Why didn't we enjoy it more?

My husband and I were out to lunch yesterday - my fantabluous mother in-law babysat, yet again, so we could actually talk to one another about something other than who's not sleeping and who has a shitty diaper. During our wonderful lunch, in addition to getting wasted on exactly one and a half glasses of wine (me, not Tony), we came up with a fantasy game. Not that kind, sicko.

The game is called Five Years Ago.

The concept of the game is one day, every five years, you get to go back in time five years and spend a day in your old life. We came up with this game after saying for the ten thousandth time, "Remember when we got to do this all the time? Why didn't we enjoy it more??" "It" being have a meal in a restaurant without lugging crayons, paper, various crappy tiny plastic toys, sippy cups and wipes, have a conversation during said meal uninterrupted by requests for juice and cries of,"Where are my friiiiies?" and not have to leave a 300% tip to make up for the sea of crushed goldfish and melted vanilla ice cream left in our wake.

We decided that five years, at least for us, is the amount of time it took for us to move from one stage of our lives to the next. For example, we began our game in college and thought about all the things we didn't enjoy enough at the time. While it is enjoyable to be past the bad hair and wardrobe choices - what the hell were those cowboy shoe-boots about, anyway? - and sadly, I'm in better physical shape now after three kids than I was in college, there are so many things that were great. Partying all night and dancing to great music - "You down with OPP? Yeah, you know me!!!" - in a bar that I was definitely too young to have gotten into. Sleeping late the next morning, waking only to make it to the dining hall before it closed in order to get the life-saving combo of eggs, bacon and cheese required after a night out. And this food was cooked for you! Admittedly, it was bad food, but no effort, no dishes! Then there's spring break and summer vacation. Sure, maybe you had to get a some lame job - Hubby worked at Applebee's while I sold Precious Moments figurines and Swarovski crystal fruit at the local Hallmark store - but other than that, you were at the beach or out with your friends. You can't beat that with a stick.

If we proceed five years, we've graduated and have our first jobs and first apartments. My lord, my lord, my first apartment. It still lives in my memory as my little oasis of calm and independence. Sure, Hubby and I were still together, but I had my own place, my own money, my own schedule after having spent three tortuous months living back at home. I pictured myself as a modern day Mary Tyler Moore tossing my beret jauntily in the air on a street corner in Hoboken. I went for long runs in the mornings and shopping on Saturday afternoons before meeting Tony for dinner. Every woman should have a time like this in her life to look back on when it was all about you.

Five years further on, we get to what Hubby and I call "The Salad Days". H and I were married and starting to think about kids, but not seriously. We had an amazing apartment in Hoboken and not a care in the world. Jesus, we didn't even have the dog. We were both making good money and spending it all on food, travel and ourselves. That time in our lives is a blur of restaurants, dinner parties, long vacations and sleep. Saturdays stretched out before us like a blank canvas just waiting to be filled. I would get up "early" - 8:00! - and go to the gym while H slept in. Then I'd come back we'd fool around - during the day I tell you! - and then decide if we'd go into the city to a museum and have dinner there or spend the whole day shopping for the evening meal we'd cook at home. Either option involved much wine and the assurance that we could sleep it off the next morning then spend the day watching marathons of E! True Hollywood Story and Law & Order.

I could go on and on. Five years later we only have one child and why didn't we enjoy that? Sorry, to all the new moms, but having one infant to keep alive seems like having a purse to take care of now that I have three. My point is, we never take the time to appreciate what we have when we have it. Even though there are days now that I want to slit my wrists, I know life will only get harder with the addition of soccer games and dance recitals, not to mention the social drama that's coming as the kids get older (I will kill any bitches that screw with my daughters! H, you can handle Little Man's stuff). I will look back on these days as the simple time when my children were all babies and safe and sweet and good and my biggest worry was whether they were sleeping enough and drinking their milk. I will try to be present, I will try to enjoy this. Because,sadly, we don't get to go back.

Dear God WHYYYYY???

Lord help me, the bouncy seat is broken!  Not broken, but it has developed this really loud squeak when I go to put the baby in it.  So once I've gotten him nice and drowsy in my arms (see "Hug and Roll") all of my efforts are for naught as he is awakened by the "ree, ree" of the seat!  Aaaahhhh!  I'm not sure if the cleaning lady (a temporary indulgence until I get back on my feet) did something to it like, um, clean it, but I have just spent the last ten minutes spraying Pam into all the joints while Matt screams in his bassinet hoping to fix the problem.  

Pray for me!

"Hug and Roll"

Does anyone else remember this episode of Friends?  I do and I have been especially reminded of it these past few weeks while trying to put my son down for naps.  If you're not familiar with this entertainment gem, let me refresh your memory.  Chandler is having issues with Janice wanting to cuddle all night.  Ross secretly tells Chandler about the "hug and roll" maneuver to gradually free yourself from your bedmate.  Putting a ten week old down for a nap is quite similar.  Currently my son, Matt, is having trouble falling asleep anywhere but in human arms and he refuses to sleep during the day anywhere but his bouncy seat . Here's are the steps to my infant "hug and roll".

Step 1 - Rock and jiggle crying, shrieking baby in arms and bounce-walk around the room.

Step 2 - Baby calms down, but continues to thrash in your arms, bashing his face against your collar bone making himself cry again.  Repeat Step 1.

Step 3 - Baby finally drifts off to sleep, continue to rock baby as you turn on the seat's vibration switch with your foot and ease yourself onto the floor in front of the bouncy seat - all the while continuing rocking and jiggling motion.  

Step 4 - Slowly reduce rocking a jiggling, tilt torso forward holding baby close to chest and rest baby in seat.  DO NOT REMOVE ARMS.  Continue to "fake hold" the baby in the seat while pressing your chest against him to simulate being held.  

Step 5 - Carefully slide arms out from under baby while continuing to press chest against baby all the while breathing in his ear so he is reassured of your continued presence.

Step 6 - Gradually back away.  Replace chest, repeat ear-breathing if baby begins to stir.

Step 7 - Crawl out of room like paratrooper.

NOTES:  In the case of older child screaming, dog barking, door bell ringing, begin again at Step 1.

I swear to God if someone got their hands on video of my going through all this I'd die of embarrassment.  I had to do it FIVE TIMES in the space of forty-five minutes this morning all the while hoping my other two kids weren't killing each other in the basement.  Now that's comedy.

Can I just be Paula Deen?

I'm tired.  Not a new development, I know, but today I am particularly tired of caring about how I look.  I am tired of trying to eat right and exercise and wear outfits that walk the fine line between "I'm trying to hang onto my youth by shopping at Abercrombie" and "I don't care anymore and I bought these slacks because they have an elastic waistband".  There are plenty of women who are plus-sized and love life.  Paula Deen is my favorite example.  Paula is a very successful caterer and cookbook author with a popular show on Food Network.  She cooks amazing things full of butter and mayonnaise in the kitchen of her eight million dollar house in Atlanta.  Paula wears large, figure obscuring button-down shirts made of luxurious fabrics and, I'm sure, shops at Eileen Fischer.   I'm also sure she doesn't berate herself for eating half a box of goldfish crackers and three granola bars as I am currently doing.

My favorite part of the show is Paula's husband.  She cooks him great, fattening meals and they chat and pose lovingly for the camera.  You can tell he really adores her and thinks she's pretty damn hot.  I have seriously asked my husband, "Can I just be Paula Deen?"  His answer, "Go right ahead, but don't expect too much sex."  Killjoy.

Maybe I'm over-simplifying her life.  I'm sure she has the same crises we all do when we have to get dressed up for an event.  Maybe she has high cholesterol or high blood pressure.  I know eating healthy and being fit are the keys to a long life, blah, blah, blah, but damn, I am so tired of caring.  I want to eat as much as I want of terrible things and lie on the couch watching Bridezillas.  

No one told me it would be like this...

Maybe today's not the best day to start this blog.  My husband is in California on a five day business trip (yes, it includes WEEKEND days), the baby has decided to become a horrible sleeper overnight and I have a terrible cold.  Today is just one of those days when the planets have aligned to create a theater of torture specific only to mothers.  Mercifully, my incredible in-laws have taken all three children from me to let me sleep and prevent me from selling my progeny into white slavery.

I had been thinking about starting this blog for some time.  Writing seemed like a natural outlet for the fear, frustrations and hilarity associated with motherhood, especially the stay-at-home experience.  I have been encouraged to write those witty articles that are regularly featured in Redbook, Ladies Home Journal and, during their less hip months, Glamour, but as I barely have time to brush my teeth writing, editing and submitting my work seemed insurmountable.  So, here I am, in my pajamas at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon pouring my guts out.  I'm sure I'll be posting very infrequently, but having this outlet will, I hope, help quell my thoughts of running away and joining the witness protection program on those very, very bad days we all have.  The days no one told us about.  The days when it's five thirty and your five year-old has decided to torment the three year-old to the point of howling just as you've gotten the baby to "sleep" for the fifth time in forty-five minutes, said baby begins screaming, the dog is whining for more water in the bowl the kids have knocked over as they've been running around unsupervised waiting for their dinner of reheated cous cous and soy nuggets while you continue to rock the baby in a semi-darkened room cursing your husband for having the luxury of sitting on a train reading the paper.

So welcome, dear Readers.  I hope you do not think me insane or try to find me in order to call DCFS and save my children.  I'm the one who needs saving anyway.