Ok, before y’all roll your eyes and snark, “Slow LEARNER?!?! How about slow BLOGGER!” Yes. I am. I’ve been out of ideas, out of inspiration, out of focus. All that. Back in the day I might have said at this point, “I’m back!” But honestly, I don’t know. All I know is that for the first time in what seems like forever I’ve been having that “I’ve got to blog that” feeling.
Here’s the thing. I made a parenting breakthrough.
Sit down. I can’t help you. If you have one small brain cell in your body you already made this breakthrough. In fact, it probably wasn’t even a breakthrough for you. It probably came along as easily as, say, breathing. Ok, so with that…here it is.
Stop trying to get shit done!
Duh. I was finding that I was getting really impatient with my kids. They always wanted to be picked up, they always wanted my attention, blah blah blah…any toddler mom gets this. I had chalked it all up to a phase and had really latched on to this new theory that 18 months is the new Terrible Two.
I’ve realized that when we’re out, I’m so kid-focused. We go to parks or on nature walks where we frolic together and spend hours look at sticks. We go on errands where I talk to them constantly without any legitimate response as if I’m some kind of deranged person. We go to playdates where I drink champagne and complain to my fellow moms…oh wait. That’s not a good example. Anyway – most trips out of the house? Supermom!
At home? Eh. I’m always trying to accomplish stuff which pisses off the kids and then they come to get me and then they’re all whiny and then I’m annoyed and it’s a nasty circle. Nothing gets done, kids are pissed, I’m stressed and my house looks like shit! Not to mention the fact that my blog never gets updated. (They seem to REALLY hate it when I’m on the laptop.)
I don’t know when the realization hit me. Sit with them. Play. Have tea parties. ALL GODDAMN DAY. But it’s really not like that. When I’m in the mindset of doing other things, playing with them seems like a nuisance. I think, “Play with each other! With the Fisher Price showroom I’ve bought you! With the dog!” But in these past couple days playing with them has been fun. We giggle. We pretend. We chase each other. I pick them up because I want to. It’s so much fun. And the days fly by. Ok – full disclosure – they go by. No dragging, though!
I don’t mean to portray myself as Mommie Dearest. Even before all this, I played with them a lot. It was just that I also had the nerve to do my own thing on occasion. 20 month old kids are NOT having that. No ma’am.
The funny part is that surprisingly enough (or not at all, if you’re one of those lucky folk I mentioned above who has a brain) my house looks pretty much the same. Whether or not I spend my days trying to get shit done or trying to build the bestest MegaBlok tower, it’s a pit. I’ll clean up when they go to college.
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So, in addition to joining Weight Watchers, I’ve also begun the Couch to 5k running program. I actually started the program a while ago, and just finished Week 5 of 9. I actually think the running is totally separate from the weight thing. For me being a fatty is all about the food and drink. I love it. And I can eat like nobody’s business. Put it all together, though and I should be turning into Heidi Klum any day now.
Anyhoo. I was at the gym today lumbering along on the treadmill and very quickly into the workout I realized I’d chosen some quitter underwear. Quitters are more often found in the sock drawer – you know those ones that don’t stay up? But every once in a while I end up with a pair of quitter skivs and let me tell you that finding this out 5 minutes into a run is not good. I thought to myself – “Oh funny ha ha blog post! There I was saying how I’ve let myself go and all, and now my underwears won’t even stay up. Appropos!”
Later on, just as the voice in my head nice lady on the podcast said that our 20 minute run was over, my hand hit the cord from my headphones causing my beloved nano to fall onto the belt.
There was a horrible silence followed by an even more horrible clunking sound, which if you can believe it was followed by the EVEN. MORE. HORRIBLE. sound of it being spit out onto the floor. This is how I found it.
Not sure that ice and advil will help. Here’s hoping the fine fellows at the Apple store will help a fatty out.
P.S. Is it wrong that I just laughed at the Biggest Loser contestants who lose less than 5 lbs? They have Bob and Jillian and Jennie-O and that’s all they can come up with? I lost 4.6 last week with a trip to my favorite mexican restaurant, plus another trip to another mexican joint where I had 3 margaritas! I am so going to pay for this at my next weigh-in.
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I dig out my makeup bag from the deep recesses of the bathroom drawer. I “borrow” my favorite bangle bracelet from Sarah’s dress up basket. I find my jeans with the least kid-crud and pair them with a top that’s not my high school basketball t-shirt. I put on shoes that are neither sneakers nor flip flops! My hair is clean and headband-free.
Could it be? Date night with the Hubs?
Alas, no. “Moms Night Out.” Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing to be alassing about in regard to the MNO…it’s just that these nights are very quickly becoming my entire social life. I always feel so guilty that the only times I ever make an attempt to look decent happen to be when I’m going out without Will. He gets schlumpy, housepantsy, headbandy, yogurt-encrusted me. The poor bastard.
This morning as I was rushing out the door to a Weight Watchers meeting, I asked him if my hair looked ok. A Weight Watchers meeting. I can only imagine dude was like, “Whatever, heifer. You just go ahead looking nice for your fellow fatties. I’ll be here browsing mywifeletherselfgoandineedahottie.com.”
I guess what really needs to happen here is that we need to pony up and hire a babysitter from time to time. Not just for date nights, but for me during the day. Today I decided to finally use the golf lesson gift certificate I got for Mother’s Day. Once the lesson was over, I realized I could benefit from some alone time, so I went to the mall and just wandered around. It was mostly glorious, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that while Will was home I should be home with him. We should be having family time, not “Mommy looks longingly at clothes she can’t fit into” time. Not that I don’t need that time! I do. I really miss just being alone, but when it’s at the expense of family time, sometimes I get the guilts which turn into the shakeys, which turn into the aw crap, I might as well go homies…
Ahh, Guilt. You powerful bitch.
On the upside I got a new set of 600 thread count sheets and my golf instructor used his smooth British accent to be very complementary about my game. Woo hoo!
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You see that sign on the door?
“Babies napping, please do not ring bell.”
I kinda thought it was good. Short, to the point. And up until this morning, it’s been quite effective. Now, I know I am a complete asswipe about nap quietness. I know this. But they’re MY damn kids’ damn naps and I can be as asswipey as I want! And I can be mad when a the dishwasher repairman arrives and interprets the sign to mean: “…but it’s certainly ok to pound the shit out of the door and then shout who you are when I open it.”
Also? Once I’ve let you in (and implored you to keep it down) there’s no need to yell, ““OH YOU’RE WATCHING THE GAME!” Doubles tennis does not warrant this level of excitement. Even when it’s post-freak out Serena.
So thanks for the short naps, jerk. If you don’t actually fix the dishwasher, I’m coming after ya.
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The weather here in the Bay Area really can’t be beat. It’s September and while in most of the country, folks are dragging out the coats and jackets, here we’re looking at several more weeks of 75 degree days – wahoo! But eventually winter, or at least our version of it, will come. And I’m a little terrified. Here’s why.
In July I was having a great run of going to the gym. The babies were loving the kidcare, I was feeling fitter and all was well in the world. Then Sarah got a little sniffle. And then Matty and I went back east. And then her little sniffle turned into the Most. Horrific. Ear Infection. Ever.
Cut to the present. After returning from a few weeks in Palm Springs, I start going to the gym again. Both kids get sick. Coincidence? I think not. Of course, if I were just a more dedicated gym-goer, it would be much harder to pinpoint the cause, but that’s another problem for another day!
So, we’ve been pretty much confined to our house for the past 3 days and I’m going bonkers and so are the kids. I’ve had to skip a few playdates and classes and haven’t been back to the gym, and oh my god the walls are closing in on me! And she’s not too happy, either.
Seriously, though. Is this my future? Do I have to just shut down and go nowhere? ACK! I definitely can’t do that. At some point absolutely none of my pants will fit and I’ll simply have to go back to the gym. Or the loneliness will drive me batty and I’ll sell out my kids’ health for companionship. I will! There are just so many times I can read “Come Along, Daisy,” and I’m already really close to the limit.
Do I just douse the babes in Purell? Can you even do that to a 1 year old? Do I put Ziploc bags on each of their extremities? Do I just suck it up and stock up on Motrin and tissues while their immune systems fully develop?
I feel like a bit of an ass even writing this because I know that there are tons of kids in daycare who can’t stay home and avoid the germs. But just because I can, does that mean I have to?
Seriously. I’m asking.
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Today I watched Sarah do an unintentional forward flip off the kangaroo climber in the playroom. I watched her little neck bend in a way that it shouldn’t and I watched her body land in a crumpled little heap.
I shrieked, she wailed, and Matty made a bunch of noise, too. I picked her up and held her close as she cried and cried, but then I started to panic. That’s right about when I realized that they really should give some sort of exam at the hospital before sending people home with their babies. When do I take her to the ER? When do I give Tylenol? When do I pat her on the shoulder and tell her to buck up? How is a person supposed to know? I just wanted to keep holding her, but I had Matty trying to climb the offending apparatus, and I had this sense that I was supposed to examine her. What I was looking for, I had no idea. I kept lying her down on the couch to check her out, but she kept getting so pissed off whenever I put her down, so my inspections were brief.
Worked for me, though because as I sad, I had no idea what the fuck to look for. Just what ARE the external signs of internal bleeding?
She cried for several minutes, and then even worse, she just SAT there for another couple of minutes. That was the scariest part. That was the part that I was dreading in the re-telling.
First Responder: “So, ma’am, you say your daughter went silent for several minutes after a traumatic fall, yet you STILL didn’t do anything?”
Worthless Mother: “Well…uh…I…right. I did ah…nothing.”
Then the dog walked by and Sarah started laughing and lunging at her to give her a kiss. Her legs were involved in the lunge, so I could tell she wasn’t paralyzed, but my internal terror lingered.
All afternoon I kept poking her in the neck to see if she was bothered by it. Guess what? She was. Wouldn’t you be if some Giantesse was poking YOU in the neck? Happily, though, she wasn’t in pain. Within about 30 minutes of The Incident she was totally herself. Me? I needed another 6 hours and two huge vodka lemonades. I’m not even sure I’m really ok yet, but the vodka is telling me I am.
But honestly. Isn’t there a handy guidebook I could use for these kinds of things. When do I call the doc? When do I just rush to the ER? When do I stay home and apply an ice pack? I’ve heard rumors of a “Mother’s Intuition” but I don’t think I have it. I just sat there during this ordeal second guessing every non-decision I made. Even though she seems to be completely ok, I can’t even go back in the room where it happened.
The lack of confidence and lack of know-how makes me feel like an imposter. And it brings back those feelings I had all through the four years of trying and the 9 months of gestating… Those feelings of “Yeah I think I want a baby, but what the hell am I going to do with it if it ever arrives?”
I know I really need to get over this. Toddlers injure themselves daily (at least). I’ll probably have tons more opportunities to doubt myself in just the next few days. Fuuuuck.
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