A Mom To Love

The Little Things

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 04:05:00 +0000

The woo'ing days of big bouquets bursting with long stemmed red roses have traded themselves for dryer doors spitting out lone socks and lint upon my arrival. Of course I enjoy flowers or extravagant dinners, but as a mommy, the small stuff in life has proven more precious than gold.

Case in Point #1: I'm smart to think ahead, but not smart enough to remember I thought ahead.

The result: I surprise myself now and then by remembering something I typically expect myself to forget.

For instance, I schlepped Pumpkin to her annual physical with a quart of caffeine in my gut and suddenly I could think only of my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Lewellyn. Her terrible coffee breath caused any unruly wisps of hair to recoil into Shirley Temple curls when she leaned over to help me multiply fractions.

I realized how close the doctor had to get in order to give Pumpkin a good look and listen as she sat in my lap, and a hint of embarrassment overcame me. I put the car in park and tossed my keys in the side pocket of my purse -right next to a spankin' new pack of Orbit Peppermint Blitz gum, Messiah incarnate!

I only masquerade as an exceptionally prepared mother, as clever and quick-witted as the single gal of days gone by because I regularly have bouts of the flipside:

"Hey, have you seen the thing I set next to the thing?" I beg, conveying desperation during my real-life charades. I can no longer say what I want to say exactly when I want to say it. And sadly, I'll often leave an interaction and think of a smart quip about 10 minutes too late.

My forgetfulness also causes sporadic flare-ups of anger only to discover it was I, not anyone else, who left the toilet paper roll empty first thing in the bleary-eyed morning.

Case in point #2: Physical Balance Improvement.

Having the title, "Mother," allows for a few adjustments to life with baby weight that will eternally reside smack in the middle of my tummy, south of the belt. Despite my weight gain remaining significantly disproportionate since pregnancy, not all is lost. As a mom, I have achieved probably the best balance I've ever had in my life. How do I know this?

Ever stepped on a Cheerio at 5am?

Those suckers, which could save any dying fruit fly for the majority of the morning while floating in sour milk, will inevitably crunch into a thousand little crumbs if ever caught underfoot. Since becoming Mommy, I can stand like Ralph Macchio in the final fight scene of Karate Kid. With "Crane" position full-on, I brush every single crumb off the sole of my foot and into the opposite hand thus preserving the kitchen floor.

Occasionally, I'll go for the gold and swing my foot over the garbage disposal and brush it off that way instead. Either gets the job done, it just depends on my proximity to the sink during "crunch time."

Case in Point #3: Self-Regulated Plumbing.

My high interest in Pumpkin's bottom was my bottom line: flushing it down costs less than throwing it away.

When Pumpkin upgraded to a toddler bed, she decided to serve as my alarm clock on the weekends. I awoke one morning to her standing next to my bedside in her PJ top, nekkit from the waist down.

"What in the world...where did the rest of your PJ's go?!"
"I just kicked off my undies on the potty. I didn't want them any more."
"You sat on the potty all by yourself and did all your business in the potty?"
"Yeah. And I wiped all by myself too!"
::big hugs:: "What a BIG GIRL! And did you wash your hands?"
"Uh....no. I forgot."
(Don't freak, it's just pee hopefully...) "Ok, Mommy go with you to get them all clean."

I noticed her curtain was open when we passed her bedroom. Apparently, Little Miss Independent gave a bit of a show to the neighbors in the units across the driveway. I double checked the state's online sex offender registry during breakfast just to ensure I didn't have to nail her curtain to the wall in case I couldn't curb the peep show with verbal cues.

Besides achieving the critical milestone of successful potty training, I would benefit personally from this beyond the obvious.

My nose evolved into a bloodhound's detecting capabilities during my second trimester. Sniffing everything proved a blessing and a curse. As a result, I ate solely with my left hand because my right index and middle fingers perpetually smelled of Desitin and Vasaline for 3 solid years.

No matter how often I washed, those two fingers had a zinc oxide grout in between the teeny tiny grooves of my unique sequence of prints. Theoretically, I could've committed a crime, in case I turned hostile from the sleep deprivation, and potentially remained undetected in any Homeland Security criminal history record...

Fortunately, I avoided turning into a perp (by the skin of my teeth some days), and I could now begin the transition back to eating burgers two-handed like a normal human instead of "new mom" style.

If you have any little things in your life that make your day a little brighter, please share them by posting a comment below!

Mommy Blessing

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 23:50:00 +0000

After having been married to a 100% Irishman for over 4 years, I learned no greater irony existed than the phrase, "luck of the Irish."

Together we survived everything: 5 broken bones, 2 homes with one income, 6 hospital stays and 1 surgery for Pumpkin, 3 major motor vehicle accidents, 2 cross-country moves -4 total, carbon monoxide poisoning, a short sale, 1 fractured skull, 7 months without work and the token overbearing in-laws. Cumulatively, we've gained over 200 pounds and lost 170 and amongst the three of us, spent years in therapy -occupational, physical and of course psycho.

So when Molly from The Bachelor declares to Jason in her vows that the two of them "have been through more than most couples go through in a lifetime," over a menial host of public scrutiny (which one could argue they welcomed to an extent), they clearly don't know the life of the Irish! Anyone who's changed a sick baby's diaper could top that...

Irish or not, motherhood should be celebrated. We make these days special with sparkly three leafed clover stickers, green cookies and cute outfits. In honor of all the moms making a special day out of smaller holidays, I offer a poem in appreciation for the thoughtfulness and attention to detail.

Mommy Blessing

May the diaper stink leave you in public
May the yelling in back settle down
May a "please" and a "thank you" come willingly
Whilst you're schlepping all over town

May the friends that bring laughter call often
May the frig issue warnings to food
That might linger a little too long
Behind bottom bins growing no good

May sticky fingers magically clean off
Even the gunkiest, tiniest nail
May the whining and whimpering hold off
When they faux nap to no avail

May the laundry soar over to hangers
It has only seen near twice a year
May the dishwasher finally banish
Stubborn oatmeal that won't disappear

May the TP replace itself often
May the coupons clip themselves free
May they always remain where you need them,
Pre-sorted alphabetically

May the hours of sleep come upon you
In numbers to the third power
May the caffeine awake and revive you
When greeting The Early Show hour

May veggies go down without standoff
That rivals the OK Corral
May the crumbs picked up 'neath the table
Bring a child a sense of morale

May the birdies that dressed Cinderella
Fly through your window this day
May Prince Charming award your survival
Of raising a small lump of clay

Mommy Corps of Engineers

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 20:27:00 +0000

I've now reached the 5-6 week mark of the new year, the test of time to see whether or not my new year's resolution stuck (like the Splenda laced coffee I spilled inside the cup holder) or didn't stick (like the Cheerios that roll around the passenger side of the floor, sometimes gratefully hiding beneath the seat and other times a potential hazard threatening the mostly crumb-free side of the car.)

Drumroll, please ::brum brum brum brum brum...::.......................

And.....it's a partial stick, this year! I organized one out of 4 undersides of the sinks and one out of four closets -a 25% return on my commitment. Unfortunately, I fully consider this a flat out fail because of my resolution's direct correlation to my fluctuating level of motivation that surprisingly seems to spike whenever I hear Bon Jovi's "It's My Life." Don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware my life serves at the will and whimsy of Pumpkin's potty fluctuations. Yet, I'm urged by the conviction I feel from the very next line, "It's now or never..." which usually guilts me into following through on my wavering January 1st resolve: Cluttery mess, Adieu in 52.

My lack of dedication to more time consuming household tasks doesn't however diminish my candidacy for the Mommy Corps of Engineers:

Occasionally Relevant,
Sleeve-Instead-of-Kleenex Ready,
Perceived as Responsible,
Snack Time Reliable (because then I can snack too.)

Reflecting that motto, the Mommy Corps of Engineers are also the first on the scene at disaster areas including, but not limited to: milk all over the floor, hand held poops, food up the nose, house-wide entire toy inventory explosions and Barbie's-dream-house-pink vomit everywhere.

Although not regularly appreciated, the Mommy Corps of Engineers pursue sustainable infrastructure as their most critical goal.

Usually a sustainable child rearing infrastructure refers to anything built or used in a way that contributes to the overall sustainability of pseudo-natural resources such as Desitin, Goldfish, diapers and mostly clean clothes. My ability to conserve these resources relates directly to my level of desperation; I have been known to cut open a tube of Desitin and scrape out just enough with my finger to make it last. Afterward, I'll put the tube in a plastic zip-loc baggie so it doesn't dry out if, Heaven help me, I have to use it again before Sean comes back with more.

Said infrastructure typically relies heavily on carbohydrate consumption and caffeine use, two of the most high profile engineering resources, but will occasionally involve reliable cell phone batteries and nap times as major contributors to an overall good day. And although the Mommy Corps requires efficiency over previous generations of technology and construction, it readily submits to the Law of Genetic Predisposition -that all mothers possess eerily similar characteristics, if not full embodiment, of their own mothers incarnate.

Additionally, the Mommy Corps of Engineers dedicates itself to disciplined thought and action to deliver innovative solutions to household engineering. For example, when my vacuum choked on a tube sock, snapping the belt in two while emitting a dark, dank odor, I turned duct tape inside out and patted it around the bathroom floor to pick up the pieces of hair hiding in the corners until I found the belt replacement. The shoe molding around the bathroom floor's perimeter never looked cleaner!

And when Pumpkin began to get physical in her crib when nap time morphed into more play time, she broke one of the wooden bars. I grabbed the Elmer's wood glue, but had no tool to hold the glued halves in place. Two uber sparkly stegosaurus stickers did the trick since they had more sticky surface area as quadrupeds. Now they remain as a permanent fixture on the old, beat up crib; I honestly couldn't scratch them off when I tried.

Situations will arise that may require mental engineering to help reduce risks from disasters. For instance, when Pumpkin hadn't pooped in nearly a week and absolutely refused to eat her stool softener, I let her have two tablespoons of chocolate chips after every meal, including breakfast. A day and a half later, problem solved! Not ideal, per se, but effective and harmless.

All dedicated members of the Mommy Corps of Engineers strive to coordinate and integrate geospatial information requirements and standards across the family. Translation: when Daddy enters a house amidst chaos, Mommy keeps him fully informed of where not to step when the floor hasn't been swept but the stairs did get vacuumed, where not to sit when the apple juice spilled on the couch and which garbage to remove immediately upon arriving home (the one with the most diapers in it, except on the off-chance I cleaned out the frig only because I ran out of vacant, cheapy Tupperware wannabe containers.)

In order to maintain civility, another goal of geospatial synchronicity involves successfully managing the following 3 main chaotic areas/situations of:

1- Where toys go after play time because I've admittedly sworn aloud after stepping on Legos,
2- Where fingers remain when boogies allegedly need digging out because, try as I may, I can't refund my lifetime membership to the Eating Uckies Viewer Club nor can I avoid being touched by said uckies in public or private, and
3- Where nudey booties absolutely must stay put after bath time because I have a 4 year old showgirl on my hands who loves to dance nekkit in front of open curtains -sweet Lord, help me!!

And although repeating instructions to curb any visible pandemonium may not necessarily strengthen my family's security, it may help energize our interactions by simultaneously employing a "Good Choices" chart. Note: stickers placed on this particular chart to earn larger rewards are for especially good behavior and not a simple, "Excuse me!" after farting on me square in the face while I help Pumpkin tuck her shirt in.

The arduous task of raising decent, contributing members of society never ends, but keeping ourselves calm, collected and pulled-together at home as well as in the grocery store during a sleep-deprived temper tantrum gives us the right to claim victory and earns us the ranking of General amongst the many, the proud (so long as they're well behaved), the Mommy Corps of Engineers.

Pull-up-aholic Rehab

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 15:28:00 +0000

Pumpkin and I were playing play-doh yesterday morning until she pushed herself up off her chair and asked me if her pants felt wet. Welcome to the introduction of: Pumpkin Pees Her Pants 4.2. Instead of telling me outright that she peed them, it has since evolved into a rousing game of Clue. Nowadays I have to guess what made a surface wet: Was it Ms. Sweaty Butt in the Dining Room with the Occasionally Over Active Bladder?

I padded my hand around. Nope, it feels only a little damp from sitting on a plastic seat cover for 20 minutes straight while conjuring up alien images in the play-doh. About five minutes later, she propositioned me again asking me to determine the source of the moisture. Clearly, I didn't rise to the bait.

By the third time, I knew her guilt-laden expression meant I would spend the next 20-30 minutes cleaning up something. I asked her if she peed in her pants.
"No."
"Are you sure, Pumpkin?"
"No."
(Insert trepidation here.) "Did you pee in your pants a tiny bit and forget to tell me you had to go because you wanted to play some more with your play-doh? It's OK if you did, you can tell Mommy. Accidents happen."
Slowly, she nodded. Crap.

Honestly, I thought we moved beyond the potty training deal, but it creeps back for a few weeks at a time as though the training didn't fully take. In addition to that, Pumpkin still has yet to grasp the purpose of toilet paper. She appears fully aware that it doesn't serve as floor "woobie" material nor as ribbon for twirling practice in the dire hopes that her wild armed skill might lead her to the 2020 Olympic rhythmic gymnastics competition.

Most regrettably of all, Pumpkin doesn't understand she needs to wipe where the action takes place. Instead, it's her back or beneath her belly button that get a swipe of cotton 2-ply -headed in the right direction, just not quite there yet.

Pumpkin's effort to approximate the wiping has also landed us in another failed attempt of Western culture's take on Indian practices like a typical American, without respect or reverence for the appropriate hand for the job: lucky lefty. This tragic cultural misconception manifested itself when I found her backside painted with her own creation like a bloody Picasso only after discovering a little something beneath the fingernails of her left and right hands. Ew, ew, EW! One can only hope they didn't approach the maxillofacial region, but I will never know because it became a "Don't ask, don't tell" situation upon discovery. At that point in time, I avoided further questions regarding the goings on of her human canvas experimentation to keep from tossing my cookies.

And trust me, I fully understand a gal's need to have a moment of Zen during the busyness of the daily routine, I just didn't realize it began at the ripe old age of 4. Nowadays, Pumpkin can go upstairs, climb atop stool, inch around 180 degrees and do her business without me (except assisting the wipe). She does it by herself nearly every day as expected, except every day when I go upstairs after the, "I pooooooooooped!" holler, I find the Princess on her throne, lights off. I half expect her to have legs crossed up there one day saying ohms.

I'll ask her if she needs a moment, and sometimes she'll answer, "No, I fink I'm ready to get down now," but other times I hear, "Yeah," which I willingly oblige by giving her some alone time. When I peek back into the dark bathroom after a minute or two, I see a pondering face lost in consideration of all the trials 4 year old's face: "What color construction paper should I use? Why do I have to eat my carrots? Time outs are so boring... Why can't Mommy clean up my toys all by herself?"

Sometimes these moments of Zen evolve into complex scenes from her imagination. I've found her battling a brachiosaurus as her right arm with a T-Rex as her left for a good five minutes before I interrupt. This transition time not only gave Pumpkin some space to be herself, but also helped me identify her official abandonment of conventional toys in favor of her imagination.

That doesn't mean I won't attempt to affordably buy things from Santa's list this year, but I wonder what staying power a new toy will have when she already imagines a host of baby dinos needing to be fed while on the potty or when Pumpkin prefers flying across the house with her imaginary exotic bugs, toys still put away in her playroom.

Personally, I've begun to fully embrace the figments of my imagination these days as well -not a signal of developmental progression for the growing brain, but rather mental digression towards inevitable senility.

I imagine a sparkling kitchen with Toll House cookies in the oven, nails that stay polished to perfection even after scrubbing the tub, and a 5 o'clock margarita with a wedge of lime, salt around the rim and my name written all over it. I imagine my lower mommy tummy smooth as a frozen lake, just like my younger days of old, along with elusive firm underarms finally displaying the years of child carrying and laundry lifting I've endured.

See how it works is: every time a baby's born, a mommy gets her wings...flying squirrel "wings" of underarm flesh, that is. The upside of the downward sag -the wings can offer a marginally cool breeze from waving, "Hello," on a hot summer day. Greeting people now that I'm a mommy, however, I typically abide by the almighty Queen of England wave with only forearm/wrist movement -below the hat, above the pearls of course.

The turning point for my admission that potty training was still in effect came just a few weeks ago. I carried some toys up to the playroom while Pumpkin readied herself for potty time once again. Everything went swimmingly until I heard the classic call of the wild: "Mommy, come quick!"
"What's that, Pumpkin?"
"It rolled out like a bouncy ball. Can I play with it?"

Even at four, uncertainty still lies in contemplating a round of tossing feces around? When does the official recognition that perhaps I've failed at certain points of the maternal instinct arrive?

Desperately, I pray my days of sub-par motherhood are numbered based on my excessive history of mommy failures. For example, I have permitted Pumpkin to style her own hair (all 18 thick, curly inches of it) and allowed Sean to comb it out. I have publicly used four letter words while mopping up my laundry room flooded by an inconspicuous crack in the drip pan.

I have forgotten to suds down my child after playtime in the tub and blankly stared in her direction while she happily ate toe jam for dessert. I've even draped a towel over the accident in Mommy's bed just to get a couple more hours of sleep and awoke, undisturbed, to find the towel by my feet. And to perpetuate my desperation for sleep, instead of showering off, I simply changed my pants and socks.

These kinds of admissions have benefits, however. My obvious shortcomings create opportunities to purposefully adjust my expectations. For instance, my old mantra, "She can't start kindergarten in diapers," has switched to, "She won't graduate high school in pull-ups, Lord willing."

Maybe my precarious situation resulted from Pumpkin's realization that anything goes since Mommy has 30 different types of cleaners to remove stains from the carpet, couch, drywall, grout, whathaveyou. Maybe I expected less from Pumpkin when I first believed it easier to cram a camel through the eye of a needle than it was to allow her to roam free, sans pull-up. Maybe the bouts of random accidents will grow fewer and further between if I can finally let go and let pee if need be.

Giving Thanks

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 23:55:00 +0000

Years of scrubbing floors, dusting dressers and wiping poopy butts may appear thankless, but theoretically the child should appreciate it when they become a parent themselves. Until then, I'm giving thanks for the things I don't remember in my prayers as often as I should, but life wouldn't run as smoothly without them.

1. I'm thankful for the snooze button. I'm a snooze button junkie who married a snooze button junkie. Neither of us become infuriated when the other lets it run for half an hour because both of us have perpetually OD'd on "just 9 more minutes," until we race around like maniacs barely making our scheduled events by the skin of our teeth.

2. I'm thankful for chocolate. After avoiding it for months, I finally discovered some made peanut and tree nut free, and my first taste jettisoned me into the 5th stratosphere of the Andromeda Galaxy. I had removed myself from it long enough to realize the stronghold it had above me once I reunited with my long lost lover. I felt the same warm fuzzies I craved when I began falling in love, heart fluttering in anticipation along with the same relaxation and comfort I hadn't recognized since my last morphine drip.

3. I'm thankful for under eye concealer. I recently met up with some old college friends, same age as me, newly married, but child free. Standing side by side in public bathrooms, I noticed I looked about the same age as they did, except when I smiled. All the crows feet and under eye circles emerged and I transformed into "Gollum" from Lord of the Rings, frightening most small children (and some pets) within a 20 foot radius.

Since becoming a mommy, the under eye concealer and I have bonded like white on rice. How do I know this? When I run into people who see me working out sans makeup, and then the same people after I'm showered and have my "face" on, I hear the dreaded, "WOW. You look like a totally different person!" Truly, sometimes a compliment can insult more than it can express admiration.

4. I'm thankful for specialty bra shops. I haven't been able to shop for bras "off the rack" since high school days, and even then I wonder if my chest didn't honestly look like the disheveled workings of a Picasso. At the specialty bra shop, the women there get it. They always have the right cup size I need and can show me, lickety split, how to shimmy the girls into place so they sit upright and at attention, as man intended.

My bi-annual visit there last weekend proved fruitful and entertaining as usual. While adjusting me to see if the band and cup fit, the sales woman grabbed either side of the left cup material and began to judder. "You wanna give it a good shake -just like cake batter in a pan. They should fall right into place after that." Ah-ha!

No longer do they lay lopsided in their holster, and I am all the more grateful for it! That doesn't stop the twins from searching for refuge in my armpits the second I lie down in bed, however, another small reminder that these bras make big miracles happen every second of every day. As I push back at mother nature, I firmly believe this truth remains self-evident: the kind of custom fit I get at the specialty bra shop makes the neck and back aches from bra straps almost palatable.

On a more serious note...

5. I'm thankful for my Pumpkin. Two years ago, I suffered badly from a major car accident. The biggest scar remains on my right knee covering the repair from a quadricep laceration. Another scar lies across my knee cap as well.

Pumpkin sat on the potty trying to do her business one day, several months after the accident, and caught a glimpse of my recovering scars, still bright reddish-pink at that time. She asked what the markings were, so I explained, in very few and simple words, what had happened. I sat down beside her and pulled my capri sweat pants up higher so she could see them better. The scars showed the unmistakable and significant trauma that I hadn't yet grown accustomed to.

I still dreamed of myself as I was, before the accident, and had to remind myself how life changed significantly every time I woke up and saw my new version of me. The scars reminded me of pain, separation from my baby while I recovered for long weeks in the hospitals, fear that I might not live and more fear that I might not walk normally.

My sweet Pumpkin slowly traced the scars with her little baby hands, tilting her head a bit, trying to take it all in. "Mommy? They're beauuuuuutiful." she said gently.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Thank you, God, for sending me this angel I never knew I needed.

This kind of thanks transcends the typical "Thank you," of common courtesy. It also goes beyond simply expressing gratitude. In that moment, I could finally give thanks that translates into understanding the magnitude or intention behind something -a gratefulness that leads to an increase in value, a true appreciation for what I went through to know how much I was loved.

Waist Lines and Bottom Lines

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 08:31:00 +0000

First came love, then came marriage, then came the baby weight and granny panties.

Then came baby and away went cute clothes, regular showers and glancing at my reflection in the mirror. I knew I had thrown in the towel, I just didn't need to see how far down the bottomless well it had fallen.

Losing weight post baby was a catch-22, I just didn't know it yet. Now my giant mommy tummy sags downward like our national flag on a steamy, stagnant summer day. Any minuscule iota of movement only worsens the view exponentially, inducing a flap-flopping motion as though a gale force wind has made its uprising. Unfortunately, my jowls of a dog mid-section doesn't blow away with the tropical storm force, but rather remains hanging southward, clinging to the rightful owner by shreds of skin (stretch marks) so thin I can nearly see the meat of my flesh underneath.

The stretch marks themselves used to appear bright red, screaming, "Look! You just gained a ton of weight in your tummy, thighs, underarms and butt! Ha, ha!" Nowadays most of them have faded to my normal, pasty, un-sun kissed skin tone. Alright, so my tummy has never seen the light of day. Had I known the reconfiguration of my body's physique after carrying a child, I would have taken extraordinary advantage of it, flaunting my once youthful Belly Button of Olde.

Currently, the stretch marks make me feel like a refurbished antique. I could be young, I could be old; most days I desperately attempt to be hygienic with a shower and if I'm extra lucky, a shave. So what am I?! Everything hangs in the delicate balance of good lighting and coverage. I only look my rightful age so long as a T-shirt and shorts remain intact, but one inch upwards of any sleeve or cuff, and I could be mistaken for the little old lady who lives across the courtyard. Wrinkly and loose, the plots of stretched out skin age me a good 40-45 years which is, quite pathetically, also the age range of my paternal grandmother.

Just this week I caught Pumpkin sneaking a peek at the havoc run a muck on my midsection. I gathered my hair up into one of the two hairstyle options I have every day: ponytail or ponytail. When I started twisting the stretched out rubber band around it, my shirt lifted above the top of my jeans and, not surprisingly, my tummy pooched out. Pumpkin kept talking, but her eyes fixated on what she saw for a few seconds every time she started a new sentence. I asked her, knowing full well, what she spied. In her meager attempt to acknowledge, yet avoid her culpability in the "situation" going on beneath my shirt, she replied, "Nothing."

I persisted and asked if she saw my tummy. Then the floodgates flew open: "What is THAT?" She stared at my wrinkly belly. I explained what the stretch marks were and why I had them. Pumpkin grabbed my top and pushed it up past the underwire in my bra to survey the landscape only to seem utterly astonished at how they kept going and going and going...they were (and still are) everywhere!

She put her index finger in the air and looked at me like she does when she's about to do something she shouldn't. "Go ahead if you want," I conceded. Eagerly, her finger ran from top to bottom on all the stretch marks on my tummy. I asked Pumpkin what she thought about them. Her blunt response didn't startle me as much as the delivery. Confidently, as though confirming her hypothesis, Pumpkin declared: "They're like dead snakes." Sadly, I couldn't agree more.

Based on these findings, I'm officially banned from most nudist colonies 100 degrees North and South of the equator. Sweater vests have also permanently clawed their unattractive, fashionless selves into my year-round wardrobe staple list along with sweat pants and my aerodynamic, multi-faceted bras engineered by NASA's own command central. They employ the only qualified engineers in this continent with the capability to, against all odds, functionally levitate my droopy boobs above my waistline since their condemnation by gravity and motherhood.

Much to my own chagrin, I weighed the most I've ever personally recorded just before I found out I had a bun in the oven. In spite of this, I continued to gain the expected 30 pounds of pregnancy weight and checked in at my 38 week appointment topping out at 211 lb.s. My Ob/Gyn said my weight gain was, "perfect."

I'll never forget that. I sat dumbfounded on the crunchy exam table paper seriously considering pregnancy full time, Duggar-style.

When did weighing over two hundred pounds translate into perfection? Of course I fully realize the weight gain remained relative to the pregnancy, but I'd rather suffer through the labor of childbirth before asking what my doc honestly thought about my weight overall...and labor I did. For forty-seven hours.

My fail-safe for losing the postpartum baby pounds quickly fell through the cracks as well. Pumpkin had difficulty latching on and nursing because she had a tongue tie. We tried for a while, but it never went much of anywhere without frustration on both sides.

All of the weight I had earmarked to slide right off from breastfeeding not only stuck around in its tragically disproportionate location, but also migrated south permanently. And when I say "south," I don't mean Canadian geese style south where they head back north come Spring (after I became my un-pregnant self again.) I mean "south" as in the South Pole Antarctic. Even my boobs morphed into a version of an Antarctic local, the Chinstrap penguin: about 18-24 in. long (just like the twins) and similarly, also both 9 pounds each, possibly more.

Sometimes I wonder if all the worry and thought I give to my appearance doesn't masquerade as a diversion from what really matters in life. I have to prioritize myself so I can live as the best possible version of me because if I am not taken care of, there isn't much of me to give to Pumpkin. However, the amount of time I spend thinking about exercising and eating less nowadays almost seems equal to the hours I wasted stressing about how I looked before losing weight.

Stepping out of my running shoes after 5.5 miles became much easier than stepping off the mental treadmill of body image obsession and how it directly affects my mood. And if I'm really honest, it probably also affects my attitude and patience with Pumpkin. Regardless of the amount of weight I carried, I always preoccupied myself with concern over how I measured up with other moms, either celebrity or friends. For instance, it took me four years to reach a pre-pregnancy weight, and it only took ____ four months!

And when I didn't fixate on others, I spent even more time measuring up against myself. Do I look the same in my skinny jeans today, weighing 143 pounds as I did when I weighed 143 pounds before I got pregnant? Does that really matter? Did it matter when I weighed 243 pounds? I wish I had all the answers!

Maybe I should be less concerned about my waist line, and instead draw a waste line around the time I spend fretting over appearance because the bottom line is: I can't control what others will think when they look my way. Appearance will not matter in 100 years, but the time invested raising a little girl whose confidence comes from the knowledge in her head and her heart, will. She may gain or lose a few pounds, but she cannot earn or lose my love.

Mom-Me

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 05:38:00 +0000

Mommy: What do you say? Pl, pl, pl....
Pumpkin: Please.

Mommy: What do we do when we're done with our toys?
Pumpkin: Put them away. ::begrudging whiny sigh::

Mommy: What do we eat our food with?
Pumpkin: Our fork, not our hands.
Mommy: Good girl. Let's chew and swallow before we speak, please.

My entire life I knew what kind of mother I would like to be, but I never planned on life for the woman that I am while being Mommy too. Mostly, my self reinvention has grown stronger and more capable, all borne out of observations from the day to day hum drum of life with Pumpkin.

Nearly every day, I reach a point of total exhaustion where caffeine flowing through my veins becomes an absolute necessity. I convince myself I can handle everything because I am Mom: The Engine That Could, Does and Will Do. Instead of giving up, I trudge onward to new heights of physical and mental tolerance, fully convinced that the miracle of life has revealed itself in my ability to stay cool, calm and collected amidst chaos.

For instance, motherhood type bravery comes in different shades, like eye shadow. My shade is a sparkly pink: girlie mommy. Unfortunately, when the summer bugs come calling, I have to set aside the sparkly pink and quickly apply the cosmic charcoal gray as the live-in exterminator. The giant spiders that emerge seeking water from those dry summer days give me goose bumps just glancing their way. As Mom, I had to lay my bug-avoidant personality on the alter of sacrificial lambs to defend Pumpkin's bedroom. The thought of it crawling on her while she sleeps always motivates me to suit up for combat.

Yellow "Watch out, Germs" gloves on? Check. Kitchen apron tied? Check. Giant mess of TP in hand? Double check. I'm ready to roll. I certainly don't want Pumpkin to believe that girls fear spiders or other bugs just because I do, so I try not to make my typical this-is-totally-grossing-me-out-why-did-God-create-this face with a high pitched squeak on the side.

I take the fast and furious approach. I don't even look to see if I've killed it. So long as it doesn't fall to the floor and scurry, I run, arm outstretched to the toilet, slam the lid and flush. Phew! Crisis averted.

Five years ago, I never would have imagined I could handle that, but the constant pressure to set a good example of a strong, capable woman for Pumpkin super cedes all. A new standard of cleanliness has emerged as well. I never fully understood why my mom required everything "Clean, like Princess Diana was coming for a visit," passing the white glove test or why I began serving my years on KP at the ripe old age of 9. She had four kids, that's why. "Mess" was our middle name when it wasn't "Mud" first.

Pre-baby, I used to wear my jeans a good 2-3 times before throwing them in the washer for a spin. Now after enduring sleepless nights of Pumpkin's ear infections, sinus infections, colds, flu and croup, everything must be washed immediately after wearing. I caught Sean trying to pull dirty shorts out of the dirty laundry basket while enduring a household illness. A Blitzkrieg the likes of WWII ensued. I practically installed a bio-identification security system on the laundry room post incident.

I also discovered the careful moderation of bleach, something I rarely used until Pumpkin arrived. Three years ago, I washed a load of towels that had their own smell to them and, unsure of the sheer power of it, I thought, "Well, the more the merrier, right?" A lot clean is better than a little, of course.

Of course not! Glug, glug, glug went a good quart of bleach into the washing machine while hot water ran onto the dirty towels. I couldn't smell dinner cooking for the next 48 hours, but I also didn't need my Allegra-D and nasal spray either. A give/take relationship not worth reliving, I removed my socks whenever I did another load of whites or towels; I stood on hallowed ground.

My very first corporate job after college had me working in a few hundred feet vicinity of other cubicles, needless to say it didn't foster privacy during any type of conversation. During this time, I apparently didn't realize I spoke so loud while on the phone until I arrived at work one morning with a piece of printer paper folded and sitting on my desk chair.

Written in Courier New 20 point font, the note read that I should be cognizant of others when talking on the phone because I shouted and disrupted the concentration of people that worked around me. I had a 4x3 work space, even a whisper could distract the attention span of nearby co-workers.

Instead of taking the message to heart with the implicit grain of salt, I threw back the single-gal sass. I called my supervisor and ensured that I had the vocal resonance of the Wizard of Oz while on the phone when informing her that I had received an anonymous message from a complete "coward" about something nobody could avoid in the tight knit quarters of any workspace on my floor.

I firmly believe if I had motherhood under my belt, I would have taken the more graceful, socially sensitive response. Granted, I might also have cried like a blubbering baby all by my lonesome at some point because I am more prone to that post-child, but throwing the paper in the recycling bin and moving on with my work sounds more like my approach to bumps in my day as a mom.

I definitely wouldn't have let the comment bother me so much later for two reasons: 1) I simply don't have enough time in the day to worry why other people can't be gentle and honest simultaneously, and 2) I would have simplified and made a mental note-to-self to think of others when picking up the receiver.

I had to detach the emotional aspect of the comment because I can't keep apologizing for my personality and how it translates into social interactions with others. I am who I am, love me or leave me, but having transformed into a mother, I am open to other changes as well.

Additionally, motherhood made me realize prioritizing must exist in everything I do, and having extra time to focus on important things, like Pumpkin, became better than having Dove chocolates within arm's reach on a miserable, opinionated in-law sort of day.

I also discovered that what I used to wear on casual Friday could be considered nice enough to attend The Royal Ball in Mommy Land. Why dress up to sit on the floor and play puzzles, vacuum and wash dishes all day long? Sweats completely accommodate every stretch into the washing machine and don't cinch me in half when I bend over to load the dishwasher or empty the dryer or pick up the temperamental Pumpkin who slid off her time out stool yet again to defy me and assert her autonomy.

After some time, I began to feel like a slob because inevitably, my scraggly hair and disheveled, wrinkly clothes started to project my level of exhaustion. And although clothing had hot irons to fix the unseemly, I had no remedy for the deep, tired wrinkles around my eyes.

I had to embrace them or embrace my dermatologist for cosmetic reasons beyond acne, another falsehood of youth. They call it "adult acne" now: lifelong pimples and zits, but with a twist. At least the residual redness I had from blemishes as a youth dissipated with the inflammation, but now, it sticks around for a good couple of weeks, sometimes longer -even more reason to dab on some concealer that probably caused the unsightly spot in the first place.

I also began to feel ambivalent about looking nice when Sean came home at night. I made no attempt to entice another candlelit vigil for the remaining two square inches of abdominal flesh that survived the first round of pregnancy stretch marks. Sure, my tummy sagged. It even defiantly frowned at me when I didn't feel bloated from the sodium in too many hand fulls of goldfish.

Unfazed, I desperately held onto the dire hope that perhaps the cocoa butter rub would pull through as promised and smooth out my mommy pooch in the distant future because wearing jeans without the noticeable post-partum lower belly bulge seemed harder than squeezing a bran muffin into the ground socket of an electrical outlet.

And my hair! My beautiful, thick, wavy hair! What I once believed sat on my head as a crown of beauty began the motherhood molting process four months out from D-Day. My hair became an animal of its own and revolted against the pony tail I threw it up in day and night. It started thinning out even more after Pumpkin arrived and then again periodically as I aged in mommy years (that's like dog years with a possible added 3 years for every subsequent child less than 2 years apart from the previous one).

My hair also took on the texture of the frayed end of my old, green chenille throw blanket once my disposable income went towards shoes that kept Pumpkin's feet from pronating. It rarely holds a curl nowadays without three rounds of styling product whereas before I didn't even need a curling iron to graze my lovely locks if I wanted to style it.

Fortunately, my hairdo currently proclaims to Sean my action-readiness status. If up: I'm working out or doing arduous housework, don't bother me. If down: I'm heading out into public to decompress in the produce section, don't bother me now either. I realize now that having the time I need to "do" my hair has become a luxury.

And although I didn't purposely grow my hair out because I utilize four hours a year for professional follicular beautification, I can get it out of my face in one fell swoop, no barrettes or hair spray required. I have heard that I look a little softer and more approachable now instead of the feisty, single me with short, spiky hair.

Truth be told, sometimes compliments come across as insults, but I have never gotten more retail discounts by simply asking so long as I talk to a male sales clerk. I also carry a hip flask with me when the day comes that my batted eye lashes and freshly white stripped smile don't give mommy the discretionary 10% off any more.

I must continue to reinvent myself as a woman who has crossed the city limits into Mommy-ville, population: 5, 867, 403, 253, 849 +1 screaming in the shopping cart, 1 running with their laces untied and 1 on the hip. I'm near the end of my rope sometimes living here, but I'm hopeful the bank might approve my Toddler With the Terrible Three's behavior modification application.

Despite my lengthy preparation for Pumpkin's cognitive development, vocal diction and sleep habits, I will never feel fully prepared for her curious imagination.

Pumpkin: Mommy, do dung beetles eat my poop in the potty?
Mommy: Probably not. It goes through the sewer pipes and into the ground instead.
Pumpkin: I think I would like it if I grew up to be a dung beetle.
Mommy: OK, Sweet Pea. Let's not talk about this at the dinner table, please.
Pumpkin: Why? Dung beetles need to eat and so do I.
Mommy: You're absolutely right. How about we talk about finishing our green beans instead?

Heart of the Home

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 00:12:00 +0000

Most rooms at home serve a purpose: to cook, to watch TV, to bathe and to launder. And a small percentage of any house often finds itself all by its lonesome, like the formal dining room or even the holy towels your mother told you not to touch in the powder room where they rest on display, "just for the guests," who also understand the concept and tragically don't use them either.

Out of all these rooms, however, the kitchen, dining room and family room remain the typical locations for folks to gather together in during weekends, week nights or holidays. They often become the stage for our best, most fulfilling memories of life in a particular house, and we chronicle our lives by the time spent in these locations.

Better yet, TwitterMoms is hosting a contest to win a Samsung washer and dryer by blogging about where the heart of your home is! Check out the link so you can enter too!

The kitchen holds a special place in our house as the heart of my home because of the action and interaction that takes place. Pumpkin loves cooking and baking with me as well, and her interest in learning all about the cooking tools and utensils while Sean and I look on and watch her grow provides us the best opportunity to enjoy parenthood. Contrary to popular trend, however, I don't believe the kitchen, although useful, serves solely as the heart of the home simply because of who we are as people.

At age two through four years old, most toddlers will typically participate in solitary play by themselves or parallel play where they can exchange toys with other children, but still play alongside each other instead of with one another. Nearly every person at this age lacks the maturity to interact in a meaningful way with others of their own age, but will develop the ability to create purposeful and important relationships as a milestone of social progress.

By the age of five, most children will engage in cooperative play with other children which helps them not only understand the social aspects of life, but also develop their self awareness. This kind of interaction will carry them throughout their lives as the building blocks of communication because interactive play helps them discover and develop the very core of who they are.

Unfortunately, it seems like a lot of our modern world takes people away from cooperative interaction with others. It's as though the progress made towards mature social exchanges has digressed back to the me-centered life of toddler-hood. We've all seen the parallel existence folks have when on a cell phone checking out groceries. Who hasn't walked past a young adult with head phones on, oblivious to passers by? And I know I'm not alone when I protest texting while at the dinner table, texting during date night or worse, when driving.

Cell phones in particular offer a means of critically evaluating the quality of a social interaction similar to judge Bruno on Dancing with the Stars. If the conversation bores (a 6/10), the cell phone call is answered. If the lack of entertainment proves snooze worthy (a 4/10), the text is replied to. If dinner takes too long listening to the monotony of mindless details (a 2/10), the ipod earphones are inserted. No room in any house, heart of the home or not, can avoid the potential for social withdrawal via portable electronics, alleged advances in communication.

Therefore, I believe the heart of the home lives not only in a room or space, but most importantly in the moments of bonding in a home with heart.

For instance, grabbing a towel fresh from the dryer, particularly a Samsung DV448AEP, and wrapping it around Pumpkin when bath time has ended reminds her how much I care that she feels safe and warm when we spend time together. Sincere peace and a sense of restfulness can be often found when snuggling into bed with my hubby beneath deliciously clean, crisp sheets as though the world around me rests as I do, tucked in and drifting off to sleep in peace instead of worrying about tomorrow.

Even biting into my Grandma Abramat's pound cake, which my Aunt Pam can replicate with astonishing accuracy, reminds me of Grandma, her house and the "Oooo oooo," she'd sing like the musical intervals of a doorbell when walking through an entry way.

And few things make me feel cared for better than the smell of my mother's perfume, Estee Lauder's Beautiful. Like a blood hound, I will follow the scent because it reminds me of climbing into my mom's dressed up lap while we attempted to quietly listen alongside my siblings in the church pew all the Sunday mornings of my childhood. My head on Mom's chest, I felt an unparalleled comfort that I strive to replicate in small moments when Pumpkin needs me to hug away her tears while I tend to her boo-boo in the bathroom or provide rest in my arms from all the hard work she does playing with Daddy in her playroom.

And something must be said about the relaxation of sipping a cool beverage in the early nighttime hours, feet up, baby asleep, listening to the hum of the dishwasher and washing machine running, doing all the work for me! That being said, Samsung really offers a great way to accommodate home life in all rooms of the house as well with their line of home appliances.
http://www.samsung.com/us/consumer/homeappliances.html They built the technology into their appliances to accomodate energy and time efficient living so I can concentrate on making more moments of bonding with my family.

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Tricks of the Trade

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 05:34:00 +0000

I would like to pay tribute to all of the conveniences modern housewifery has embraced in more recent years, although I don't fully understand why they didn't exist sooner. Before I share my list of priceless items I encountered doing motherhood, I must forewarn my faithful readers.

Disclaimer:

Parents shall determine the suitability of the product for his or her intended use and shall assume all risk and liability in connection therewith. Parents must read all instruction manuals and follow the manufacturer's guidelines. Mom cannot accept responsibility for injury and/or crash damage or loss of limb, parts and materials that occurs during the use of any of the products below. Great Care should be taken when using products related to Mom's recommendations.

Mom accepts NO responsibility for crash damage. It is impossible to determine for certain whether crash damage resulted from crazy spawn or genetic error. Stable mental polarity must be properly observed before applying cleaning recommendations. Mom is not responsible in any way for any and all bodily injurie(s) and/or property damage that may occur from the use of these items.

In no event shall Mom or her Pumpkin be liable for indirect, incidental, special, exemplary, punitive, or consequential damages of any nature including, but not limited to the loss of sanity, coupons, scheduled daily naps, or random socks.

Scented Trash Bags

First came kitchen garbage can lids, then scented candles which have existed for ages. Even the Diaper Genie folks understood stink enough to scent their "Stage 2" diaper receptacle bags because things get smellier as they progress, so why not kitchen garbage bags?

Other things stink and have stunk for eons that don't involve diapers, so...what took so long? I don't care if it's lemon scented or "fresh" scented, so long as the smell of old banana peel and last night's dinner doesn't diffuse into my general direction, I'm happy to pay for them.

DVR

I can't say how many times I've missed the end of a good show I watch once a week to go change a pull up or settle down my restless Pumpkin. With the help of the DVR, I don't have to choose between the two. I can do both! Oprah also airs the same time as Sesame Street, so if I'm folding laundry, learning about noses or the letter of the day suits Pumpkin a tad better than watching Lisa Ling's investigative report from a polygamist compound while I attempt to explain the disproportionate child:daddy ratio.

My words can not express the gratitude I also feel for avoiding about 15 minutes of commercial time for every hour of television it records. VCR's worked well, if you didn't mind the fuzzy picture and worn down quality after a couple of replays. The DVR, however, is brilliant.

Windex Wipes

I have certainly paid my dues lugging tu-tus of paper towels around from window to window until they morphed into dusty, blue wads. Towards the end, the squishy hunk of worn down paper towels spreads more dust than they removed. Handi-wipes have been around for years, so why not wipes for windows?

These handy little cloths, with a coupon, make cleaning windows almost enjoyable; I'm just not certain why they haven't come to fruition sooner either. I could've avoided years of hands smelling like cleaner for the rest of an afternoon, along with my face and arms because the powerful mist created by the giant bottle of window cleaner should be reserved only for large ferns and other low light greenery.

Clorox Wipes

I actually cannot imagine my life without these. Sean introduced them to me after watching me wet a wash cloth and wipe down the kitchen counter after lunch one day, something I've always done, my mother always did, her mother always did and so on and so forth. If the wash cloth's dirty, though, I'm only adding to the germs, right? Now I don't have to rinse out the washcloth, smell test its viability or launder it when finished! With a flick of the wrist -Voila! Clean and sanitary all in one!

These go everywhere with me and I actually get excited when I think of all the germs dying by the millions when I wipe out the bathroom sink, wipe down door handles or wipe off a messy high chair. I knew I became addicted when I started estimating how much cleaner the receptionist's desk/counter at the doctor's office could be with just a swipe of these wipes.

-Hi, my name is Mom. I'm a clean freak.
-"Hello, Mom."

Stroller Sun Cover

I took Pumpkin for a walk one late Spring day and heard about 5 sneezes in a row before I realized she didn't have a stuffy nose at all. Mr. Sun was biting her in the eyes! Poor baby! I tried draping a blanket over the top of the stroller to provide some shade until I realized her only view was pavement and manicured grass. Not the picturesque landscape I'd care for either on a nice, sunny day.

I turned the corner onto the nicer neighborhood across the street (where it always is, of course) when I spotted a woman walking her baby with a giant, extended stroller hood attachment that could end my plight! It was like fancy rims, except for the roof, and had an SPF of 50! Bulls eye!

I immediately ran to Babies 'R' Us and got one that night, and it remained fixated atop Pumpkin's old stroller ever since. I left it attached when I tried donating it to Good Will earlier this month, but they wouldn't take it for alleged "safety reasons." I'm not sure I blame them, however. See: http://bit.ly/Z2TS2

Clip on Mosquito Repellent

My Grandma used to tell me that mosquito bites meant I tasted sweet to the little buggers. I even remember seeing a Mr. Wizard that showed people who ate bananas got more mosquito bites...for whatever reason. I love bananas and found myself turning them down to avoid the itchy bumps!

As I got older, long walks at sunset became my favorite part of the day, but on a date, I had to forego the stink laden DEET if I wanted any chance of a smooch by date's end. Seriously. The one date I wore mosquito repellent hiking through Starved Rock, we ended as "good friends," before date two.

These clip on repellents are odor free and I'm odor free too! Finally, an allergy friendly, smelly-DEET-on-my-arms free solution to the insects that kill more people each year than any other creature on earth. Knowing this, I should probably have much more fear towards these pests than I do, but I don't.

Toilet Wand

I struggled with the squeezy toilet bowl cleaner and a scrubbing brush for ages because nothing else existed. I've also heard the foaming stuff works well, but I can't find it for some reason and I'm under the strong impression that without elbow grease, nothing is truly clean. Things like sink bowls and toilet bowls require scrub action of some sort, but the brush didn't reach the corners well enough and gave me an unwanted spritz of nastiness if I accidentally flicked the brush outside of the bowl while cleaning the outer edge.

I really like the Clorox toilet wand deal. It's like a Brillo pad, but for the toilet. It reaches the corners and under the brim really well, and I don't have to look at it when I'm done -I just throw it away! The first time I used it, I disgusted myself by how much ucky-ucks remained from previous "cleanings" with the brush I immediately threw away for good. Loading the handle with a wand refill can be tricky, however. I'd probably have an easier time if I wore my yellow, "Watch out, Germs," gloves each and every time, but I occasionally get in a rush trying to knock out chores as though I'm playing Whack a Mole at Chuck-E-Cheese.

Conclusion:

Most, if not all of these items I stumbled upon, but loved immediately. Any household item that didn't improve or simplify my efforts as a hard at work, non-commercially employed wife/mother didn't survive a second glance on store shelves my next time through.

Needing so much patience with Pumpkin, I sought out opportunities that allowed me to discriminate. One grocery trip, they're in. The next, they're out. What mom has time to withstand a manufacturer's lack of foresight or inferior design? Dinner must get cooked, potty cleaned, laundry folded and pull-up pulled up the rest of the way.

Our decisions as home manager carry more weight than perhaps we realize. We state our opinions with the family budget. The most powerful economic voice of all lies in us perhaps more than any other. We are the meal makers. "We are the dreamers of dreams." -Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Mommy Materiality: Conclusion

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 02:49:00 +0000

After ripping open the most medically advanced piece of plastic I ever peed on and seeing a "+" sign, I brimmed with excitement. My life now included more than just a twinkle in my eye.

However, when I discovered that I, in fact, had a parasitic bundle of cells sucking every ounce of energy from me, stealing my joy of eating and sleeping comfortably, I officially resented motherhood. At five months pregnant, my expectant child's tab had exceeded the tens of thousands of dollars range in medical expenses from the doctor's and hospital visits I accrued to date.

Slowly, though, the nausea subsided, and my every wish and whim was met with gusto! Needless to say, the last four months of my pregnancy went down as the best, most graciously indulgent time of my life. I felt revered and important. I saw only appreciation for my increasing waistline. People gave me gifts and fed me well.

If I wanted hot dogs for breakfast, I had them. If I wanted a jumbo Snickers ice cream blast, not a glance of judgment passed my way. If I needed Chex Mix for breakfast, lunch and dinner, Sean hopped to it because my desires could be passed off as the baby's absolute necessity; who would deny an unborn child some lowered blood pressure by giving the Mommy-to-be a foot rub?

At this time in my life, I could have sworn I lived in a little slice of heaven, reading everything I could get my hands on. I hadn't read this much since college, and all of the information seemed important because I wanted to prepare and know everything I could possibly expect. I also set a new record logging a ridiculous average of 12-14 hr.s a week watching TLC's "A Baby Story," to make sure I had the perfect labor and delivery grimace when it came time to push.

But no matter how many books I read to prepare for Pumpkin's arrival, doing motherhood live for the very first time made me question everything. Adding to the load of uncertainty came the unsolicited advice I got from friends, relatives and even old, opinionated ladies at the grocery store.

An older pediatrician once advised me to stop "spoiling" Pumpkin by holding her all the time and comforting her if she cried, especially at night -a total lie I could hardly believe a licensed physician would spread in good conscience.

I also got terrible advice/recommendations of what I needed for an infant from the Babies 'R' Us registry list. A good 20% of everything I registered for went completely unused. Caring for a newborn, although difficult at times, simply required a bigger volume of a smaller list of things: diapers, Desitin, onesies, blankets, burp cloths, breast milk and economy size doses of caffeine.

I even expected to bond with Pumpkin the moment I laid eyes on her, just like I heard from other moms, which I didn't. I emerged from my drug induced haze, weak from blood loss and barely able to pee alone without passing out, let alone comprehend that I officially became "plus one."

Weeks of colic and struggling to feed her in the wee small hours of the morning wore me down like the eraser end of a pencil full of mistakes. I felt like such a bad mom, so frustrated with Pumpkin and exhausted that I called my mom one night at 2:30 a.m. for help. And like every wonderful mom would, she listened and reassured me that I didn't need to jump off the nearest cliff to get the rest I needed.

Something else happened during my pregnancy, about the same time my nose turned into a bloodhound's, sniffing out the slightest bit of anything, anywhere. Unlike the incessant peeing every 6 minutes that ceased after delivery, this didn't go away. I started to tune into how my body felt as I never had before and began refuting the very logical side of me, the side that reasoned away everything and made sense of things for me.

I believe the extraordinarily maternal, instinctual part of being a woman finally emerged then and has not gone away since.

After Pumpkin arrived, I began to feel in sync with her as though she existed as an extension of my body, even though she was her own little person. When she hurt, I hurt worse. Her crying could make me tear up easily, and still tugs at my heart even now. When she experiences joy and laughter, I can't help but smile each and every time.

The Holy Grail of Mommy Truths that I learned and loved since those early days has proven itself time and again, worth it's weight in gold. A few regrets and uncertainties about my abilities as a mother and deciding the future of Pumpkin's health boiled down to reveal this truth: always trust your instincts.

That stirring feeling of "something's not right here" that I feel in my chest and in my head always gives me pause, like judging a fever with a touch of the hand. It makes us better listeners and observers of our children. It makes us push for answers and advocate for them as well. It makes us moms.

For instance, before Pumpkin and I left the hospital, my instincts told me the constant vomiting she experienced was not normal whatsoever and something didn't make sense. I felt ignored when I kept saying, "Something's really wrong," because all babies spit up, but I knew hers differed from normal baby stuff.

After constantly repeating my point of view, my tiny Pumpkin, only 6 days old, got an upper GI test done at the children's hospital which revealed exactly what I had been saying: she had significant and severe GERD (acid reflux disease). A specialist booked weekly office visits for her after seeing the results, and I knew right then to never question myself about how I felt towards Pumpkin. Thus, my truth revealed: Mommies know their babies better than doctors and nurses "know babies," and to speak up as I had.

The second part of my maternal instincts developed as I grew to know my baby. I learned Pumpkin's classic triad of expressions starting with the, "I'm about to spew," face.
I began to recognize her, "I'm leaving a present for you in my pants, turn away until I'm done," look and finally the treasured, "Pay attention to me unless you want a meltdown terminating any possible successful communication with another adult," rendition.

The hidden truth inside The Holy Grail was that I didn't need all the answers, which I clearly don't have. Maybe all I need to be a great mom is eyes to see, ears that will hear and a heart that loves.

Mommy Materiality

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 23:34:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 18:34:00 +0000

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!

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 04:03:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 23:12:00 +0000

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!

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 23:10:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 07:37:00 +0000

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.

Update: La Pipi Résistance

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 22:37:00 +0000

In the last week and a half, I have washed Pumpkin's bedding 11 times in 10 days.

Something about taking the mattress pad, fitted sheet, pillow case, pillow protector, stuffed animals, blankets and woobie in and out of the bedroom to be re-washed has sent said items into revolt. They began fraying at their edges, seams coming undone -how very metaphoric for my state of being after enduring laundry room purgatory.

I have additionally cleaned her bathroom floor and entire toilet bowl twice now because Pumpkin resolved that imagining herself going pee-pees in the potty simply would not suffice. The required contortion, no matter how flexible she appears, always tragically ends the same with a stream ricocheting off the potty seat and landing all over the bathroom floor.

Unfortunately, Mommy doesn't notice what happened until she's already stepped in it while offering a portion of the treasure chested TP. (After 3 entire rolls ended up on the floor, TP landed in the hidden treasure chest. Only Mommy can dig it out and always finds it when needed, a.k.a. I get some from my bathroom and schlep it to her after potty success).

Finally, I've washed it twice off of the dining room floor. Just yesterday after lunch, I headed to the frig to get her a chilled banana for us to split as banana buddies. Before I could pull the banana from its bunch, the tragedy begins:

-"Silly pee-pees!"

-Quizzical look: "Eh, what?"

-"The pee-pees got my socky all wet! They're so silly!" Giggle.

-"Wait. Did you just pee through your grown up undies onto your high chair and down your leg?"

-Sheepish expression: "Uh-huh."

And just like my futile attempt to survey the damage in the bathroom, I stepped right into the mess waiting for me because, although I stood 3 feet away, hitting the hard wooden floor had increased its circumference of destruction.

While I raced to swiffer up the mess so I could throw her in the tub, Pumpkin decided swinging around her soiled sock didn't create enough enjoyment. Instead she tucked it under her chin, pretending to be a St. Bernard carrying a mini-barrel of whisky through the snow to the rescued. What seemed like a "wash off from the rump down" situation now became a full scale bath. Not only did the volume of body I needed to scrub down increase, but also the amount of dirtied furniture.

Amidst her stint of boredom watching Mommy clean and analyze the floor with all lights on to ensure no drop remained un-mopped, Pumpkin's roaming pee-peed tootsies meandered to the table leg and on top of the end of the table from her high chair. Note to self: don't forget to wipe that off.

And, la pièce de résistance: her pee pee hands touching me on the way up to the tub. Now I had to totally strip. I'd already rid myself of the sweatpants and socks that inadvertently stepped into the mess. Now my favorite pink T-shirt I just pulled from the dryer all warm and cuddly had to go like a shooting star. It's blaze of glory lasted only 20 minutes, but I enjoyed wearing it nonetheless.

Ultimately, I must prepare to jettison my romantic notions of handing Pumpkin unused diapers to mistakenly ::wink, wink:: dispense out the car window en voyage because we don't need them anymore. I still fantasize about squirting tubes of Desitin in the trash, and dream of packing away "Potty Time with Elmo" for the next child that I pray comes later rather than sooner, if at all. Who can do this more than once? Only moms.

I Pee in Your General Direction

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 15:07:00 +0000

Every pregnant woman's handbook, "What to Expect When You're Expecting," although very informative, lacks a number of things to expect long-term. The only update is "What to Expect the First Year," but not thereafter.

I'd like to update this alleged gold standard reading with the following:

1. Intimacy often becomes a scheduled appointment as though one were visiting the dentist -supposed to happen every 6 months, if it doesn't, eh. You'll get around to it...eventually.

2. "We're not them, we're different; we won't turn into that family," (both parents shushing and chasing misbehaving children around church, weddings or the grocery store) become the last words uttered before a second child arrives.

3. Your child/children may become the only "for better or worse" worthy person in the household.

4. Date night = sitting on the couch, watching a show you can both agree on, passed out by 9:30/10 (only if the kids are asleep by then).

5. Oprah's traded for Caillou, hair do's for pony tails, showers for wet wipes.

6. A sincere and devoted hands-in interest as Top Excrement Judge will ensue involving: frequency, color, volume, texture, consistency -nearly everything but taste.

The list goes on, however the last of these critical revelations has been a thorn in my side as of late.

I awoke on Monday morning to discover Pumpkin playing in her bed, pants and socks off. I asked her what happened. "I peed fru my pants." Awww, poor baby. Alrighty then. I better hop to it because she has so many stuffed animals in her bed, I have about 2.5-3 full loads of laundry ahead of me in addition to the giant pile awaiting my magical mommy wand.

I awoke Tuesday morning to discover Pumpkin again, playing in her bed with just her pull-up on. I asked her where her pants and socks went. "I peed fru my pants." Great. Here we go again. I kept some stuffed friends out this time in case this happened again. Only 2 extra loads that day.

I awoke this morning to the same thing. That was it!
"What happened, Pumpkin?"
"I peed fru my pants."
"I know. Why did that happen?"
"I wanted to look."

After a brief question and answer period, I got the low down as well as a Tony Award winning performance. My little voyeur apparently stood up, yanked her pull-up to the side and took a gander at her revolt to my delay in entering her room and starting our day. Unfortunately, most of it ended up on her pillow. Washing a pillow case: easy as pie. Scrubbing the constellation studded urine out of a Laura Ashley pillow to avoid lumpy innards from a trip in the washer: broken nail worthy. This, after three and a half years of suffering nose deep through her stuff, drove me to re-acquaint myself with some texts from the Toddler: Owner's Manual section.

I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me.

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 00:51:00 +0000

When I dated Sean, I did what every single adult does during the dating process: tally up the seemingly minute or even "cute" idiosyncrosies/habits and estimate the degree they might annoy me if exacerbated exponentially.

Some things, like checking other women out, especially in my presence, became a deal breaker. Other habits, however, like a personal hygiene ritual, offended me less and couldn't seemingly get worse because I could simply close the door behind them. Little did I know I needed to acclimate instead of sensitize to behaviors that didn't easily adjust to accomodate cohabitation.

Admittedly, I didn't want to bring up anything that annoyed me, big or small, too soon after we wed so as not to make him regret his decision to marry me. Maybe I should've understood the "for better or worse" a little better instead.

It also didn't help matters that I delivered Pumpkin a measely 6 months after marrying. I struggled in the throes of ushering Sean through the channel of single bachelorhood into married life with a child in tow. I quickly realized having a child makes every transition more demanding and time critical. For instance, there I sat, desperate and dire in the bathroom, with no toilet paper on the roll and none within arm's reach. Not a big deal per se, but it becomes a bigger deal when I'm sitting there without TP, five days out from delivering a child and simultaneously leaking thru the nursing pads. Tact during that two week post-partum window also goes down the drain with the bathwater, which didn't help my cause.

Bless his heart, he tried, however. Sean helped me with everything I needed whenever I needed it as my wing-man. Around those early days with Pumpkin, I made a mental note to help Sean out in a big way too by taking over nearly everything household related because he worked full time. Hopefully by doing practically everything, I wouldn't become a nag by reminding him to follow thru with things a thousand times. Unfortunately, a fundamental flaw ensued: I couldn't possibly do everything on my own even if I tried, but try my darndest, I did. I kept trying right up until I finally couldn't ignore how overwhelmed I felt because of sleep deprivation. My non-commercial employment started the second I woke up and didn't end at 5pm when I left an office. Sometimes it lasted all night long which ran right into the next day and the next day and the next.

I decided my next move required transferring things from my to-do list to his list of responsibilities.

Leaving things in Sean's care a.k.a. "their own devices" turned into a crapshoot sometimes. I had to later trade some chores for others he could manage better, while certain critical responsibilities, like making sure the utility bills got paid, I added completely back to my "to-do" list altogether after one fateful day Pumpkin and I had no running water for a few hours. Thankfully the lights never blacked out and the burners have always turned when needed -only for the grace of God (and our debit card.)

I remember asking for help around the house one weekend, and Sean suggested that I should be taking care of things on my own while he watched Pumpkin because he didn't get to see her very often since he worked during the week. But...what about the household stuff that needs to get done during the week when he's not there and I have to forfeit play time with her in order to fold laundry and clean the kitchen and vacuum? Those things can't all wait until the weekend to get done. Don't we all have to make sacrifices?

Eventually, I went on strike. We separated...bathrooms. Not long after, daylight began to glimmer -along with my porcelain toilet bowl! I additionally decided he could fold his own clothes since mine, the baby's, all the bedding, towels and other linens already used enough of my alleged free time. I also resolved I could loosen the reigns for a "Mommy's Big Night Out" once a month. I needed to get out and stretch my wings a little and one Saturday every 30 days couldn't cause too much trouble, right?

Famous last words.

The house was trashed when I came home, remnants of dinner still on the table, floor and a couple of walls. It looked like hurricane Katrina picked up my child's entire inventory of toys and displaced them throughout the house, even in the sink. I found Sean asleep in the nursery rocking chair (all by his lonesome) while Pumpkin played with a poopy diaper in her crib. After this scenario, I could only come to one conclusion: me + leave the premesis = never again, ever.

It didn't take much longer, however, for me to finally resign myself to my mother's advice: moms are moms for a reason. Mommies also need breaks. The very next time "Mommy's Big Night Out" rolled around, I just crossed my fingers and prayed Pumpkin would poop before my time to leave.

WWII On My Person: Battle of the Bulge

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 06:26:00 +0000

This is for all the mothers that don't opt for the pregorexic post-partum regime and also not intended for those whose baby bump conveniently snaps back into place like a rubberband after delivery as though it never existed.

At long last, and I mean looooooong last, I have finally reached the ballpark of my pre-baby weight. I use the term "ballpark" loosely, referring mostly to the standard range of +/- four dress sizes I meandered through during most of my young adult life. I'm finally starting to creep down from the upper part of the scale of ye olde weight range, but as a mommy, this has no relevance. None whatsoever.

I recently discovered I am the physical essence of Mrs. Potato Head: one round blob stacked on top of a bigger lump with dispraportionately smaller arms and legs. I made this discovery after I'd convinced myself that the time for trying on the pre-baby clothes had arrived. I spent the better part of an hour rifling thru my cute, professional work/dressy attire that I'd left in boxes in the garage on the off chance I'd finally achieve pre-baby weight during this decade. No need to take up space in the house and remind me daily that I haven't worn my "sexy, single" attire for the last 4 years, right?

Anxiously, I started trying on the clothes -right there in the garage (door shut, of course), and picked a modest selection of shirts, skirts and trousers I wore at a weight heavier than I am right now. I stood there, tugging and pulling, hoping to find that they'd fit loosely and I'd quickly need to down-grade to the next selection of my adorable clothes in the next smaller size -until I couldn't zip a mid-section zipper on the cutest top I've ever purchased to date.

What the deuce?

I know I weigh less now than I did when I wore that top last, but sweat started to bead as I tugged the two sides close enough together to finally zip it up an inch before I required surgical clamps to hold them in place so I could finish the job. Uh, where the heck did my physique go?

And the pants?! Seriously? I have to keep pulling them up every time I get up from a seated position so the muffin top that plops out when I sit down will merge with the bottom half of my mommy pooch instead of becoming a roll beneath my still ostentatious mommy boobs. And on the offchance I forget to yank up the sides of the waist to accomodate said muffin top, my pants immediately start to fall off of me, exposing my granny panties that do their darndest to hold me in because my patootie's gotten smaller, my legs as well -thank Heavens, but they do no good standing beneath a limiting mid-section. I've also considered flaunting the gams 'til the cows come home, but they've barely seen the light of day since donning maternity clothes 4 years ago.

The brutal truth: I still have yet to migrate fully to non-maternity attire. I'm actually saving that as my new year's resolution for 2010 since my 2009 garage/dressing room adventure evolved into a bit of a bust. Sweats are practically a work uniform when you're out of work and at home chasing a munchkin all day.

Sigh...I guess I've got even more work to do still. I keep thinking, well, if I only got some muscle tone. Unfortunately, the volume of leftover pregnancy skin that makes my lower tummy look like the jowls of a dog goes nowhere except smoothed and tucked down into my pants along with the pant pockets after zipping up a fresh pair from the dryer.

Wretched mommy tummy. Maybe that explains why my self-esteem takes a nose dive when Pumpkin's giving me another round of the terrible 3's -because I see the difficulty my stretch marks have brought upon me. I must chalk this up to yet another part of motherhood to "just get through." Maybe that's also why women over 40 are more likely to die of a terrorist attack than get remarried; I blame the loose skin that we earned as a scar of war -err, sign of motherhood.

Family Pet

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Fri, 29 May 2009 15:46:00 +0000

The promise of a pet is a grave and serious thing.

I had no clue I became glued to every syllable of every word every time I speak as a parent. For instance, I cannot mention things off-handedly anymore; no commenting on potential activities and certainly no guilt-free wiggle room once these words have been emitted.

Pumpkin's so sure about everything I say; it's as though it's already been done. I can see the nuance of flakiness and doubt start to creep into her world. The words: possibly, maybe, we'll see, if-then, probably, may, might, could, should, would all bring a less than forthright demention into her understanding. Everything's so absolute to her, it either exists or doesn't. This could also explain why I'm about to spend nearly $100 on gear for a fish that will probably survive less than a week. Don't forget the cleaning and the smell and emotional attachment all wrapped up into one sickly little hypo-allergenic pet. This thing doesn't even stand a chance with all the excitement and stress that will ensue.

I'll be darned if I don't give it the old college try, however.

Temper Tantrums

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Fri, 29 May 2009 04:59:00 +0000

Whichever child invented these deserves to be stricken from all refined sugars and processed foods. Between "3 is the new 2" and "baby girl is a BIG girl," temper tantrums arose. I well understand Pumpkin's need to assert her own autonomy. However, all mothers, especially at home moms, deserve a get out of tantrum free card every 3 months which can only be redeemed with Haagen-Dazs present, a marathon of all new Grays Anatomy episodes and a facebook inbox brimming with fun and interesting messages. This scenario is, of course, one pedicure short of a Festivus miracle. There has to be another way.

At first, we tried the stairs. Even poor little Osbert had to take time outs for "unaseptable" behavior, but the stairs quickly became a play place, sliding down them like a ride, and less of a punishment. Sometimes Pumpkin wouldn't get up even though she could because she was having such a blast. Sean and I then decided to modulate the approach.

We tried the time out stool in the middle of the hallway: she fell backwards literally rocking it out as entertainment for her 3 long minutes and banged her head. We put it near a wall: she fell backwards between the stool and the wall. We put it against the wall: she banged her head against the wall in angst. Elminate stool. Tomorrow comes the welcome mat carpet square revolution. We'll see if this new tool will fascinate long enough to alleviate the brunt of Little Miss La Resistance. If not, I plan to personally call Super Nanny and inform her this technique broke at our house. Then I will insist she absolutely MUST visit in her zippy, square English car with a portable DVD video clip of Pumpkin bonking her sweet little noggin during time out. My fingers remain crossed.

Unemployment Roller Coaster

noreply@blogger.com (Leah) — Wed, 27 May 2009 22:59:00 +0000

Sean became laid off officially this past April and I'll admit it: strangely, I felt relief! Like I was holding it for an inhumane length of time to avoid peeing at the seedy, lone Micky D's on a long drive home and made it in the nick of time.

Ok, so the relief took awhile to work towards, but I got there eventually mainly because I didn't have to dread whether or not he could lose his job. First, however, I freaked the deuce out, per usual. I am a big worrier, as if I can control anything with my worrying. I get it, I just don't care that people have a different opinion of worry than me. Truthfully, I believe if I don't worry, the worst will happen to me. I have yet to play devil's advocate with that theory and get over it, Sean has yet to fold laundry 2 consecutive days in a row -to each his own.

The laid-off downside: initial dread overcame me and I immediately went into action. I called the pharmacy to make sure we used our soon-to-be-non-existent FSA account to pay for all the refills we needed. I changed our cable package to bare bones. I made sure Pumpkin had caught up on all her immunizations. After all that, I filed paperwork to go into forebearance on my student loans for a couple of months. I had already prepared for bare bones 2 months prior by scaling way back on our cell minutes and reducing our cable package which led to my eventual role as "lights off" nazi.

We already spend close to no money on things outside of bills, groceries and prescriptions -the essentials, but we constantly juggled choosing to save or continue paying down debt. I'd done so well paying it down, and then the interest rate immediately rose to nearly 34% on one of my credit cards. The other card I paid down for the last 18 months increased the interest rate AND cut $1K from my credit line as a "thank you" for not missing a single payment in the 5+ years I had the two cards. Brutal. Both credit card practices will be illegal by July of 2010, but for now, I have to take it as it comes just like everyone else. What else can I do except pull myself up from my own bootstraps?

Sean's response: total deer in headlights. I think he froze in shock and awe for 8.2 continuous days. Literally. He just stood there in the middle of the kitchen like a zombie. Meanwhile, the mover and the shaker over here prepared the hull for impact of the onslaught of bills for the next who knows how long? Strangely enough, our fight/flight responses to the unemployment news became the opposite of how we normally respond to conflict. I like to talk about how I feel, need space to feel it, need validation in order to progress. Sean, like every other guy out there, wants to fix it. If a problem exists, he's drummed up an action plan to solve it or has a quick fix brewing on the backburner...except when Super Snafu time arrives, like now, in which case I fill in as the pinch hitter.

The lay-off upside: I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop at a moment's notice. We can officially move forward to some goal or progression instead of holding our breath, putting in extra hours at work away from the house and taking pay cuts lying down.

The attitude change really came when I accepted three things: 1) I can't control the economy and an employer's decision make lay offs, 2) Sean & I always did our best, worked our hardest and will continue to do so, and 3) God takes care of His own. That doesn't mean we didn't make difficult decisions in order to ensure a healthy and safe place for Pumpkin to live, but the outreaching of friends and co-workers made all the difference.

Instead of the dog eat dog mentality I expected from the dire economic situation nearly everyone has experienced, I received more support and unashamed understanding from the folks that reached back when we reached out.

I think part of that has to do with the quality of people in our lives right now. Sean and I endured some difficult, even catastrophic life events in the last couple of years. Consequently, our circle of friends reflects each difficulty by getting smaller and smaller to include only those who truly made an effort to maintain the friendship and offer support. Maybe it's that, maybe it's people coming together in general.