in spite of my increased familiarity with vomit and feces. Who knew? This also explains why I have no "real" Tupperware, the durable stuff my mom had from an actual Tupperware party, in my house.

6. New problems with words in speaking or writing.
"Huney, have you seen the thing with the thing? I put it right next to the thing. You know where that is, babe?" I used to remember exactly what I wanted to say and then say it in the exact moment I needed to. Now if that happens, it's a total fluke and considered authentic miracle material for a written testimonial to Reverend Billy Graham.

5. Trouble understanding visual images and spacial relationships.
Me bed, him couch.

4. Confusion with time or place.
I have woken up and rushed myself and my child to doctor's appointments and therapy appointments. I have packed snacks the night before for said child and even blown my hair out that morning. I have lugged the big diaper bag, umbrella, stroller and baby to check in, only to do an immediate about-face back home because the appointment existed on a different day.

Can I please just stand in the hallway so the doctor and nurses see me as they go into the next room? I really want them to think I have it together!

After three rounds of this scenario, a half-hearted attempt to make sure I looked semi-decent and only one snack in the small diaper bag preceded all appointments. Why make the effort to sit in my car and look cute for the drive home?

3. Difficulty completing familiar tasks at home, at work or at leisure.
Hmmmm....it's awfully quiet. (Thud.) Oh, crap! Pants up, mid-stream. Nuff said.

2. Challenges in planning or solving problems.
Too much month at the end of the money? Where did the paycheck go? In walks my 52 cents per diaper Princess holding the new toy I bought to solicit good behavior so people in my hometown didn't call DCFS because of my child's ill-timed public temper tantrum.

1. Memory changes that disrupt daily life.
When we moved in to our first home as a family, the sky was blue, the sun was shining, the neighbors were friendly. When we moved out, they might as well have planted a "Good Riddance" sign in our front yard. I don't blame them.

For a time, our house alerted everyone in our unit to the potential that theirs could deliberately combust. Since Pumpkin's arrival, I have seen and smelled more smoke from burned pizza, toast and melted baby bottles, permanently seared to the bottom of mulitple pots. Admittedly, remembering to turn the stove or oven off while completely covered in spit-up has its challenges, many of which I've failed.

Conclusion: I am living proof that Mommy Brain lives and thrives. I used to daydream and sing songs that got stuck in my head. Now when I stare off into space and Sean asks me what I'm thinking, I say, "Nothing." Truly, I literally think nothing sometimes just to give my head a rest. Unfortunately, I'm not quite sure what rest it needs since I remember a fraction of what I used to.

They should make memory pills for mothers so those of us who don't quite fit into the cape of Supermom can at least give it a whirl.