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