It's my turn to play....

The weather has been gorgeous here in New Town, so Little Man and I have been spending a lot of time at local playgrounds.  I throw a water bottle and snack in my purse, along with sunscreen and some bandaids and we're good to go (I never realized the mothers of young boys physically can not leave the house without bandaids).  I bring my Kindle with us and when we get to the park I settle in on a shady bench for a nice long read.

When I look up to make sure LM isn't having some kind of jungle gym-related crisis, I see a mom trying to push a toddler on a swing while simultaneously joggle the infant in her Baby Bjorn and she seems to be giving me the stink eye.  Little Man is nicely playing with another kid, and there hasn't been any screaming, so I know my kid hasn't done anything to her kid.  Then I realize I am sitting and reading, childless and undisturbed, in a skirt and flats, apparently having showered recently.  I remember being on the delivering end of that look all too well.

Nine long years ago, I recall being the mother of one toddler and entering what appeared to be the Thunderdome - or at least that's what the playground seemed to me at the time.  It was teaming with screaming, six year-old hellions, running across the wobbly bridge, scattering pre-schoolers in their wake, and it featured a toddler-crushing gauntlet composed of multiple playground swings.  These were the days when I myself had to climb Mt. Playmobile and hope I wouldn't humiliate myself getting my baby-weight-bearing hips lodged at the top of the slide after the incline proved too terrifying for my wee one to conquer alone.  My arms still ache from the memory of supporting a toddler's full body weight so she could make it across the monkey bars "all by herself" while I dodged swinging feet inches from my face.

Then I had another kid and the playground became even more fun as I enjoyed speed-nursing on a bench while hoping my older one wouldn't run a kamikaze mission in front of the swings while I was occupied (why do they DO that?)  And I loved trying to stop an infant from trying to eat handful after handful of wood chips when she wouldn't stay on the blanket I had futily plopped her on at the edge of the play area to prevent her from being trampled.  The only break I got was when the little one was on the swings because one of my offspring was imprisoned and it allowed me a few minutes to stand completely upright.

I too used to look at "those" mothers on the benches with a mixture of disdain and jealousy.  Disdain because I didn't think they were working as hard as I was and jealousy because, well, they were sitting down during daylight hours and they weren't even on a toilet.  What I didn't know back then was "those" mothers, among whose lucky ranks I now count myself, had earned that spot on the bench with blood, sweat and slide rash.  They had been through the siege and had earned some R&R in the form of a rapidly-cooling takeout cup of coffee and a chapter of the new David Sedaris.

So to you mothers coming up behind me and just entering "the yard", spare me your derision.  I have done my time.  I have also taught my kids the basics - Wait your turn.  Don't climb up the slide the wrong way.  Stay off those boingy, ride-on animals meant for toddlers and don't rock the bouncy bridge when little kids are present.  Generally, don't be a playground dick.  - Because of this hard work, I don't need to hover around them anymore.

Let's make a deal. You scramble after your kids, and I will scream at mine, "WATCH OUT FOR THE BABIES!", every three pages.

Don't worry, sister.  You'll be sitting next to me soon enough.

Dr. Ferber and Dr. Ruth

"It's true, it's one of the secrets that no one ever tells you. I would sit around with my girlfriends who have kids - and, actually, my one girlfriend who has kids, Alice - and she would complain about how she and Gary never did it anymore. She didn't even complain about it, now that I think about it. She just said it matter-of-factly. She said they were up all night, they were both exhausted all the time, the kids just took every sexual impulse they had out of them. " - Sally, from When Harry Met Sally

Is it a secret?  Really?  Isn't one of the things people joke about after you tell them you are expecting your first child is that along with sleep, and eating a hot meal simultaneously as a couple, sex will become one of those things you only get to do when you are away from the kids for the night?  Once I was walking evidence of the sex I was having with my husband, I was afraid we might not actually ever have it again.  I would look at people who had multiple children and wonder, if everyone moves to Chastity Town  after their first kid, how did they ever procreate again?  How did The Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe do it?

Then I had my baby and it all became clear.  When it comes to sex after kids, there are various stages and there is a definite sweet spot.

Stage One is the "Are You Fucking Kidding Me?" Stage.  This phase usually lasts for the first eight to ten weeks post-partum.  Use what ever euphemism you'd like, shitting a bowling ball seems to be a favorite, but I think, the sentence , "I just passed a human head  out of my vagina." is enough to convey the painful physics involved in childbirth and the reluctance a woman may feel to put anything else in there for a while afterwards.  In my own case, I was kept blissfully unaware of the damage #1's giant noggin had done to my lady bits until I was preparing for #2's birth and the doctor, reviewing the notes from my last delivery, murmured, "third degree tear, but rectum intact".  Well.  Thank God for small favors.  

Luckily, women are put in a medically-induced chastity belt for the first six weeks after birth.  So our poor husbands, many of whom have not had any sex in the last few months, know not to even bother trying.  Once I was medically cleared though, I felt like H was envisioning me as a turkey with those little paper hats on its drumsticks, like a starving cartoon character.  So with leaking breasts and barely having stopped wearing maternity pants, women reenter the world of intercourse.  There are two liquids that make this possible - wine and lube.  I don't know how women with no access to either of these ever get back in the sack.  The wine  is to get your head out of mommy-mode, wondering when the baby will next wake and want to use your breasts for their intended function.  And the lube?  See above: but rectum intact.  

Once you get over the hurdle that is your first time post-partum, things can pretty much get back to normal.  I can hear the collective gasps of disbelief.  "What?  Aren't you so exhausted from having a baby to care for that you can't even think about sex?"  Nope, now you enter Stage Two, the "Mr. Sandman is my Pimp" Stage.

When your kids are under the age of three, they sleep a lot.  Or they should at least - my apologies to anyone who has had a sleep-challenged baby.  Most kids sleep about twelve hours a night, giving parents an hour or two on either end to chose to go at it.  H and I would get #1 to sleep at seven, and crack open a bottle of wine, knowing we could have drinks, dinner, and fool around , without having to stay up past ten.  And naptime?  That is God's gift to parents on weekends.  The person who wrote the song "Afternoon Delight" was clearly the parent of small children.  The other bonus of having little kids is that for the first few years they are prisoners in those tiny baby jails called cribs, so there are no nocturnal wanderings to worry about.   And once they do graduate to a bed, they are such dopes any unfortunate interruptions can be pawned off as "Mommy and Daddy were playing" without any psychological harm.  Typically, Stage Two is when most siblings are conceived.  Having had three babies in five years, I am living proof.  This makes sense, and this stage is useful if you plan on having multiple kids.  But you better hurry up because Stage Three is coming.  The "I Left My Mojo on the Soccer Field" Stage.

Feel free to insert an activity your kids partake in regularly, football, dance, piano lessons, but once your kids reach school age your sex life become a logistical nightmare.  In Stage Three, you are on the go all the time, so not only are you never home, but naps are clearly a thing of the past.   Daytime booty is out for the most part, unless, Like H and I, you "clean the attic" a lot while the kids play Wii for half an hour.  As for the evenings, your children are staying up later.  The grown-up portion of the evening used to start at the dot of seven.  Now, come nine o'clock, you are finishing up Teen Beach Movie on Disney channel, while trying to keep your own eyes open after twelve hours of carting your kids to various activities.  Once you do get the progeny off to bed, they are fully mobile and capable of rational thought, so being walked in on becomes a real issue. Or maybe that's just us.  We live in an old house with no bedroom locks and my husband is not handy.  I should tell him a few hours at Home Depot might improve his life drastically.   Anyway, they may not know what sex is exactly, but they know you're not "having a tickle fight" anymore.  And sleepovers?  Forget it.  It's hard enough to have sex with your own kids in the house.  I have been firmly stuck in Stage Three and will be for a while now, with Little Man just having turned six.  You become like the Macgyvers of intercourse, quick and resourceful.  It's not always pretty, but it gets the job done.

I know there must other stages.  Like Stage Four, the "Quick Let's Do It Before We Have to Pick Them Up From the Mall" Stage, when all of our kids have various evening activities that will give us a few precious hours alone.  And Stage Five, the "We Are Finally Alone Again!" Stage, when everyone goes off to college.  I know we'll get there some day.  My fear is we will be suffering from some of these age-related sexual conditions vaguely referred to in pharmaceutical ads.  But then again, that's what the meds are for.

I have said before, these are the years you have to fight to defend your marriage from the assault of family life, and your sex life is part of that.  Keeping a strong connection may take some creativity, and require your last bit of energy, but isn't your partner worth it?  Sure, there are plenty of times one of you is too tired, or not in the mood, and certain instances of charity occur, but keeping the fires burning with those small sparks, keeps the flame form going out entirely, and allows it to flare up on those rare occasions you do find yourselves alone in a hotel room.  OK, I'm done with the fire metaphor.  It's getting a little weird.

For those of you in Stage Two, enjoy it while it lasts.  Consider yourself informed, Sally.

See You (In Hell) September

I'm sweating as I rush into the Starbucks, dying for an iced coffee on our way to the pool one last time before school starts tomorrow.  Standing in line, going into autopilot, reciting my "Reasons Why You Can Not Have a Cake Pop Before Lunch" speech, I notice the woman in front of me is wearing Uggs and orders a Pumkpin Spice Latte.  Record scratch.  A what?  I look around me.  There is a cartoon of the Headless Horseman drawn on the the menu board, the ice cube decals advertising cold beverages that used to dot the windows are gone.  They have been replaced by signs for the PSL, Pumpkin Spice Latte, now given an acronym for its tenth anniversary.

Oh, September.  You again?

Don't get me wrong, I like fall as much as the average person.  Bright, crisp days, apple-picking, pumpkins, beautiful, fall foliage, cider donuts - those are all pretty enjoyable.  Especially the donuts.  It's the horrible transition month of September I hate with the firs of a thousand suns.  It seems the minute the calendar turns from the eighth month to the ninth, we are supposed to forget that just a few days ago we were still on the beach and throw on a wool sweater.

Maybe it's not September's fault.  Maybe it's where it falls in the change of seasons.  With the other seasons there is a gradual transition.  Fall to winter is heralded by dropping temperatures and the gentle falling of leaves, a bit at a time, until the limbs are bare and it starts to snow.  We throw on an extra layer, but we were already pretty chilly in fall, so there's no great gnashing of teeth. Going from a PSL (I might assault the first person not employed by Starbucks to use this abbreviation - you have been warned) to a Peppermint Mocha doesn't seem that big a change.  Winter to spring, the crocuses slowly push their way out of the ground.  We can watch the snow melt knowing warmer days are coming.  Holidays like St. Patrick's Day and Easter get us geared up for the next season.  Tired of rich, winter fare, foods like asparagus and fava beans come into season giving us a taste of green.  Spring to summer, the world gets greener and more vibrant, school is winding down and we look forward, with anticipation, to unscheduled days by the pool.  Produce abounds and we enjoy it all.

But Summer to fall?  Summer to fall is like someone turning on the lights at the end of the party.  You were all drunk and having fun and now it's time to go find your coat.  September takes the blame for flipping the switch, I suppose.

The weather in September stinks.  One day is sixty-five degrees, the next is ninety-five.  We all want to act like fall has officially begun and jump the gun with sweaters and boots.  It's as if we get one fifty-eight degree morning and we all pack away our shorts and t-shirts.  Even when the first day of school is sure to be a scorcher, my children will try to persuade me into letting them wear long sleeves, and maybe even a sweater.  Apple picking, a favorite September activity, conjures up images of scarves and cable knit sweaters, does it not?  Then we go wearing said items while paying for the privilege of being migrant workers, only to lose ten pounds of sweat weight.  My closets and drawers look like a rummage sale gone awry as I pull out a few warmer items for the kids out of the attic, but can't put away their summer clothes either.  I always feel a little bit cold or a little bit hot the entire month like I'm the Goldilocks of weather.

The food also stinks in this betwixt and between month.  Come fall, we have all had our fill of burgers, hot dogs, and other barbecue foods.  Turning to my recipe file, I consider things like stews and roasts and, of course, on the days I have planned to cook those dishes it's an inferno outside and the idea of chili repulsive.  And what is in season in early Fall? We are weary of tomatoes, zucchini and corn, but roasted butternut squash just feels wrong.  And why, whyyyy, does every edible food item become available in pumpkin flavor in September?  They are making Pumpkin Spice M&Ms and Pumpkin Pie Spice Pringles.  Although, I must be among the vast minority of humans who think artificially pumpkin-flavored foods are about as appetizing as vomit.  The only thing that should be pumpkin-flavored is PUMPKIN.  Along with sarin gas, this artificial flavor should be considered a chemical weapon.

Of course, you all know I hate back to school, the New Year's Day of September.  The relaxed atmosphere of the Mean Mommy household evaporates like water off a beach towel come the first day.  The superstores prematurely try to kill my buzz in August with their clever commercials.  No matter how funky the school-band version of "Push It" was, my kids and I ran from the family room with fingers stuck in our ears to avoid the idea of summer ending.  The schedules, the forms, the meetings, the school supplies.  Maybe if I had paid attention to those commercials I wouldn't get stuck in what looks like the bank run scene from It's a Wonderful Life at my local Staples.

In a few weeks, my disdain will ebb.  The weather will make it less ridiculous to crack out the Luke Skywalkers and I will begin lighting cinnamon candles in the house.  But right now, with the laundry still carrying the lingering scent of sunscreen, and beach sand still making its way out of our shoes and luggage, I can't picture it.  Maybe my summers are too good.  I don't want to let them go.

The idea of drinking anything pumpkin-flavored, though, still makes me want to gag.

I'm baaaaack!

Hello, dear readers!

I can't believe it's been more than two months since I last posted.  I'm not sure how many of you I even have left.  That was I risk I consciously took when I decided to go on an unannounced hiatus this summer.  I realized, after my last post in July, that writing was slowly moving from my "Want To" list, to my "Have To" list and that was making me really sad. That's when I decided to take a break and spend my summer being with my kids pursuing other interests (see below) and getting involved in all the summer shenanigans we usually partake in.

Two of my new interests:

Stand-up paddleboarding is da' bomb.

I became a Girls on the Run coach which has, pretty much changed my life.

So I hope a few of you are still around and still interested in some of my nonsense. I was going to write "my musings", but using that word made me picture myself typing, wearing an ironic t-shirt and skinny jeans in a hipster pose of self-aware nonchalance.  "Who me? I'm just working on my blog."  Since as a former teacher, and now SAHM, my calendar runs September to August, let's consider this the new year and a new beginning.

School is in.
MM

Idiots, Trucks and Dinos or Why I Hate Reading to My Son

Hello, dear readers.  What do you mean, "where have you been for a month?"  Ignore that calendar!  I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I have neglected you.  But you really didn't want me writing about nothing except end-of-the-school-year performances, which were so numerous and lengthy I spent as many hours at the school as if gone back to teaching full-time. You certainly didn't want posts about my never-ending anxiety concerning #1's graduation from elementary school, getting a cell phone and her going "into town" alone to get pizza with her pals.  OK, well I will be writing about some of that in the near future.

On a more positive note, summer is in full swing.  My brood and I have already begun living by The Summer Commandments, and that means numerous trips to the library.  Is there anything better than going to the library with your children in the summer - leisurely wandering the stacks with them, reminiscing about books you loved as a kid, or being introduced yourself to the wonderful new books that have been written since you were a child?  I rejoiced when #2 decided to read Harriet the Spy, a story about a plucky, independent little girl with an active imagination who fancies herself the neighborhood secret agent.  My eldest and I both were intrigued by the premise of her choice, Fever 1793, in which the main character is a pre-teen girl struggling to survive in yellow fever-ravaged colonial Philadelphia.  And this is what Little Man chose:

There is no book I hate more than, No, David! by David Shannon.*  The main character, based on the author one is to suppose, is an ill-behaved little boy who spends the entire book being scolded by his mother who, based on her lack of effectiveness, is nothing but a figure head.  And this is when I scream to the heavens, "WHERE ARE ALL THE BOOKS FOR BOYS????"

Having two girls first, in my experience with the characters of modern children's literature, female lead characters are all pretty similar to Olivia of the famous Ian Falconer book series - a spunky female pig who marches to her own drum, but is kept in line by the firm, yet gentle, limits set by her exhausted parents.  Now I'm stuck with David the nose-picking hater of pants with a lame duck of a mother.

In my search for a decent book to read to my son, I have stumbled upon two categories of characters, none of which are fulfilling my needs.  No, David!, is of the "bad boy" category.  In that ill-behaving fraternity are Max of Where the Wild Things Are as well as Alexander of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.  Those two books are classics, and I do enjoy reading them to some extent, but why are these boys so angry?  Actually, Alex seems clinically depressed.  I get it, a little rebellion is entertaining to kids, but at least Olivia sits in her room contritely after she tries to make an imitation Jackson Pollack painting in her bedroom.  I want to smack Max in his scowling little face.  And another sucker of a mother in that book.  She caves and gives the little shit his dinner after all without so much as an apology from him.

The other category of characters are not even human or, at least, regular boys.  I call these books the "turn little boys into something else" books.  I swear fully half of the books written for little guys feature either pirates or anthropomorphic vehicles and dinosaurs.  Yes, some level of fantasy is good, even Olivia imagines she is one of Degas' ballerinas, so I can sort of get behind How I Became a Pirate (illustrated, coincidentally, by David Shannon), but again, pirates glorify bad behavior so they can almost be put in the "bad boy" category.  Why can't it be How I Became a Firefighter? Or How I Became a Professional Athlete with No Gambling, Violence or Substance Abuse Problem?

The vehicle and dinosaur books almost don't even count, as humanizing them is generally used as a tool to educate the reader about non-fiction information, such as in the book I Stink!:

The most well known has to be the How Do Dinosaurs series.  Let's be honest, we all thank Jane Yolen for penning those thinly-veiled brain-washing books.  "How does a dinosaur say goodnight when Papa comes in to turn off the light? Does a dinosaur stomp his feet on the floor and shout, 'I want to hear one book more?'" Little Man looks at me like, "Um, yes...Wait, no...No, right?"  With leading question and answers related to eating, school and playtime, skillfully hidden in a book starring your son's favorite prehistoric creatures, you might wind up with a Stepford son after all.

Then there's this marketer's dream:

It's like the children's book version of Alien vs. Predator.  It's crap, but it sells.

The only two human, boy characters I have found I can stand so far are Peter of Ezra Jack Keat's books The Snowy Day, Peters' Chair and Goggles and Harold of Harold and the Purple Crayon.  Both boys are kind souls with adventurous spirits, but both of these books are older than I am, so they lack a certain relevance to my son's life.  Peter is sent to get milk for his mother at age five for Peter's sake!  Harold, judging by his manual dexterity, must be at least five, but is bald like an infant and still wears footy pajamas.

Where is my son's Olivia?????

The reason I get so mad about this discrepancy is I fear it will erode my son's taste in books.  How will I get him interested in Encyclopedia Brown when he cut his reading teeth on David's jackassery?   We are raising a generation of boys who have been fed a literary diet of fast food so why do we expect their tastes to miraculously change once they hit the upper grades? Have you seen the Captain Underpants series?  It gives me a rash.  Maybe the problem is the majority of children's book authors are women and they don't feel qualified to write for little boys.  Or maybe publishers don't think these types of books will sell.  I know I'd buy as many as they'd put out there.

In any case, let me put it out there.  Please, children's authors, PLEASE, can one of you come up with a  male character who is strong, smart, and sensitive?  One who makes no reference to bodily functions or sasses his mother.  One who likes sports and music and gets along with his little sister.  Maybe even follow Falconer's lead and throw in a some artistic and cultural references.

Can someone please write about a kid we actually want our sons to be like?

Thanks.

*I do love some of his other books such as, Duck on a Bike and Too Many Toys, but, man, that David sucks.

Marriage: A Work in Progress

"You make concessions when you're married a long time that you don't believe you'll ever make when you're beginning. You say to yourself when you're young, oh, I wouldn't tolerate this or that or the other thing, you say love is the most important thing in the world and there's only one kind of love and it makes you feel different than you feel the rest of the time, like you're all lit up. But time goes by and you've slept together a thousand nights and smelled like spit up when babies are sick and seen your body droop and get soft. And some nights you say to yourself, it's not enough, I won't put up with another minute. And then the next morning you wake up and the kitchen smells like coffee and the children have their hair all brushed and the birds are eating out of the feeder and you look at your husband and he's not the person you used to think he was but he's your life. The house and the children and so much of what you do is built around him and your life, too, your history. If you take him out it's like cutting his face out of all pictures, there's a big hole and it's ugly. It would ruin everything. It's more than love, it's more important than love."

I came across this quote rereading Anna Quindlen's One True Thing and it seems so apropos today, my fifteenth wedding anniversary.  "Wow!", some of you must be saying, "Her marriage must really be on the rocks for her to reference this quote on her anniversary."  But I feel quite the contrary.  After fifteen years of being married to the same man, I am proud to say I feel this quote summarizes my marriage, and marriage in general, pretty well.

Of course, this passage is about a cheating husband, so let's ignore that part, but if instead you define the "I won't put up with another minute" as the incessant leaving of socks on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink, or insistance on watching The Bachelor, we have all had those moments where you look around and say, "This is not what I signed up for."  How did you go from gazing longingly into each other's eyes, to barely glancing at each other over the dinner table while trying to cajole the products of your love into please eating their broccoli?  From not being able to tear yourselves out of bed to threatening your significant other with ejection from said bed if he farts like that again?  

In between these moments of boredom, annoyance and hard work, are the brighter moments of romance, fun and camaraderie that make it all worth it.  But are those moments enough? I believe they are.  I believe marriage is a work of pointillism.  Up close, it looks horrible and messy and doesn't make any sense, but look at the bigger picture and you see how all these small moments, when viewed as a whole, come together to create a beautiful life.   

Another thing I love about this passage is  Anna Quindlen's honesty, having her character admit "he's not the person you used to think he was, but he's your life".   Who is that person you feel in love with?  Where is he or she now?  You probably aren't married to him or her, but to a person who vaguely reminds you of that person.  After fifteen years of marriage (and twenty of partnership), I can say with complete conviction, I am not the girl H married.  How could I still be after all the highs and lows that life has thrown our way, and not to mention, three children?  

You are a different person now. Certain parts of your personality, left unchecked, have become more dominant as circumstances have dictated.  Some of the same things that drew you to your partner, have morphed and  are probably among the things that drive you craziest.  His single-minded focus for things he is passionate about was fun when that thing was you and, later in life, has made him successful, but it also forces you to occasionally have to pry the Blackberry out of his cramped hands.  And your knack for planning sure came in handy when you were back-packing through Italy, but now drives him to drink when you can't seem to have an un-planned Sunday.  But hopefully through the years, you have grown in complimentary ways.  Like two rocks rubbing together, you change, but, in response, so does your partner, yet you still fit together.

So Happy Anniversary, H.  No, we're not the two kids in the picture anymore (clearly, neither one of us has the same hair color), but I like this us better.  Life has put some bumps in our road for sure, but it's always been OK if you were riding with me.  And you let me drive.  And bring a map.  And pack the snacks.

Trademark optional

Diaromas, mobiles, posters, "A Day in the Life of" reports, paper mache globes...I would like to issue a formal apology to the parents of every child I ever taught.  Now that I am a parent myself, I realize I had no fucking clue what a wretched pain in the ass these projects were I so cavalierly assigned on a regular basis.  With two children in the higher primary grades, I now know how many parent hours were put into these assignments. The trips to the craft store, where I stand in line, impatiently tapping my foot, behind people with waaaay too much time on their hands judging by the amount of scrapbooking, bedazzling and decoupage supplies in their child-free carts, all so I can buy popsicle sticks to glue into a replica of the Jamestown settlement with a recalcitrant child long into the night.  Karma is a bitch.  It was during such a project though, that I recently learned something - other than never go to Michaels later than ten in the morning or on Senior Tuesday.

#1 came home with a project titled "My Family Flag".  Before I even finished reading the assignment  I was making a shopping list in my head, wondering, "Do I still have that felt from the Native American headdress project?"  Before we could even begin cutting and hot gluing (you are not officially a mother of school-aged children until you own a hot glue gun and have several sizes of google-y eyes in your house at all times), she had to come up with her concept.  This particular project was for a Social Studies unit about countries, and in a pretty interesting twist, the teacher was having each child treat their families as if they were countries themselves.  On her flag, #1 had to have our family motto, and representations of our national pastimes and industries - basically, what we do as a family.

My eldest had done some brainstorming at school (love when they are given class time to work!), and had a pretty decent list of things we do - going to the beach, reading, riding bikes, cooking etc.  So now we had to tackle the motto.  As I steeled myself for what was sure to be a long discussion, where I tried not to feed her answers, my daughter came up with some great ideas.  It seems over the past ten years, I had been saying certain things over and over again - creating mottos without intending to. When I thought about it, I realized every family needs, if not a motto, then a few credos by which they live - and if we really want our children to absorb them they need to be said out loud and often.

We think the lessons we are trying to teach our kids come across loud and clear through our actions, but their interpretations of what we are doing may not be the lesson we are trying to teach.  You may think you are forging strong sibling bonds, forcing your children to compromise when playing with each other, but they might just be thinking "How do I get my own way this time?" When you are clear about the message you are trying to send, there can be no mixed signals, and when heard enough times (roughly a thousand for the average eight year-old) it will eventually become rote.


H and I stumbled upon this accidentally in our parenting and it has proven quite useful.  For example, I frown upon my children using the term "best friend", I feel it sets everyone up for heartbreak and disappointment at some point.  Instead, when it comes up I say, "Yes, So-and-so is your very, very good friend, but your siblings are your best friends."  Sure, maybe #1 can't imagine Little Man as her top confidante as he lays on the floor banging Hot Wheels cars into his forehead, but in fifteen years that will change.  And she will be open to that by drilling it into her that he and#2 are the two people, other than her parents, who she can trust most in this world.


Taking it back a step further, this flag project brought to light that, as parents, we need to distinctly specify the values upon which we will raise our families.  These vague, amorphous ideas of love and respect are all well and good, but a concise phrase to bring it into focus allows you to make parenting decisions by asking yourself if your choices are meeting these goals.  These phrases can also be succinct reminders of longer discussions you have about these values.  All of the ideas #1 had for her motto were based around the central principal H and I repeat again and again to our kids - "Family comes first".  It handily covers who to side with when your friend and your sibling are in a disagreement, or why, no, you can't invite a friend along on our family outing. H and I can also use this slogan as a litmus test for decision we ourselves our making.  Have we been too busy?  Have we been spending enough time with the kids, and interacting with them in a way that is meaningful?  We have tried to teach our kids that we are a strong unit and what matters most is caring for and enjoying that unity.  I guess we had a motto and never knew it.

In the end, #1 decided upon "Better Together", which I thought was a beautiful interpretation of our motto.  Although, she later told me she thought of it when the Jack Johnson station was on Pandora.  I will choose to ignore that and, based on the discussions we had, claim this as a parenting victory.  Precious are moments when you see your parenting efforts come to fruition and  I will not have this one stolen from me by a guy who plays the ukulele.

Besides, I had already envisioned Mean Mommy Family t-shirts being printed up and everything.  Now we just need a logo....

That time of the month....

I'm tired, bloated, and crampy.   I have a (more than usual) hair-trigger temper, alternating with periods of wanting to sob, and I am doing everything in my power to not eat the stale Easter candy lingering in the kids' baskets I have yet to clean out and put away.  Yes, dear readers, I have a wicked case of PMS.

"PMS?", you ask incredulously?  "What are you, a Cathy comic?"

Yes, PMS.  I know, I know, as a modern, educated woman, I should be debunking this myth that women become unstable for a week each month, which fully justifies the corporate glass ceiling and why we should never have a woman President.  And yet....there it is.

In my twenties I jeered at Midol ads and considered PMS to be a product of the anti-feminist propaganda machine.  Coincidentally, I was also on the pill at the time, which prevents you from experiencing any of the nasty side effects of having to ride Th Great Hormone Cyclone each month.  Now that I am Laird Hamilton, having spent a decade surfing the tides of estrogen in my body each month, I think those commercials are not graphic enough.  There needs to be footage of a woman clutching a chocolate donut, screaming at her kids to "PUT YOUR SHOES ON!!!!" until a vein pops out on her forehead, then the same woman sitting at the kitchen table, crying, after her children have left for school.  And I am not the only one who feels this way.  We have all shared tales of PMS-induced, low-level insanity.  We all want to deny it, but then the only other explanation would be that we really are insane.  I'll blame it on the hormones, thank you.  PMS is like racism.  Nobody talks about it openly in mixed company, but we know it exists.

Since the women's movement first began, one theory on gaining equality was to deny any differences between men and women.  I think this is ludicrous.  It shows how strong women are that we do all we do even when we feel like crap.  I have a repeated fantasy where H has to experience one menstrual cycle and still function in his daily life.  This is second only to my desire for him to experience just one transitional labor contraction and poop on a table in front of people.  But I digress.  I think it is a testament to womankind that even when we feel like we could justifiably kill everyone around us, we hold it together.  Sure, we may not be Susie Sunshine about it, but we get it done.  Susie Sunshine brings up another important point.   Maybe women are expected to be too nice all the damn time.  Maybe PMS gives us the excuse to not give a shit and be a little cranky.  See: Men every day.

Even though we soldier on through this discomfort, I think Mother Nature, being a woman, knew that women would work themselves to death, and was trying to engineer a sort of "pause" button.  Our cycles follow the moon, which, even as a celestial being, knows to take a breather once a month and disappear.  No, this doesn't mean we can't be CEO because we'd be holed up wearing bunny slippers watching Lifetime movies every twenty-eight days, it just means that women, who are typically more critical of themselves (see: fat men in Speedos), are given a physical cue to take it down a notch and be kinder to ourselves.  See again: men are every day.

So how do we deal with this?  And by "we" I don't just mean women, I mean our partners as well.  Because the men in our lives are as affected by our behavior as we are.  But if our husbands dare ask if we are having our "ladies days", they risk being beheaded by the sheer force of our rage.  "PMS" is like the N-word for women.  We can say it all we want, but you can't.  I think the fear is, once we admit it's an issue, we are giving men permission to treat us like dim-witted slaves to our ovaries.  I think we should all approach it like we would having a cold.  When you have one, it's OK to admit it and you're allowed to be a little cranky.  No condescending judgement.

I myself am altering my orignal plan today to sand and paint the bathroom trim.  It will do me good to take a break - and I would've spent the whole project muttering myself into a rage over somebody, who shall remain nameless*, taking showers long enough to already start peeling the year-old paint.  H has also been told there will likely be takeout for dinner.  Maybe instead of my usual running around, I'll put up my feet and watch some bad TV while eating chocolate.

"AACK!!!!"

*H!  Wtf, man?  I have one hundred times the hair to wash and square inches of skin to shave, yet I shower in half the time you do.  I know the lack of functioning lock means you're not jerking off.  What exactly are you doing in there?

A Mother's Bill of Rights

I was blowing my hair out the other morning - YES! On a weekday! - when I thought to myself, "Why  did it take me ten years to realize I could take the time to do this once in a while?"  Why had I spent so many years shoving my hair under a Yankee hat?  And to go even further, why did I feel guilty about sitting down and reading a book for half an hour or making myself a lunch that didn't consist of grilled cheese crust and leftover apple slices?  I realized that for the last decade I had been living like a second class citizen in this country that is my own home.

To benefit those of you forming your own domestic principalities, I have put together a list of those things, by your mere existence as the head of your family, that you are entitled to.  Demanding them all may be too much for you right now, but eventually attaining them all should be the norm for all stay-at-home parents.

Article I

The right to a shower every twenty-four hours.  You might be too exhausted to actually haul yourself out of bed, remove your clothing and step under running water.  Perhaps you prefer to sleep an extra twenty minutes and you don't think you smell that bad, but the right to wash off your thighs the applesauce that has seeped through your yoga pants, or been gently massaged through your hair by chubby baby fingers, is inalienable.  Exercising it, optional.

Article II

The right to wear (at least) one thing each day that makes you feel any of the following: cute, sexy, attractive, young, hip, strong, sassy or put-together.   As Elizabeth Berg wrote, "She wore a sweatshirt and jeans and lovely pearl studs in her ears -- dressing up a bit of herself so she wouldn't forget how, no doubt. You will see this in mothers of small children: they dress up from the neck up. Everything else is in danger of peanut butter."  Don't endanger your best duds, but give yourself five minutes to throw on some lipstick, or that t-shirt from college that makes you laugh.  It doesn't matter how it makes you look, it matters how it makes you feel - like something other than a peanut butter sandwich-making, Lego-building, carpool-driving autobot.

Article III

The right to exercise for thirty minutes a day.  Many women I know feel too guilty taking time to squeeze fitness into an already packed day.  Guess what?  Doing so will actually make you a better mother.  As Phil Dunphy puts it "She has to run everyday or she goes crazy.  She's like a border collie."  Consider getting a little movement to be the adult version of "shaking your sillies out".  I find it much easier to deal with a bowl of cereal being spilt on the floor, splattering milk everywhere, and Little Man walking through it, obliviously tracking wet Cheerios through the house, when I have a nice shot of endorphins running through my system.  It's like your body's homemade wine - it takes the edge off of things.  So plop your kids on the couch with your ipad so you can do a workout tape.  Raising children is a physical challenge, so shouldn't you be training?

Article IV

The right to eat one meal a day sitting down, preferably, with utensils.  I think one meal of three is a realistic goal.  I laugh at magazines telling me I should be sitting down and savoring my food at each and every meal.  While I'm not stuffing a McRib down my throat in the van, I am very often eating a veggie wrap while I help with homework or do a jigsaw puzzle.  I draw the line at dinner though.  Requests during our evening meal are met with, "When I'm done eating", as I am usually dining sans husband, but when he is home, he runs all interference so I can eat food that hasn't gone stone cold.  Choose whichever meal is easiest for you to get some peace.  If your kids nap, guess what?  That's your lunch hour.  Punch out and eat.

Article V

The right to thirty minutes of leisure time a day.  Do you have half of The Bachelor finale you still haven't watched since during last night's viewing your husband started yelling about his "testicles actually shrinking back up into his body", or some such nonsense?  Do you have a book you've been dying to read, but can't make any dent in during the nine minutes you crack it open before bed each night, only to fall asleep with it on your face?  Well here's your permission to enjoy these pastimes freely.  I'll let you in on a little secret.  At work in an office, most people put in a solid four to five hours of labor, tops.  There is plenty of internet surfing, online shopping, office gossip and coffee breaks to break up the day.  And let's not even talk about commute time.  It's no wonder H got through four season of Mad Men in less than a month.  Your day is roughly twelve hours long, if not longer.  One episode of Hoarders is only forty minutes on the DVR, go for it.

Article VI

The right to have an uninterrupted conversation.  We have all had a friend over, or been on the phone, only to have our chat repeatedly brought to a halt with, "Watch me roll my tongue!", "Where are my fairy wings?", or "Can you untie this knot, please?" All of these attempted interjections can be handily turned  away with a furrowed brow and a pursed lip.  My children call it my "beaver face".  They know, unless they are bleeding, or something is on fire, they need to wait.  I do not believe children should be seen and not heard, but I firmly believe they do not always need to be heard the second their impulse-driven brains demand it.  Mommy needs to dissect the ending of the last Jodi Picoult novel with her pal while you play on the swings.  Cram it for two minutes.  
Go practice in the mirror until you find a suitable facial expression.

Article VII

The right to have the weekend feel different from the work week.  Do ask your significant other to go to the office on Saturday?  No, so why should all forty-eight hours of the weekend feel like the rest of the week for you?  Along with general splitting of childcare and household work, ask your other to pick up a chore you are just sick and tired of, say, preparing lunch or unloading the dishwasher.  I even went as far to declare "I don't do shit on weekends", relegating H to diaper duty (or doody).  Just do something, anything to make it feel not like Tuesday every damn day.  

Article VIII

The right to six hours of sleep.  OK, I realize for some of you that seems an unattainable dream, like getting your old boobs back, but at some point, the baby will stop nursing or the stomach bug will pass. At that point, you have the right to kick any unwanted offspring out of your bed.  There is a reason they use sleep-deprivation as a method of torture - you will lose your ever-loving mind without rest.  Do not feel guilty about it. Limiting the time they keep you awake limits the time you spend screaming the next day.  Simple cause and effect.

So let this be the dawn of a new day in your land!  Stand up for your rights!  A well-rested, well-fed, well-reality TV'd ruler makes for a happy kingdom.

Treat yourself like the queen you are.

If you don't have anything nice to say...wait...just don't say anything.

"Two major weight loss companies won't touch Kim Kardashian's 'big fat ass' with a 10-foot pole." -TMZ


For those of you living under a rock, or who never go to a grocery store, Kim Kardashian is pregnant.  And for those same, trash-magazine deprived folk, she's gained some weight in the process.  On a regular day, I think the publishers of this critical, self-image-destroying poison are evil incarnate.  But when they skewer, yet another, celebrity for packing on the LBs while gestating, they have sunk to a new low.  

The reason I care so much is that sadly, it's not just the tabloids who participate in the judgement of a woman's body while gestating.  The public shaming of pregnant celebrities makes it socially acceptable for anyone to comment on a woman's size during a time when skinny thighs are the last thing on her mind.  No, I am not saying these magazines are the ones who invented the cruel baby-weight comments, but US Weekly makes body-shaming the pregnant into a topic of conversation between normal people in the break room. It's the Average Josephine making cracks,  no longer just the crazy, old lady on the bus asking a woman if she's having twins.  It is bad enough non-pregnant women feel they have to a conform to a very narrow body standard.  Now pregnant woman also have to worry about fitting into a mold.  

Pregnancy is the first time, for many of us, we feel outside of society's harsh, body-judging glare. Or at least we used to.  Do some of us, like Mean Mommy, celebrate the removing of those shackles with a few too many fries and brownies?  Sure.  Should you say something about it?  Abso-fucking-lutely not.  I'll let you in on a secret.  Pregnant women know when and if they are getting fat and they do not give a shit.  I knew perfectly well I was going to have to run off every pint of Ben & Jerry's I made H go get me in the dark of night, I didn't need anyone to tell me.  That high fat dairy helped me shove down some of the anxiety about whether my baby was going to be born with all its parts and whether I was going to be a good mother.  Emotional eating?  Yes?  But what else could I do?  Drink?  OK, maybe get some therapy, but that doesn't taste as good.

Here's where some will say, "But shouldn't something be said about a woman's weight for the health of the baby?"  Yes, and unless you have been to medical school and are being paid by this woman's insurance, keep your well-meaning advice to yourself.  She and her healthcare provider will have a constructive conversation about her weight.  And is the baby's health what's really being talked about when scrutinizing a pregnant woman's weight?  No, it's about her fitting into a bikini anytime in the next five years and you know it, so shut up.

During a pregnancy, a woman should not be concerned about how her body looks, but rather with how her body is functioning.  So it seems strange to me it is the one time in life people who barely know you feel free to comment on your figure.  Coming back form our babymoon during my pregnancy with Little Man, the TSA worker in the Virgin Islands told me I was "carrying well", as it was "all in my belly".  Bets were even taken among the workers as to the baby's gender.  That's my favorite ruse.  "Let's pretend we're using the mother's body shape as an indicator of gender so we can talk about her ass".  Even while being complimented it felt weird and wrong.* 

So can we all make a pact?  Can we all stop feeling so free to comment on pregnant women's bodies?  Good, bad, indifferent, it's just not OK.  (I am of the vast monitory who think it's not OK to talk about non-pregnant women's bodies, but I'll choose my battles for now.)  Women have enough to worry about during these nine months, let's not add how they look in those painfully ugly maternity bathing suits to the list.  

And any comments after she's had the baby?  Punishable by death.  Agreed?

*Don't think I never experienced pregnancy fat-shame.  I made a conscious effort to stay away from Benjamin and Jerald during LM's time in the oven, knowing I wouldn't have any time to lose the weight with two other kids.  I was precariously close to, if not over, two hundred pounds during my other two gestations.

The gift of time.

The email from the teacher read, "If you have time, could we please meet this Friday?  I have a few things I'd like to discuss."

And I knew in my bones exactly what this meeting would be about - having Little Man repeat kindergarten.  How did I know?  I knew because the universe has been sending my subtle messages about my little guy and I just haven't really wanted to listen.  Although I am loathe to quote her, Oprah says, "The universe speaks to us, first in whispers.  Then it get louder and louder and louder."  The universe wasn't quite shouting at me yet, but it wanted to have a meeting.

A while ago, I wrote about LM and his penchant for hugging.  Well, in addition to that, he also cries occasionally when I drop him off at school.  He is not ready to sleep without a Pull-up yet, and while other boys in his class are throwing spirals on the playground after school, he can barely run in a straight line.  Essentially, LM is immature for his five years.  With a late August birthday, one would think I would have held him back and not had him start kindergarten, as is the almost- knee-jerk reaction of parents, especially of boys, who are born in the summer.  But come registration time last spring, the behaviors above didn't seem all that immature when he was four, and then he added in an extra twist by becoming an advanced reader. So I made the decision, rather than have an academically bored child, I would send him to school, knowing he would have some catching up to do in other areas.  It would happen.  Eventually.

But it didn't.

Little Man has made friends in school, some of them quite close, but the other, more mature, boys have no time for him.  He can't keep up on the playground, and he doesn't get some of the social nuances that come with time.  If I am honest with myself, and it is very painful to be, I have spent the last few months exasperated with my child.  I cringe over how many times I said in my own head,  "Why is he acting like such a baby???".  I have wanted my child to be other than what he is to fit in and I am ashamed of that - even if it was because I wanted his life to be easy.  Aren't we all supposed to love our children exactly the way they are?  What kind of mother am I?  I'm the kind of mother who wants to go open a vein the bathroom when she tries to teach her son to defend himself from a older, playground bully and he asks, not having yet learned anything about that ways of the world, "Why would he hit me if he's my friend?"  I thought if he would only grow up a little faster, all of these problems would sort themselves out.

Grow up faster?  Isn't that exactly the opposite of the way I have been raising my children?  Why was I pushing him ahead?  Yes, it will be socially awkward for a while when his friends move up without him, but better a few difficult months than a lifetime of struggle.  If I kept on this trajectory, he might always be the slowest or the last in everything.  Sure, he might fit in just fine academically, but in all other areas, he might always struggle and that's not a fun way to go through life.  So after meeting with the teacher, who said out loud every single one of my fears about LM's development, I decided to give myself and LM the gift of time (yes, I was right about the purpose of the meeting, as I am about where #2 has left her stuffed whale and whether or not #1 has really brushed her hair or just scraped it back into a knotty ponytail).  It is such an immense weight off my shoulders, knowing he will have another full year to grow and develop.  As for his reading, the teacher and I will put together a plan for him to continue to be challenged next year, so I'm not worried.  I also know a few boys in LM's class now who are repeating, and they are such strong, confident kids, who the others look up to, I am reassured I am making the right decision.  I think it would be kind of awesome next year if LM winds up setting an example of kindness and empathy for the younger boys.

It is so, so hard to admit when you have made a mistake as a parent - and this one could have been a doozy.  Sometimes, expectations and reality are never going to match up and you have to adjust accordingly.  Thankfully, the universe got the message across before it was too late and before my little guy ever had the chance to feel his mother didn't appreciate the sweet, gentle soul he is.  I could never, ever forgive myself for that.

See your children for who they are, not what you want them to be.  The universe gave them to you that way for a reason.

Tweedily deedily dee, Tweedily deedily dee...

So I have done it, dear readers.  I have finally stopped swimming against the tide and I have joined Twitter.  Upon doing so, Twitter recommended I follow Tyra Banks, LeBron James and Justin Timberlake, so I'm not sure who Twitter thinks I am.  Apparently a nineteen year-old black man.

I signed up for two reasons.  One, H, arbiter of all things technology and media in the MM household, informed me blog consumption was on the wane and all the cool kids on Wall Street (air quotes on that) are using Twitter to pass on information and that is the trend in main stream media.  And, two, because, frankly I have so little time to write lately I felt this might be a good way for me to stay in touch with you all - even if it's just a little snippet a few times a week.

So here I go into a brave new world and I hope you all follow me.  @MaryMeanMommy

Footloose and stroller free!

On a recent trip to the mall with Little Man, we were chugging along, popping in and out of stores hitting the carousel and the play area, avoiding the Cinnabon - because, really, is there a more perfect representation of what is wrong with this country than eating four pounds of dough and icing while shopping? - when I realized I was sweating as hard as if I were on a run.  Was I having a hot flash?  Was this early onset menopause?  Then I realized I was wearing a down parka as well as carrying three shopping bags and my purse.  In other words, I realized this was my first winter without a stroller.

Like most major changes in the world of parenthood, this milestone crept up on me unnoticed, yet when I finally did realize, it was a jaw-dropping discovery.  As the mother of more than one child, your stroller is like an extra appendage, and quite often the only way you are moving, from point A to point B, the mass of humanity entrusted to your care and the roughly one hundred pounds of gear required to feed, clean and soothe them.  Unable to part with any of our strollers since every time I gave birth I was knocked back to square one like the stroller version of the game Sorry!, our garage, for many years, looked like the stoller department of BuyBuyBaby*.  Looking at all of them was like looking at a wheeled timeline of my life.

The first in the line-up was the Snap 'n Go.  This stroller, which is essentially only a frame, had a short lifespan, but was vital to our survival when we were living in a fourth floor walk-up with no garage.  The Snap 'n Go perfectly reflects life with one child.  Convenient, lightweight, it barely slows you down**.  I had two giant diaper bag hooks on my SnG since I had to pack the entire contents of the nursery to walk down the street to get milk at the Korean grocery or surely my baby would die. I see women now with small, battery powered fans attached to their SnG's to keep their babies cool.  What a great idea.  Had they been invented at the time, I would have used mine to cool myself of during attacks of panic sweat when I realized my baby needed to nurse in public.

Once I realized the benefits of not having to unbuckle my baby to take her out of the car were no longer outweighing the horror of my one, over-developed bicep, we moved on to the single upright stroller.  This stroller is like your first new car; you want all the bells and whistles like the toy bar with interchangeable pieces and the attachable snack cup - for your child, not you, but that feature would be convenient since this around the time mothers begin sustaining themselves on foods that can only be eaten by the handful while standing- sadly, no flame magnets.  The single stroller is also your first experience with how seriously a child can destroy a moving vehicle.  Once pristine, after my third child, my single was covered in unidentifiable stains and Cheerio dust was embedded in every seam. The snack tray still sticky with what I think was once juice.  I think.  It's really good practice for accepting what your car will eventually look like.

Next came The Behemoth.  The double stroller.  Pictured below with two infant seats, the double they made back in my day was the size of the QE2, with roughly the same maneuverability.

Look at what they have today:

I bet you can actually get this thing through the aisles of a Bed Bath and Beyond without taking out a display of Snuggies!  And it folds up with the flip of a a lever.  The QE2 required a degree in engineering to collapse, so rather than look like Snoopy trying to set up the ping pong table in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, most times I just put down the seats in the back of the van and loaded it as-is.  That did wonders for my back.

As soon as I could get rid of the infant carrier, I bought a double jogging stroller for the two girls.  Let's call it a "jogging" stroller since I didn't even run with it.  I tried, but I have never been one to be able to zone out while running with my kids, or rather, my kids would not let me.  I couldn't run with any music, since, approximately every three minutes, my children had to either point out some mundane object we were passing, or request, water, a snack, and for the canopy to be adjusted.  I also couldn't get the stride right.  I always wound up leaning on the handrail kicking my legs out behind me like I was on the wall in a water aerobics class.  I love that the stroller came with a handbrake and a tether to attach to your wrist.  What post-partum Flo Jo is running that fast?  Regardless of its impracticality for fitness, the large wheels did make it less annoying to go for walks in the neighborhood, and in later years, for traversing the rough terrain of the soccer field.

I pingponged back and forth among these strollers as the girls grew and Little Man came on the scene.  My oldest was ejected entirely from any kind of Mommy-assisted transport at the tender age of five.  Poor thing, she was young in the days before all of these ride-along contraptions.  Like this one with not one, but TWO platforms for older siblings.

I'm sorry, but if you are old enough to cut your own food, you can use the legs God gave you.

Then it came time to purchase the last vehicle in my fleet.  The stroller that gets you across the border from Toddlerland to Kidville.  The umbrella stroller.  These things can be called strollers only in the academic sense.  They have wheels and they can carry a child, but not much else.  Umbrella strollers fold up like their namesake, are made with the same thin fabric and weigh about as much.  The seatbelt is a strap with the flimsiest of buckles, there is not storage compartment of bar to attach and geegaws, and the tiny rubber wheels barely pivot.  The US is for the day you can finally stick a granola bar, a Ziploc with three wipes and a Hot Wheels car in your purse*** and be fully prepared for the day.  If the double stroller is the stroller equivalent of crawling, then the umbrella stroller is sprinting.  This is the stroller you use when you and the rest of your kids need to tear through the airport to get to Disney World and your last child can't keep up.

Now my garage is free of any Mommy-powered wheeled vehicles.  Am I sad?  A little.  Especially now that they sell snappy strollers like this one that are not only cute, but don't force you to break your back.  And why did it take so long for the stroller Gods to realize stopping to check on your kid while walking is super-annoying and children were not going to be developmentally stunted if they were facing backwards?

I see the end of our strollers days as the beginning of our days as a family in full motion.  Even though strollers help you to be more mobile, they are actually a giant albatross around your neck in many scenarios (see: airplanes, subways, any building built before 1960).  I feel so unburdened never again having to fold and unfold, load and unload one of these apparatuses  or say, "Go ahead, I'll stay with the stroller."

Now where the hell do I put my coat?

*Another realization I made this year was that I have not set foot in a baby store in ages.  When I did go in to purchase a shower gift recently, it was like visiting your old college campus.  Everything looks vaguely familiar, but everyone seems so young and there have been so many changes you barely know your way around.
**Apologies my parent-of-one readers.  Let's talk after child #2.
**I noticed the diaper bag-to-purse milestone much earlier since it allowed my to re-enter the world of designer handbags.

The path to calm is paved with good intentions.

Hello!  Finally, dear readers, life is resuming with a sense of normalcy as the kitchen project is pretty much complete.  After having to take over general contracting duties*, as our once normal, hard-working GC had some kind of psychotic break, and then nearly having a similar episode of my own, we went from this:

To this:

(Apologies to friends and family who have been subject to more kitchen update photos in person and via Facebook, than they ever were of my newborn children.)


Part of my return to my regular life, is no longer having to run to the stone or lumber yard, or turn my whole day upside down because the electrical inspector can come RIGHT NOW, and having the time to get back to my exercise class.  Much needed to get rid of the weight from the stress-induced eating pictured above (yes, I am eating directly out of a tub of ice cream).  In fact, I even had time to try a new class this week - hot yoga.

Hot yoga, at least the one I took, is a ninety minute group class in a room heated to roughly one hundred degrees.  Considering my love of exercising in public and my propensity for sweating like a Kardashian when the cameras turn off, this seems like the perfect choice for me, yes?  But, when my friend, L, mentioned this class to me and how much she loves it, instead of writing it off, I remembered how surprised I was by the barre class I now adore, and I decided to give it a shot this past Sunday.  So I grabbed my mat and a towel and headed off.

Upon my arrival it was clear this was not at all like my previous yoga experience in Florida,  It was a sleek, modern studio - completely cat hair and sheepskin free! - and all of my fellow students had hygienic mats, no prayers rugs, which considering the amount of perspiring we were about to do, seemed prudent.  Reassured, I dumped my stuff in the locker area and headed into the studio with my friend, L.

Crossing the threshold, I really knew this would not be like my time with Yogi Dev of the soothing gong.  Walking into the studio was like walking into a tea tree-scented pizza oven.  The instructor from the previous class was using a mop to clean, what appeared to be large puddles of water off the floor.  Was that sweat?   OK, I could last an hour.  Oh, yes, at this point I thought the class was only sixty minutes.  I was not corrected until our instructor, Jodi,  closed the door, trapping me in the Zen Inferno.  I looked around like a caged animal, positive by the end of the class I was going to disappear like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving nothing but a pile of lycra clothing behind.  Sweat already dripping down my ass crack and running from my armpits, I settle onto my mat ready to fight my way through this thing and Jodi begins her opening remarks.  And...

This is traditionally where I begin a snarky retelling of my experience, but it was really very inspiring.  Yes, the sweating was pretty awful.  When I say it came off of me in buckets, I mean BUCKETS.  Four inch pools of Mary-water gathered on my soaked mat despite my swiping at them with my two ineffective, sweat-soaked hand towels.  I thought the woman in front of me a masochist, in her long-sleeved top, but I realized quickly that extra fabric absorbs the sweat, prevent the "rain" situation created when I was in plank position and liquid dripped from twenty different points of my body.  It was little comfort knowing I wasn't the only one, since I was imagining the microbes living in the sweat-fog filling the air, like swimming in a  human filth soup.  Yet, despite all this, the class was wonderful.

Yes, the physical part was challenging, but it was the mental component that I found the most compelling.  During Jodi's talk at the beginning of class she spoke about examining the emotions and reactions that come up during class instead of fighting them.  I didn't have to wait until we started getting all bendy to do that.  I was already feeling uncomfortable, and my knee-jerk reaction in those situations is to reject what's making me feel that way, typically with internal scoffing.  Like Long-sleeved Lady.  I failed to mention previously that she looked like an Athleta ad, all taught, toned muscle and super flexible.  I was feeling intimidated so I made fun of her shirt in my head.  Maybe I do that a lot.  Maybe it's not such a great thing.  "Bah!  Hippie nonsense!", my internal voice said.

Jodi also spoke of expectations.  How if we come into class expecting to perform perfect poses, we have already set ourselves up for disappointment.  Survival being my only objective, I didn't feel this applied to me.  But then she said the same is true of the rest of our lives.  Expectation breeds disappointment.  "When I come to teach, I really don't expect anyone to show up.  If you do, great."  I scoffed internally (See?  All the time!), and thought, "That seems like the attitude of a real go-getter."  It's easy to have no exptectations if you don't want to get anywhere.  Practically the only way my type-A brain can operate is with expectations.  My knee jerked wanting to think about Jodi living in some crappy apartment, scraping by on her instructor's salary, and instead I wondered what it would be like to not be constantly setting bars for one's self.  Even without being judgmental, I still believe goal-setting is part of success.

Then while in chaturanga**, something my sister, KK***, said popped into my head.  There is a big difference between expectation and intention.  You can fully intend to do something, and focus on it with all your energy, and the action of pursuing it becomes success.  Achievement of the goal is still the end game, but it becomes more of a positive process.  This was kind of a lightbulb moment for me.  Everyday, at five in the morning, I sit with my coffee and make the day's list.  It is always too long and impossible to complete, setting me up for disappointment everyday.  Healthy, yes?  For example, on the list this week would be "unpack entire house from kitchen project - kitchen, family room, basement, attic, garage".  See below:

But what if instead of setting such lofty goals, I put "unpack for two hours" on the list?

I decided this week to trying to work with intention instead of expectation.  And I have to say, not having my inner drill sergeant barking, "GET IT DONE!", in my ear was pretty freeing.  I haven't been ending my days with a feeling of failure.  If I carried through with my intentions, I feel successful.  I'm sure in a situation with a time frame Drill Sergeant MM would come back full force, combat boots and all, and I would welcome her. then.  She is very useful at times, and too much a part of my personality to ever really get rid of.  Five AM runs require some serious mental tricks.

I left that studio feeling much lighter - and not just because of the roughly two gallons of sweat I left on the floor (apologies to H for the condition of the Jeep, I didn't bring any dry pants).  I used to think yoga was about leaving in a blissed-out state and losing that state was failure   Now I know it is a time to examination your mind's reactions and the movements are way of keeping your body busy so you can do that.  Like a bag of Goldfish and a Hot Wheels for my body, to use a mothering metaphor.  Whatever discoveries you walk out with are success.

So is not not passing out in a puddle of your on secretions.  Namaste.

*The fee for my services?  Tickets to Beyonce at Mohegan Sun in August.  No, I'm not kidding.
**Again with the different language.  I need Rosetta Stone - Yoga.
***As a kid, she used to eat soap in the bathtub, now she gives me valuable emotional and spiritual advice.  Go figure.