Thursday, March 21, 2013
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
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
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.
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.
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