Body by Baby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy Freaks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I brake for wine!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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