Body by Baby

My younger daughter made a comment in the car the other day that I am still wondering about. This is not unusual for her, as she often makes baffling, random statements, verbally or in writing - she recently walked up to me in the kitchen and handed me a piece of paper that read, "When I was a Hollywood star, I was a source of fabulous", and walked away.

We were talking about maternity clothes and how your body changes during pregnancy, as her aunt had recently come to retrieve some of her pre-baby clothes from our attic, when she said, "Moms who have had babies look different from, you know, teenagers." Curious, I asked her to elaborate. "I don't want to. It's private." The phrase "it's private" is sort of a safety in our house. If you really don't want to talk about something, saying it's private earns you the right to silence unless, of course, it's a matter of safety or did you take your sister Beanie Baby, then, start talkin'.

Over the next few days, I came up with several ideas and approached her with them. Did she think a woman's private parts looked different after birth? No. Did she think their breasts looked different? Negative. Their bodies? Nuh-uh. I am still stumped, dear readers, but after giving it some thought, I realized there really isn't a major body part that isn't affected by the process of growing a life inside of you and pushing or having it cut out. Let's start from the ground up, shall we?

You really wouldn't think one's feet would be affected by having procreated, but you would be wrong. Yes, we all know some women's feet swell when they are pregnant, and a few ladies even have their feet remain a size larger permanently after delivery. That did not, fortunately, happen to me, since not fitting into the pony heels again would enrage me more than not fitting into my pre-pregnancy jeans, but my feet did change. Once upon a time I had such pretty feet. Monthly pedicures were just part of the schedule like going to the dry cleaner. Now, come summer, I struggle to find ten minutes to throw some polish on my toes - or at least the ones that are peeking out of my sandals - which Little Man will inevitably step on three minutes later. Whenever I do find the time, twice a year, to get a professional pedicure, I get the same tsk-tsking from the tiny Korean working on my feet. "So rough. You need file each day." Sure lady. I barely have time to wash my hair, I definitely have time to scrub the dead skin cells off my feet. Don't judge that woman at the pool who looks like she has hooves instead of feet. Offer to watch her kids.

Moving northward, we arrive at the legs. Legs affected by kids, you say? Varicose veins, spider veins - your legs look like a subway map of New York City during pregnancy and, oftentimes, after. I remember catching a rear view of my legs at the end of my pregnancy with LM and nearly burst into tears upon seeing the web of blue. Thankfully, that subsided once I got him out, but while my skin has returned to a normal color, it's hard to see through all the hair to tell. I am lucky enough to have very blond body hair, but if I didn't, I'd look like a man or a lesbian*. I have an appointment with a razor about once a week. H jokingly calls me a yeti. I jokingly punch him in the head.

Speaking of hair, once you have kids, the bikini area upkeep is spotty at best. Again, like the feet, public display of that which is normally covered during summer does mean action needs to be taken since I haven't resorted to a bathing dress yet. Back in the day, waxing was pretty regular. In fact, I continued to wax my whole first pregnancy. Did I really think my doctor was going to care? Apparently yes, since my ninth month found me rolling around on a esthetician's table like a beached whale in paper panties. Of course the lady-bit description post-pregnancy should include what happens to your stuff after squeezing out a nine pound baby, but I'll spare you (you're welcome male readers). You already know there is tearing and then sewing in most cases. Remember how fun it was losing your virginity? The good news is you will most likely get to do it all over again each time you deliver vaginally. Either that, or there will be an echo.

Next on our tour, the stomach. Every abdominzer-perfect-abs-piece-of-shit on TV uses post-partum women in their testimonials. Why? Because your stomach will never be the same after kids. Yes, you can lose all the weight. Yes, you can get all the muscle tone back. Yes, your stomach can be flat as a pancake again. You just need to work your damn ass of for it. Oh, and the kicker? Even when Madonna bends at the waist, the skin on her concave stomach still wrinkles like a Shar Pei. Once the skin has been stretched, it ain't going back to normal. You stomach skin has this thin, loose consistency that only a tummy tuck can fix. I myself have made peace with it. The kids can have fun drawing a nose and whiskers on it at least.

So do you remember those women in National Geographic we all used to snicker at in school? I recall thinking to myself, "Jesus! Ever herd of a supportive bra?" I'm sure that African woman I was mocking would have said to me, "Ever nursed six kids until they were each two and a half?" Yes, enjoy those giant ta-tas you have while nursing now, since once you're done all you'll have to remember them by are bras that are too big and sad, deflated versions of your once glorious rack. Apparently, there is some kind of "pencil test" to see if your breasts are drooping. I think it's safe to say I would need the pencil case test.

Now we've reached the top and you think we're done. Oh, no. Your head is just as affected as the rest of your body. Except these changes are not so much caused by pregnancy as by caring for the actual baby. Under eye circles from lack of sleep, hair in desperate need of a cut (or a wash and brushing at the very least). And roots? I think I became part skunk for a few weeks after Little Man was born and feeding every two hours. Color takes three and I was reticent to whip out a breast in the salon, no matter how much they love me there. I did pump in the bathroom a few times though.

And your skin. You will use sunscreen more religiously since you are slathering it on your progeny, but the wrinkles come anyway. I used to wonder where these frown lines came from, until I caught glimpse of myself in a mirror at the mall yelling at Little Man to not even think about jumping in the fountain. The lack of makeup was also very helpful, rendering every flaw as visible as possible in the fluorescent light.

The havoc wreaked on your body after kids can be rather depressing since a lot of it is only correctable with surgery and unlike Kate Gosselin, I'm not going there. I could wax all poetic and say these changes are like a badge of honor and I should be proud of what my body has done. I guess, but I choose to ignore the bad and see how having kids has improved my body. My arms are stronger than ever. True, I have a bit of a lop-sided situation with my right arm after carrying Little Man for three and a half years. He has cut my weight workout in half though. My legs are strong from running after toddlers and hopscotch training. I am more flexible, contorting myself into amazing shapes to deliver snacks and books to passengers in the back of the van.
And even though I have a definite "eleven" in the middle of my brow, I also have a nice set of crow's feet from all the smiling.

If your heart and mind are never the same after kids, how can we expect our bodies to be? Once I had a baby, I felt like a a totally different person, so it makes sense that I looked like one in some ways.

Doesn't mean I don't miss my old boobs though.

*Best unshaven legs story ever? My sister was a camp counselor in Greenwich, CT and Tommy Hilfiger's daughter, five at the time, was in her group. Little Hilfiger strokes my sister's leg and says, "You feel like my dad."

Fancy Freaks

I was enjoying my Sunday thirty minutes of alone TV time last night (during which H bathes and puts all three kids to bed by himself, in a vain attempt to make up for my handling this period of hell solo every weeknight) , with my glass of wine and remote in hand, flipping between Bridezillas on WeTV and Say Yes to the Dress on TLC, when I happened upon the new Fancy Feast commercial. Of course, they would put a cat food commercial on during these particular programs, because who else but lonely spinsters with a thousand cats would be watching wedding shows on a Sunday night? Well, me. Ignoring how insulted I am by this assumption, I have to ask, have you all seen this thing? If not, please click on the link so you are prepared, but I will do my best to describe the ridiculousness.

It begins with a couple arriving for, what must be, Boyfriend's first meeting with the Girlfriend's parents, since she straightens his tie and brushes nothing off of his lapel before they ring the bell. Parents from WASP Central Casting open the door, there is handshaking and hugging, and as Girlfriend enters the house, you see her look excitedly past her parents, whom I'm sure she would plow over if they both didn't take Pilates, to get to...her cat. Now, this is no regular tabby cat, that Labrador Retriever of the feline world. This is one of those white, fluffy, flat-faced cats from the Fancy Feast can (duh), that only the truly cat-obsessed would consider owning, or buying expensive, gag-inducing, wet cat food for. The kind that requires constant grooming, and sheds globs of fine white hair, making the wearing of any slimming, black outfit impossible. This is kind of cat that sneaks into the guest room and pisses in your suitcase. Trying to hide his surprise that the girlfriend he once considered normal has just outed herself as a cat-freak, Boyfriend is left to make the lonely walk to the dining room with WASP Dad, who makes small talk along the way, to distract himself from the fact this guy in the yellow tie is most likely sleeping with his daughter. Girlfriend ecstatically makes out with her cat.

Dinner is a success, made apparent by the approving glance WASP Mom gives WASP Dad, when Girlfriend gives Boyfriend a smooch at the table - or WASP Mom is drunk and really hiding her despair at the cold, sexless marriage she is stuck in with a smile. As BF and GF say their goodbyes at the front door, WASP Mom has to pry Devil Cat from her daughter's grasp as BF gives the cat an appraising look, that is supposed to say, "Hhmm, I shall do something clever and endearing involving a cat.", but I think says, "You have a date with a garbage can full of water, my friend."

Fast forward, and we see BF at his desk in Casual Boyfriend Wear making plans, BIG PLANS. The lack of fish tank, glass coffee table and giant television makes me think BF and GF are already co-habitating, but then the rest of the commercial would not make sense. What Bf is planning is a surprise make-over of his/their spare room. Again, the contents of this room indicate they share this space or BF is on the down-low - no neon beer signs from college, no bobble-heads of sports figures, no milk crates full of Pink Floyd CD's - but let's suspend our disbelief, as we will need to at the end of this advert.

BF proceeds to move out his crates of what look like architectural plans or vintage gay porn posters and create what I guess is his approximation of Cat Shangri-La. It involves one red-orange wall, some indoor-outdoor carpeting and plywood cobbled together into a custom kitty tower, atop which he hangs some kind of blue, furry tail which looks suspiciously like it came from a boa. Like the ones he's hiding in his closet. BF gives the boa-bit a playful swat, perhaps imagining the great rendition of Cher's "Believe" he used to do while wearing it, and heads out the door.

He returns with Gf in tow, covering her eyes, ready for the big reveal. As her peepers are freed from the cover of his curiously soft hands, we see a miniature of Devil Cat has been added to the room. GF squeals in delight and picks up her new obsession to find a collar tag the reads, "Will you marry us?" GF, holding Devil Cat Jr., and BF come together for a kiss,which we never actually see happen since I'm sure the cat, sensing testosterone, starting clawing wildly at BF. Cut to the happy couple, apparently, married and having done moving of some sort, since there are labeled boxes all around them as they eat Chinese food out of cartons. BF brings the cat his, of course, crystal goblet of food, which I am betting is laced with antifreeze.

You all know I am not a cat person, and at this point I am breathless with laughter. H has joined me in the room and is equally as awestruck. So much ridiculousness captured in one minute? That is truly a feat. What man in his right mind proposes on A CAT? As H put it, a man may tolerate a cat that already exists, but introducing a new one into the house? Not going to happen. I posit that BF and GF will be having a conversation about his feeling "confused" sexually at some point in their marriage, or she will convince herself his predilection for gay porn is totally normal.

I suppose the advertisers were tired of making commercials where we watch the Devil Cat lap up that disgusting, wet food, knowing their brain-washed owners would have to wash all that brown shit out of their whiskers, since the only thing worse than a fluffy white cat, is a dirty, fluffy white cat who smells lie salmon. Personally, I would preferred to watch some cat eat it, digest it, and crap it out than watch that commercial again. But then again, maybe this advert wasn't meant for me. A married woman with three kids is not exactly their target demographic. I barely have time to wash the kids' faces after some meals. Never mind a cat's.

I brake for wine!

I hate the science fair. Pretty awful statement coming from a former science teacher, but it's true. I have spent the last three weeks, and the last few feverish days, helping #1 and #2 complete their projects. Notice I said helping them complete their projects, since again, as a former teacher, I refuse to do their projects for them. It has been a blast getting them to choose projects that were not simply magic tricks ("Over my dead body are you doing a baking soda volcano") and getting them to understand scientific procedure (""Hypothesis is a fancy word for guess") and standing over them as they painfully hunt and peck on the keyboard to type out their reports(I literally had to sit behind #2 and whisper "space" between each word), and it all culminates today when they display their work and demonstrate for their classes. Terror crying began for #2 last night. So, having dumped them, their poster boards and their various props off, I am D-O-N-E.

All the kids will get a ribbon for participating, since in this day and age you get a ribbon for successfully wiping your ass, and, of course, there will be no actual "winner". This might disappoint some, since they will lose out on the opportunity to have a "My child won the XYZ School Science Fair 2011" bumper sticker on the back of their van. Have any of you noticed that bumper stickers and magnets have gotten slightly out of control? Yes, this is the woman who once had magnetic flames on the side of her minivan, but that kind of coolness is not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the van-exterior-as-biography phenomenon.

It all started innocently enough. Remember those "Baby On Board" signs that first reared their ugly heads in the 80's? This allowed paranoid new parents to alert other drivers ,who do not give a shit, that there is an infant in the car. Then colleges, wanting to up bookstore sales, started selling those rear window stickers. Parents of teenagers, having slaved away for twelve years to make sure Junior did his homework, and driven him to candy stripe at the hospital to ensure he had a wide enough variety of extra-curricular activities, want everyone stuck behind them in traffic to know of their achievement. Then we started seeing bumper stickers declaring one of the vehicle's passengers was an honor student, or a good citizen and things started to get ugly.

There are all kinds of "My child is..." stickers - student of the month, spelling bee champ - to the point they made a sticker mocking it that reads "My kid can kick you honor student's ass". And the sports. My particular favorite are the three-dimensional baseballs, basketballs and hockey pucks that are made to look like they have been thrown through the window, complete with surrounding glass cracks. Also popular, are the silhouette magnets. Akin to Rorschach tests, it takes you a minute to figure out the black shape you are looking at is a boy up at bat. I have seen ballerinas, lacrosse players and even equestrian rider silhouette stickers. Do they make one for math club, of a kid with a calculator?

After we have learned everything we need to know about the kids, we then get the scoop on the family at large. Remember when those white oval stickers with black letters were only for European cars with IRL being Ireland, and GB being Great Britain, etc.? Now every town and hamlet in the U.S. has it's own sticker and you can spend hours trying to figure out what the abbreviations mean. I swear on my life I saw one in the A&P parking lot this week that read CWR - Civil War Reenactor.

The back of the car is a prime spot for the middle-aged suburban athlete's need to toot their own horn. 26.2, 13.1, 5K, and 10K stickers abound. What's next? "I go to Zumba" stickers? What do you want, a cookie? You work out. Yay, you.

Then there is the Queen Mother of all car stickers. You've seen them. The white line, stick figure drawings of every member of the family. Just from waiting at a red light, you now know this family is comprised of a mom who does yoga (or runs, since, again, SHE IS FIT!), a daughter who talks on the phone while carrying a purse, a son who plays baseball, one who does karate, a dog, a cat and a fish. Oh, and the dad. In an act of desperation to capture his down-time essence, he is pictured holding a golf club, pushing lawnmower, or waving a flag bearing the logo of his favorite sports team. I don't suppose they make a male sticker sitting on the couch holding the remote.

The question is, why do we care? Why this pressing need to express ourselves on the back of moving vehicles? Is this an epidemic need for validation from strangers? Must women at home define themselves to the world in such boiled down images? I don't have the answers, but I do think it is curious that so many women (I am making broad assumption here, but I think I can safely say no man is ordering a stick figure of himself carrying a briefcase) feel the need to advertise what it is they do and who it is they are, if only in the broadest strokes.

All I can say is, since the flames have been removed, you know my van will be free of any adornment until I am pressured into slapping on one of those honor student stickers, should my kids earn one. There will definitely be no stick figure family since I'm sure they make one with a mother holding a glass of wine, but even I can't go there.

I give in...

Happy Belated St. Patrick's Day to you all. I know I have written, more than once, about my hatred of this day. but it seems since the year we sold the house on this most Irish of days, my opinion has been slowly changing, thanks, in part, to my kids.

Once you have kids, holidays that once seemed created especially by Hallmark, like St. Patrick's Day, are among the highlights of your year because your kids get so excited about them. St. Pat's used to be a day I spent dodging drunks on the sidewalk on my way home from work, wondering why the hell this holiday was ever created. Now, I start buying my kids' green outfits in February, complete with sparkly, boing-y antennaed shamrock headbands for the girls and a giant, green bow tie for Little Man. Why, you might ask, has my hatred turned to mild affection? It's two-fold.

First, my children are the third generation from Irish immigrants, and the further away we get from that, the harder it is to make a strong connection to our past. They never had an opportunity to meet my grandmother, Mary Brady, and subsequently, not be able to understand a damn word she said, so thick was her brogue, so they will never her first-hand stories of how they would dip butter in the sugar bowl as a treat when she was a girl, or my grandfather running poitín* from the small island he was from off the coast of Ireland. Gaelic phrases will not pepper the holiday dinner conversation (unlike any actual spices in the meal) like they did when I was a child, allowing us to laugh like idiots when we could tell our enemies to "pogue mahone"** because no one knew we were swearing. They won't understand calling someone "shanty" is an insult and "lace curtain" is a compliment.***

So I have decided to take this holiday as a chance to bring them closer to their culture. Despite their last name, they are 75% Irish and I have to work hard to have them remember that, so immersed are we in Italian culture. This year we made soda bread, listened to Irish music - they were a little confused by Finnegan's Wake, "Is he sleeping?" - and thanks to a demonstration by #2's teacher, the idea of step dancing lessons is being thrown about. Maybe the cultural lesson will not be the highlight for them, and will be overshadowed by the green necklaces I buy them and the leprechaun trap they insisted on building the night before (in which I left a sassy "Try again next year! Erin go bragh!" note for them to find the next morning), but I will feel like I haven't let my heritage die a slow death due to neglect.

The second reason for the renaissance St. Paddy's Day is having in my life is due to a change in my own, narrow, mindset. I complained bitterly about the non-Irish flaunting Irish stereotypes as an insult to truly Irish people. "Everyone's Irish today" used to piss me off. Can you imagine anyone saying, "Today, everyone is Puerto Rican" or "Today everyone is Chinese?"? No, you can't because no other people are as fun-loving and inclusive as the Irish - especially after a few pints. Sure, we preach a lot of Catholic nonsense, and have hot tempers, but the Irish are sentimental poets who love a good time. What other culture throws a parade and invites the whole world to join in? If everyone wants to be Irishman on the seventeenth, it's a compliment and I consider myself lucky to be one.

So yesterday, I was really going to embrace the spirit of the day. You all know my conundrum with going to the parade, but I solved it by asking my sitter, S, to stay late, H took the day off, and we were headed into NYC. Unil, Little Man woke up. He could barely stand. I thought H had dropped him on his foot and was shooting him daggers, but after a quick trip to the doctor, we discovered he has Transient Toxic Synovitis (which sounds scary, but isn't - click the link if you don't believe me). Luckily the doctor is a friend and after telling my his advice for LM was to lie on the couch and watch movies all day, his advice for H and I was to go into the city since staring at him wouldn't make him better and he was in good spirits.

So off we went, like the bad parents I'm sure you think we are, but by this point is was too late to get into the city and make it back by dinner. We decided, instead, to got our old 'hood in Hoboken and find a bar. I have closed bars before, but never opened one, so it was an interesting experience being among the first people in a place on St. Patrick's Day who don't look like they've slept in the place(see photo, ye, I'm even wearing green). The bar we chose was right across from the PATH train to NYC, and while we had a great time looking out the bar's windows to watch the huge crowd of freaks headed in to the parade due to the fantastic weather (hot pants and green bowler hat, really?) and I was jealous. I wanted to be among them! So I made H promise we'd go next year, and his brother and future wife promised to come with us, which being, on a Saturday in 2012, is sure to be a hot mess if my trip in with my family on the Saturday St. Pat's of 1999 is any indication (it involved a lot of singing in a very crowded pub).

I was all happy, and pretty drunk, leaving the bar later that afternoon, assured I would have my chance to drunkenly carouse full of Irish spirit(s) next year. Until I realized, a Saturday parade would mean the kids would want to come. Which I will probably be guilted into doing****, so I'll be the annoying old lady, aggravated by all the drunks around her kids. Which seems pretty unfair, since it's the kids who started this new-found love affair to begin with.

Oh well, "Is fhearr fheuchainn na bhith san duil"*****


*Yeah, yeah, my grandfather was a bootlegger. Don't be jealous I have bad-ass in my blood. That and, obviously, alcoholism, but let's not mention that....
**Kiss my ass
***Lace curtain are people of money, shanty are poor, but not just poor, poor and classless
****Talk me out of bringing them, J!
*****It is better to try than to hope

A fashion plate he is not

So the change of season is upon us, thank God, as I was about to be institutionalized after my first winter indoors wit ha three year-old boy. They really are like puppies. If you don’t run them, they use their energy in destructive ways, like dumping their eldest sister’s meticulously organized Hello Kitty figurine collection on the floor.

With this change in season, comes my least favorite activity in the world – changing out the clothes. Little Man has outgrown most of his stuff and as I go through the hand-me-downs, I don’t have that much to buy, which I am grateful for because boys clothes? Suck.

Having spent the first five years of my parenting experience only shopping for girls, I never realized how hard it is to shop for a boy. There are so many styles to choose from for girls – feminine and frilly, Punky Brewster-esque, sporty – and your daughter can choose a different style each day and look adorable. For boys the choices are so limited.

There is Preppy Boy, outfitted almost entirely from The Gap and Brooks Brothers. He wears khakis and polos and bucks. This kid actually owns several belts and sweater vests. But how is this kid able to be a boy? Boys, by their nature are messy and kinetic. Chinos with a knife-like crease and a tucked in shirt do not seem like they would mix well with the jungle gym or a mud puddle.

Another choice is European/Asian Kid. His shirts are covered in non-sensical images, like made up sports logos that shout phrases like “WIN!”, “NUMBER 1 TEAM!” and “SOCCER!”, as if he is not a native English speaker and has no idea what they say. They are also usually paired with random sports images or pitcures of trucks and dinosaurs. Most of his shirts are striped, and not in a good way - in that French navy shirt kind of way. These shirts are OK when they are babies but as they get older, boys who dress this way begin to look like they should be wearing socks with sandals, wandering around times Square with a camera strung around their neck looking for the TKTS booth.

There is also Hip Kid. He wears cargos and henleys and anachronistic t-shirts, courtesy of his parents. Vans, which I actually like a lot for boys, are the shoe of choice. Hip Kid can be done on a budget at H&M and Old Navy, but JCrew’s Crewcuts is working hard to infiltrate this market, with carefully distressed khakis and button-downs. Which, eighty dollars for a boy’s shirt? Unless he’s The World’s Youngest Paid Intern at Merrill Lynch I’m not buying. I enjoy Hip Kid, and while LM parents have not one molecule of hip in their tragically dorky bodies, he has several faded Star Wars t-shirts and many pairs of cargo pants.

The other style I can identify is Sporty Kid, which I guess is what LM is. These kids wear track pants and t-shirts and pretty much nothing else. Winter means putting a long-sleeved shirt under the short-sleeved one, but the combo is essentially the same. His shoes are sneakers from Payless because, despite your idea that Stride Rite sneakers must last monger for all they cost, he manages to run through every pair your put on his feet in no time. When I was a teacher, I used to judge Sporty Kid’s parents, wondering how they let their kid run around looking like half a hobo in baggy sports attire, but now that I see, up close, what little boys do during their waking hours, I would like to extend a formal apology.

I’m sure you can all add some other style you have ID’d to the list, but these are the ones I see the most in the suburban Northeast. It’s so hard, trying to dress a boy, when none of these styles seems to really be him, and it seems there is lack of fluidity in style among boys. Your son tends to be one kid of kid or another, not one or another on alternating days like my girls are. One day, #2 is sporty and hip in her yoga pants and Wonder Woman t-shirt, the next, she is school-girl sweet in a collared dress and tights.

New to the equation is that fact that LM actually has an opinion now. The track pants thing is not of my doing, since I feel men in track pants who are not about to, or have not just finished, exercising look like they belong in a bar in Lowell. But he’s comfortable, and the way he wants to dress allows him to run and jump and roll all over the floor to his heart’s content.

I had always envisioned my son dressing like a miniature version of his father on the weekends - jeans and broken-in khakis, and relaxed button down shirts - and maybe that will be the case one day, but for now, try as I might, I can practically see him trying to explode out of with his sheer boy force the minute the last button is done.

So just like with the girls, I will let him develop his own style and his father will guide him the best he can. I say his father and not me, because, at times, even my tastes is suspect. Like the bright-blue striped shirt wit ha yellow submarine I bought at Target. H saw it on him the first time and said, “Um, is his name Yuki?”

Dear God,

Sorry, I know You're busy and all, but I have to check in with You about my Lenten sacrifice. I just don't think this no-sweets thing is going to pan out.

In my usual over-all-or-nothing fashion, I thought I could eliminate all refined sugar from my life for forty days as a way to thank You for all You've done for me and my family (the subsequent weight loss would merely be a bonus I would ignore of course). So instead of having a few cookies after dinner, I am now consuming almost entire boxes of Banana Nut Cheerios, causing much lamenting from my children in the morning when all they are left with is Wheat Chex for breakfast.

Speaking of the contents of the pantry, H is also upset since our supply of sweets has diminished in its usual fashion over the last four days, but very little has been replaces, specifically so I don't eat it. So while the kids are happy with a small bowl of vanilla ice cream or few Hershey's kisses as an after dinner treat, my husband is threatening to mutiny. Teddy Grahams just don't cut it for him.

So here's the deal, I will still stay of chocolate for the remaining thirty-six days of lent. You know this is going to be very difficult for me as chocolate is my first choice for any kind of dessert. I didn't even eat any chocolate at the chocolate-themed mother/daughter book club meeting last night - and the entirety of the gathering was spent around a friggin' chocolate fountain! Nothing says gratitude like eating plain graham crackers and marshmallows while seven eight year-old basically bathe in liquid chocolate right in front of you.

I think this is going to work out well for everyone. H will get his well-stocked, pantry back, and the chocolate-free aspect will not bother him (the nonchalance about chocolate is an interesting design element in that gender, by the way), the kids will have all their cereals at their disposal each morning, I will not wind up bloated, cranky and ten pounds heavier from consuming too much peanut butter and cereal try to eat around my cravings, but you will still get to see me struggle every Saturday night when all I want after three glasses of wine is a big, fat slab of chocolate cake. It's a win-win for everyone, no?


Oh, and I know I am not exactly setting the best example for my kid, but I think showing weakness and humility is quite the Christian virtue. Plus, I told her my giving up all sweets would be like her giving up her DS, TV, the Wii and the computer. To which she replied, "That's just too much to ask, Mom".

I won't be naive and assume you have time to send me a sign that this new deal is acceptable to you. Could you just maybe not smite my family. That'd be great, thanks.

Sincerely,
Mary

Mother may I...

Picture the scenario, dear readers . It's eighty-thirty, all of the offspring have finally been locked in their rooms for the night, the dog has been walked, the dishes have been done, and H, uncharacteristically home for the evening, and I sit down on the couch to watch Survivor. Halfway through the show, I am nursing my, now cold, cup of hot chocolate*, when H asks, "When are you going to be done with that so I can stretch out?" What he means by this, is he wants me to sit at the very end of the couch so he can put his head in my lap and stretch out his bum leg. My reaction?

"CAN I HAVE ONE HOUR A DAY, JUST ONE HOUR, DURING WHICH I DO NOT HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THE NEEDS OF OTHERS AND JUST MY OWN?"

Poor guy. He didn't realize he was feeling the blunt force trauma of a day when I felt like my whole life was being run by others and their needs. It all started innocently enough, with a friend texting me," Hey, wanna go to the St. Patty's parade?" Her children are in school and her husband works from home, so for her, it was a no-brainer. For me, the mental gymnastics began the second my retinas scanned the words. It goes like this:

"OK, St. Pat's is a Thursday, so S will be with Matt, but she has to pick her daughter up at three-thirty, so I'd have to be back to get the girls from school. The parade doesn't start until eleven, and I'd have to get a one forty-five train at the very latest. That's not much time. I could ask Big T to stay with the kids from three-thirty to five, but he's already watching Little Man today so I can take the girls to get ashes at church AND he offered to take the kids over night in a few weeks, so I don't want to bug him again. I could ask my regular high school sitter, but she'd have to do homework with the kids and #1 has her Friday math test the next day, and I'm not sure how well she'd enforce studying time..."

Blah,blah, blah, blah, blah.

After trying to find the perfect solution to this logistical dilemma, I was exhausted and annoyed. At least two times a week I will get a text from H along the lines of, "Stuck in meeting will be late", or "Have to take so-and-so out for dinner, won't be home 'til late". And just like that, his bases are covered. No questions asked, whether it's a work function, or just meeting friends after work for a drink. But for me to get a weeknight out, it's like trying to align the fucking planets, because these kids are my responsibility twenty-four hours a day, Monday through Friday. Any deviation from that plan requires I pay, beg or cajole someone into watching them, since H is out of the picture and relying on "I'll try to get home in time for you to make the movie" is a recipe for disaster.

Yes, yes, I know. This is my job. But trying to take a personal day from this job is hell. My friend S put it best. After you have kids you become plural. Every decision you make revolves around the care and well- being of your family, and, yes, I could say the same for H, but his every shower, meal and bowel movement** does not need to be scheduled around three (or four) other beings. It's like I need everyone else's permission to live my life.

When I stop to think about it, it should make me feel important that I am so central to the lives of these other people that I can not easily call in a sub. And I do feel that way on occasion. I know I will mourn this level of responsibility and connectedness one day, just like I used to complain once in a while about nursing. Having people to be accountable to is part of being in a family, and while being able to walk out the door without a thought might be nice, it would also mean no one was missing me while I Was gone.

*Which, I say, narrowly escapes being on the Lenten-no-sweets list. Look, it's got sugar in it, but it's not a milkshake. You have no idea how hard this first night was. I was almost twitching with the need for sugar. Perhaps that explains the rest of this story.
**Ever wonder why it's women they show in those Activia and Fiber One commercials? H usually goes after his morning cup of coffee. At that point in my day, I'm screaming up the stairs, "DON"T FORGET YOUR SNEAKERS! YOU HAVE GYM TODAY!!!" While trying to wrestle Little Man into his jacket.

Day 1....

So today is Ash Wednesday. For many years, that didn't really mean a lot to me. When I was kid, that meant seeing a grayish smear on top of my mother's usual thick coating of Covergirl foundation, thinking of her sneaking off to church during her already hectic day at work, and wondering why my father, an agnostic at best, did not have one to match. Then as a teen and young adult, scoffing at the rabid believers who walked around with such hideous symbols of their blind faith. But now, having returned to the fold to some degree, Ash Wednesday has become special to me.

Ash Wednesday heralds the beginning of Lent, a period of forty days where Catholics are supposed to be doing some kind of preparation related to Easter of which I am still unclear, other than dyeing Easter eggs and buying Reese's Peanut Butter eggs for their kids baskets, eating them all, and having to go back to Target for a second batch. Part of this preparation is to "give up" something of importance to show God you understand the important sacrifice he made giving us his son. The choice is yours, as long as what you give up makes it a reasonably challenging sacrifice. I explained to the girls giving up broccoli is not an appropriate choice for a Lenten sacrifice. This year I am giving up desserts.

Stop laughing. At least I was smart enough not to think I could give up wine for forty days. I truly can not remember the last time I gave anything up for Lent. I'm not totally on board with the thanks-for-Jesus-I'm-not-going-to-eat-cupcakes-to-pay-you-back connection, but I was inspired to do it earlier this year by the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur. I love the concept of a day of repentance and atonement (what Catholic doesn't!?), so while I can't fast for the entirety of Lent, going without doughnuts might begin to feel that way. There are times when I could've been a better mother, wife, daughter and friend and I'll try to bear that in mind when H is sitting on the couch next to me wolfing down the Girl Scout cookies that were just delivered.*

I'm also doing this coming from the Irish Catholic perspective of God, first brought state-side by the Puritans, of an angry, judgmental diety, who will smite you should you fail to show enough gratitude for all He has given you. And while I do not truly believe misfortune will befall my family if I eat cake, I do occasionally engage in bartering with the Big Guy. I never told anyone, but I gave up wine in exchange for our house selling quickly two year ago. Luckily, it took two days, and they were weekdays, so we'll never know how serious I actually was. But I do think showing God I know how very lucky I am can't hurt and His seeing me cry at the chocolate-themed mother/daughter book club meeting I have to go to Friday will be pretty good evidence in my opinion.

So here's hopin', dear readers. I might not be able to write due to sugar DT's, but I'm determined to make it. I even inspired #1 to give up her Nintendo DS - which to be fair is like my giving up graham crackers, she enjoys playing it, but it's not really her first choice of screen time - so we will be keeping each other in check. Having her watch me struggle will show her how important I think this is.

It will also make her more understanding when she finds Mommy face-down in her basket come Easter morning.

*My being off sweets will definitely help our effort this year to not consume all the boxes ordered from our Girl Scout daughters by our families before we can deliver them, which is what we did last year. They were all kind enough not to ask where their Thin Mints were. To be fair, they hadn't paid for them yet, and we wound up eating, and paying for, eighty dollars worth of cookies.

Your honor...

We had some friends and their kids over for dinner this weekend, which is the cheapest way to have a fun Saturday night in the suburbs. The guests arrive at five, the kids are given chicken fingers and fries, while the adults have cocktails and snacks, after the children have eaten, a movie put on in the basement playroom, the door is shut, and the fours of us enjoy our meal, ignoring the wild shrieking coming through the floor. It's nice when you have company who also have kids, since you don't have to rake all of your toys into various closets like you do for childless guests, trying to pretend the decor in your home doesn't include a heavy dose of Fisher Price neon plastic.

Upon their arrival though, I was once again made aware of the lack of protocol surrounding the manner in which children address adults not in their immediate family. While everyone was taking of coats, I asked #1, "You remember Mr. and Mr.s So-and-so, don't you?" to which they pffft-ed and said, "Please! Call us (insert first names here)!" So I had no choice but to honor their wishes and have the kids call them by their first names.

So at this point you're probably saying to yourself, "Jesus, what's the big deal?", but in my opinion, the lack of respect many children show for adults, in general, is fueled by the casual way we deal with them. Adults are too interested in being friends with kids these days. I think healthy boundaries, enforced by an honorific, can help clearly delineate, who, exactly, is in charge.

During my student teaching in Manhattan, I taught in a very liberal public school in the West Village, where the teachers were called by their first names and the children selected their own areas of study through which to learn basic skills. Many of the kids did very well in this environment, but being a charter school, kids had to apply and this reduced the number of miscreants who would have sassed back when "Jennifer" asked him or her to please be quiet. I wonder how this policy would have fared if put in to place among the general population of New York City. A teacher has studied hard to be in the classroom, and therefore, deserves some respect, and that, to me, is what it is all about.

How you address someone communicates what you think about him or her. Think about a store clerk saying, "Hey, lady?" versus "Excuse me ma'am?" I feel the same way about doctors and other people in positions of authority. You have worked hard to get where you are so I will use the title you have earned when speaking to you, unless instructed otherwise. I know there is a big movement among some people as patients in the medical system to call their doctors by their first names to establish a peer relationship. Do you really want your peer stitching up your kids finger? I certainly call my dreamy OB/GYN by his title (otherwise, I'd feel like a one night stand with his hands all up in my business).

But getting back to the kids, I think it's important to establish early a healthy respect for adults in their lives. Of course, I don't want them to blindly follow authority, and to question it if they think an adult is doing something not OK, but I want them to do so respectfully. When your three, it's hard to understand why you need to listen to Joe, when the only apparent difference between him and the kid you're playing with is their height. Our generation, and the one that came before us, is so worried about again or seeming uncool, we shy away from anything that sounds remotely aged. I myself am guilty of this, signing texts to my babysitters "Mary", instead of "Mrs. H".

I do understand that it can be odd, when you have close adult friends who are not technically aunts or uncles to your children, and whom calling Mr. or Mrs. seems oddly formal. So H and I have begun using the Southern tradition of Miss and Mister paired with first names. So, for example, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, become Miss Sally and Mister John. It solves the uncool, "Mrs. Smith is my father" problem, but also draws the line of respect.

I know we all want to be young forever, and using titles makes us feel like our parents, but really, why is that so wrong? With age comes experience and knowledge, and why shouldn't you be respected for that? It also avoids having to use phrases like, "Because I'm the grown-up, that's why!"

Left to his own devices...

So now that the Oscars are over, the theaters are completely devoid of anything even remotely watchable (not that H and I ever have time to go to the movies, and of all the Oscar nominated films we had seen one – Toy Story 3). Although, I am tempted by yet another Big Momma movie, and the Justin Bieber biopic. Speaking of crap movies, have you seen the trailer for Hall Pass? It gives me an eye twitch every time I do.

I really am so very tired of movies and television shows where the main conflict/source of comedy is a married man chafing under the yoke of his controlling wife. Apparently, in Hall Pass, this particular group of men are given a week off from marriage by their wives. What ensues, as I can best tell from the trailer, is gluttony at local chain restaurants, drunken jackassery, and sad attempts at sleeping with younger women. The question I have begun to ask myself is, why are men not offended by this portrayal of married male behavior?

These movies promote the idea that men are somehow “tamed” by women, and their behaviors drastically changed by no choice of their own. We are to believe that it is only the Puritanical influence of a woman that keeps men from existing in a feral state, and once liberated, every man’s instincts are to overeat, over-imbibe, watch sports non-stop, and try to sleep with anything with a pulse. Basically, that if left to their own devices, men would behave in a such a way as to lead to their own destruction. How does that not piss them off?

If left alone for a week, I am quite sure H would eat way too much bacon, drink a lot of beer and use the treadmill for hanging strips of homemade beef jerky. He would watch a lot of hockey, The Godfather trilogy, Jaws 1 and 2 and Star Wars Episodes IV,V and VI on constant loop. He would not shave, I fear what the toilet would begin to smell like and how many wet towels would wind up amassed on the bathroom floor before the mildew set in. *

And then he would get tired of it.

I’m sure after a week of living like he was a college freshman, H would realize eating that much saturated fat was not such a good idea, or at least his pants wouldn’t fit, which would motivate him to eat a few veggies and the nightly drinking would affect his sleep, and he would start to feel sluggish after not having run in a while (assuming his goddamn hamstring had healed, which it still hasn’t, rendering me a single parent of four for all intents and purposes). He would even launder a few towels and maybe run a Clorox wipe around the rim of the bowl. The movies would probably stay on though. And why would all of this happen? Because he is a grown-ass man.

The men in these movies are not men. They are men-children (is that the plural of man-child?), and using them and their behavior as examples of all men is like using the Real Housewives of New Jersey as examples of all stay-at-home mothers. I make much of H’s love of meat, but it’s really more of an occasional indulgence than daily habit. When left to his own devices H, like most men I know, actually does a decent job of feeding himself foods that won’t, you know, kill him, or result in morbid obesity, and has some standards of cleanliness.**

And the whole part about trying to sleep with someone else? That isn’t an insult to men, it’s an insult to marriage. As annoyed as i am by this men-as-children theme, I am equally annoyed with movies that refer to sleeping with one person for the rest of your life like some kind of death sentence. Sleeping with one person guarantees no one is comparing your dick with the guy she met at Nobu last week, and that you don’t have to pretend you like having your ears licked when it really makes you nauseous. *** No one knows how great sex can be in a loving, healthy marriage because we're too busy getting on with our lives and taking care of our kids to dish about it at brunch.

I wonder how you all feel, my male readers. Do these movies really bother you, or not? Women actually look pretty damn good in them – smarter, healthier, fitter and cleaner than their spouses – so it’s not really my problem. If it were me though , I’d be anooyed at being portrayed as a fat, stupid and led around by my genitals, unless under the control of members of the opposite sex.

Now, let me express how I hate movies where the main character is a man in a drag and a fat suit...

*I can’t even imagine H trying to pick up women. I love him, but game? He has none.

**Although his standards usually involve testing things with his sense of smell – laundry, toilets, garbage – he does seem immune to dust and dog hair.

**Now is when H yells at me for over-sharing and my father turns to puke in his office waste basket.