Skinny Girls at the Gym: An Analysis

I am continuing my quest to lose 40 lbs. by the time I turn 39+1 in September.  I have been checking out my "physique" in the aerobics room mirror, and I have decided that there are certain stereotypes perpetuated by gym members.

1.  The Fat Girl.  She (hypothetically, of course) is the red-faced girl who cringes every time the instructor says to “engage those abs.”  Um, if I (I mean SHE) could do that we wouldn’t be here in the first place, now would we?  Also, I don't do lunges because 

       a.  my knees hurt and 

       b. when I do lunges I look like an ostrich doing the Charleston

She's double-bagging the sports bras and still worries about her boobs hitting her in the eyes and knees during particularly aerobic exercises.  Picture Tyler Perry's Madea doing jumping jacks; you get the idea. 

2.  The Overachieving Pregnant Girl.  She continues working out during all 9 months of her pregnancy.  Perhaps if I had worked out instead of feasting on that 5-lb. bag of Tootsie Roll Midgets my Mother-in-Law bought me at Costco . . . man, I love that woman . . . I wouldn't have gained so much weight during pregnancy.  My advice to you, Overachieving Pregnant Girl?  If this is your first pregnancy, you’re gonna wish you’d taken a nap instead of stuffing that belly into spandex because that first week of new babyhood is the great equalizer; no amount of exercise is gonna change the fact that you’re an emotional time bomb, your teeth have 3-days-worth of gunk on them, and you haven’t washed your hair since sometime last week.  Tootsie Roll Midgets sound pretty damn good right about now, don't they?

3.  The Supportive BFF.  She is your gorgeous, skinny, in-shape friend who reminds you that you’re on the right track / getting to the gym is half the battle / you’re getting healthy, etc.  And sometimes she takes you to Starbucks after you leave the gym.  We love her.  But sometimes we wish she was fat.

4.   Jane Fonda.  This is the woman who has decided that after a 20 year sabbatical, she’s gonna get back in shape.  She pulled out her spandex, her fluffy socks, and her braided headband and programmed Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” on her ipod.  Stand next to her; you’ll look good.

5.  The Weight Lifter.  You know how everyone else in the class has weights ranging in size from  2.5-5 lbs?  She’s got the 10 pounder, and still acts as if she’s not being challenged.  B*tch.

6.  The Regular.  She never misses a class, and sometimes she sticks around for the next class.  I’m drenched in sweat and have jello legs, but she needs another hour of physical exertion.  Apparently she doesn't have the Mt. Everest of laundry waiting for her at home.

7.  The Non-Sweater.  While I am feeling my pulse and praying that my heart doesn’t explode right in the middle of the gym floor, she’s barely breaking a sweat.  This is a blessing in disguise, however.  When I have a heart attack, I’m pretty sure she’ll have the energy to run and get the defibrillators.

8.  The Jokester.  While planking, she makes a funny about how “it’s not like you’re working with 400 lbs. of body weight!  It’s only 200 lbs.”  Hahahahaha . . . wait.  Hey!

9.  The Old Lady.  She’s 90 years old, but she’s still shaking her money-maker at the gym.  When I’m 90, I plan to be fat and surly.  (You know . . . a complete change from what I am now.)  

10. The Former Marine.  I’m doing girly push ups and silently repeating the mantra my arms will not give out causing my face to slam into the floor, and she’s going all Demi Moore G.I. Jane.  This is probably the same woman who just competed in the Tough Mudder – the race where contestants compete in a muddy obstacle course for the purpose of . . . well, I don’t know what the purpose is.  I just know that I don't like getting persweaty, so you can be damn sure I don’t like rolling around in the mud like a prized swine.  Makes me think of all the laundry I’d have to do afterwards.  And bacon.

My Life as a Single Mom - Day 2

Day 2 is not going any better than Day 1 did. 

Large had a basketball game this morning, which meant that we ALL had to escort him to school.  In an attempt to give myself a little treat, we stopped at Starbucks on the way and I purchased a Venti cup of caffeinated goodness.  We arrived at school and I was all proud of myself for arriving on time with a few minutes to spare.  I had packed a little bag of Monster Trucks for Medium and a bin of toys for Small, and we set up camp in a corner of the gym.

On time?  Check!  Prepared?  Check!

And then Small spilled my super-duper cup o’ joe all over the floor.  I bolted for the bathroom to get paper towels only to have a representative from the Parks Authority chase after me. 

“Excuse me!” he called.  “Someone spilled a drink all over the place in here.”

Well, thanks for the heads up, Johnny Newsflash.

I explained that I was getting paper towels, and he graciously offered to go find a mop.  Yes, there was THAT much coffee.

I don’t know if I was more annoyed that I was down on my hands and knees with those industrial strength brown school paper towels that have the absorbency of sandpaper, or that I had only had ONE sip of my coffee.  I have mentioned once or twice how much I likes my coffee, right?

Large does not have a future in the NBA.  He had fun, but the entire experience was the basketball equivalent of the Bad News Bears.  Medium complained the entire time that he was bored, he had nothing to do, he was hungry, how much longer, etc.  Small wiggled, writhed, screamed, fell backwards onto the seat behind him, ran from me, threw a car onto the court, and ate raisins off the floor.  Medium took full advantage of this situation and began teasing Small by holding his car just out of his reach, showing him the ball and then taking it away from him, and “wrestling” him and then claiming he couldn’t hear my desperate request for him to pleasefortheloveofpete knock it off!

Because I clearly appeared to have the situation firmly under control, another mommy offered her husband’s services and had him take Large to their next destination while I headed home with the younger two.

I have a hard time asking for help.  I remember Hubby calling my mom soon after Large was born and asking her to come help me with our newborn for a few days as he was going back to work.  I was exhausted and emotional, (which I now refer to as Tuesday,) but felt like I should be able to do this motherhood thing on my own.  Since then I have learned, especially recently, that I need to ask for help and I need to accept it when it is offered.  I am always willing to get the neighbor kids off the bus when mom or dad is running a little late or to watch an extra kid so he doesn’t have to sit through his sister’s soccer practice.  I need to get rid of the Mommy Guilt I feel when I need to lean on other people.  I’ve never wanted to burden another parent with any extra responsibilities because we ALL have a lot on our plates. 

It was such a relief when the other family asked if they could take Large after practice so I wouldn’t have to drag Medium and Small to yet another activity which would be rife with the temptation of bad behavior.  I HATE it when my children act poorly, especially in public when there are witnesses, so being able to avoid the possibility of a meltdown, either from my kids or myself, was a real lifesaver. 

Later in the day, while Small napped, we headed outside to play catch.  Sure enough, our neighbor’s parents pulled into their usual parking space out front, and I made the requisite jokes about parking there at their own risk, are you sure you wanna park there, etc.  Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.  The neighbor’s daughter was playing too, so when I ran inside to make sure the baby wasn’t crying, I gave her my glove. 

One minute.  That’s as long as I was gone before Large ran in and said that she had been hurt.  He had thrown the ball to/at her, it hit her square in the nose, and she was in pain.

Seriously?  We haven’t done enough damage to this family within the past few days? 

I checked to make sure she was okay, then announced that we’d be heading around back to play in hopes that we wouldn’t cause as much damage to body or property.  Tomorrow I will suggest that they call their insurance agent and simply explain that the BoyMommy family lives across the street, at which point their agent will nod knowingly and amend any catastrophic policy they may already have.

Day 2 = Fail.

BoyMommy for President!

Top Ten Reasons I Could Never Be the President:

1.  I’m pretty sure it would be frowned upon if I took naps in the middle of the day.  “Wha?  There’s a crisis in the Middle East?  Whew!  I gotta take a snoozer.  See ya in a couple hours.

2.  I have an irrational need for people to like me.  If a poll came out that said my approval ratings were down, I’m pretty sure it would hurt my feelings and I’d start crying.  Which leads me to . . .

3.  I tend to cry in stressful situtions.  It’s how I relieve stress.  I recognize, however, that an all-out fit of hysterics might be little comfort to the good people of America.

4.  I’m pretty sure all those people with good smarts on the CNN could make me look like a dumbass.

5.  You know how J Crew got a boost in sales after Michele Obama sported some of their duds?  I don’t think the nation is ready for a President who wears Target tshirts. 

6.  I can guarantee I would NOT balance the budget.  I can’t balance my checkbook.  I haven’t done math in a checkbook since 1998 when Hubby and I got engaged.  I agreed to marry him because my parents refused to balance my checkbook anymore, and, well, somebody’s gotta do it and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me.

7.  I’m not so good at the Geography either.

Oh, honey . . . NO.

8.  Newsweek and Time would have to add a Style section, just so they could feature photos of me in various bad fashion choices, a la the Glamour Don’t pages.

9.  I’m horrified at the notion that the front page of the Washington Post would easily have a plethora of unflattering photos from which to choose.  Look, here she is eating french fries!  Here she is tripping over her own feet because she’s wearing those damn clogs again!  Here she is spending our tax dollars at the Starbucks drive-thru!

10.  If my family had to ride in a bus across the country in order to drum up votes, I’m pretty sure Hubby and I would strangle each other somewhere around Kansas.  

Why I Dislike Fish: a Commentary

In an attempt to preserve my sanity, I registered the boys for a couple half-day summer camps.  This week they are at the same location, but unfortunately, the drop-off and pick-up times are different.   I drive 20 minutes from home to drop Large off at 8:00, then I have an hour to kill before I drop Medium off at 9:00.  I drive 20 minutes back home so I can get Small down for a morning nap, then I drive 20 minutes back so I can pick Large up at 12:30, kill an hour and a half and pick Medium up at 2:00.

Excellent plan.

Today is Wednesday.  I’ve already been to Target twice this week, Starbucks three times, McDonald’s once, and Corner Bakery once. 

Yesterday, while Medium, Small, and I were enjoying a leisurely hot beverage at Starbucks,  Medium noticed some birds pecking at the previous diner’s crumbs.

Medium:  “Why do you hate birds so much?”

Mommy:  “They’re like flying rats,” as my friend Lisa would say.  (Lisa’s been BEGGING for a shout-out in the blog, and I’m sure she’ll be psyched to get it via a commentary on flying rats.) 

“They’re dirty and they eat other people’s leftovers.”

Empty fish tank, just like I like it.
(Although the handwritten note that says
"I love Buddy, love Medium" does tug
at the heart strings . . . 

Medium:  “Then how come you don’t like fish?”

Mommy:  “They swim in their own poop.”

Medium:  “They don’t swim in poop!  They swim in water!”

Mommy:  “They poop in the water, and then they swim in it.  They eat out of the same water.  They eat and poop in the same water.  It’s disgusting.” 

At this, the quiet gentleman working on his computer at the table next to us, (or perhaps looking at porn; I don’t really know  . . . ) chuckled. 

Mommy, to Chuckling Gentleman: “I’m right, right?  They swim, eat, and poop in the same water.”

Chuckling Gentleman: “That ain’t right.”

Mommy:  “Medium here got a fish for his birthday.  The fish is dead already because I told my husband that I REFUSE to take care of a fish.  If that means the fish dies, then the kids have just learned a valuable lesson in the Circle of Life.”

Chuckling Gentleman, to Medium: “It’s all right, little buddy.  You’ll get another fish someday.”

Not if I have anything to say about it  . . . .

Marble Motivation

A few weeks ago we were invited to a cookout with some friends who also have children.  While the dads entertained the children with armpit farts and water guns, the mommies started discussing helpful child-rearing ideas. 

Idea #1 was suggested by a mom to three girls who are similar in age to my three boys.  Her suggestion was that you mark a dot with a Sharpie on the tag inside their clothes.  The oldest gets one dot, the middle child gets two dots, and the youngest gets three dots.  When clothes are handed down from the oldest to the middle child, you simply add a dot.  When you’re doing laundry, you can quickly look at the tag and know which clothes belong to which child.  Brilliant!  Why didn’t I think of that?

I suggested Idea #2, and here’s where it gets tricky.  There was some “discussion” among the moms regarding the validity of Idea #2.

I read in Disney’s FamilyFun Magazine about a family that used a Marble Jar to motivate their children to help out around the house.  In “Don’t Lose Your Marbles,” author Melissa O’Brian discusses how she implemented a system in which her kids are rewarded with a certain number of marbles based on the task they complete. 

I sat down and modified her system to work with our family:

1 marble	2 marbles	3 marbles
Take out trash/recycling	No timeouts	Try new foods
Put dishes in sink	Clean out car	Bring toys in from yard
Sort laundry: lights & darks	Sweep or swiffer	Put clean clothes away
Dust surfaces	Vacuum family room	Empty dishwasher
Brush teeth	Clean up playroom	Windex windows
Stay in bed after tuck-in	Clean up basement	Clean bathroom
Get dressed by yourself	Stay on smiley/green
Feed dog

When they fill their marble jars, they get $10 to spend however they choose.  The added bonus to this, of course, is that they almost always choose to go to Target to spend their money.  There's a Starbucks there.  Aces!  (Perhaps I've mentioned this before.)

I explained the system to my girlfriends at dinner.  One of them said she thought it was a great idea.  She's my new BFF.  And then there was the other one.  There’s always ONE, isn’t there?

“You’re a MUCH nicer mom than I am.  I expect them to do those things anyway.”

I think that was a DIG; the insinuation being that her children are intrinsically motivated to contribute to the successful functioning of their family unit, while mine will only work for marbles.  She continued by talking about how her girls make their beds every morning and put their own clothes away in their drawers and eat vegetables and whatnot. 

Good.  For.  You.

The marble system works for us.  When I say that the garbage needs to go out, the boys (sometimes . . . if there’s nothing good on tv . . . ) come running into the kitchen to take it out.  They help move clothes from the washer to the dryer.  They help me Swiffer the kitchen floor.  It’s not perfect, but that’s not the point.  They’re helping out around the house, and I see no reason why they shouldn’t be rewarded for good behavior.  We don’t give them some arbitrary weekly allowance; they help because we’re a family and we all contribute.

I realize this system might not work for everyone, but it’s what works in our family.  I’m not one for making passive-aggressive comments that sound like a compliment but are really an indication that I’m SO MUCH BETTER at this parenting thing than my contemporaries.  Guess what?  My kids eat McDonald’s . . . sometimes several times a week if I’m desperate.  Large’s t-shirt drawer looks like someone opened it, threw a live grenade in, and then closed it again.  And raw vegetables are certainly not their snack of choice. 

HOWEVER, do her children unload the dishwasher out of the goodness of their little 6-year-old hearts?  I tend to think not.

Summer "Vacation" - DAY 1

Summer “Vacation” has arrived.  I have taken some artistic liberties with the timeline, but all of the following have occurred at some point during the first 4 days of summer break.

DAY 1

7:44 AM – kids wake up.  Even though I have to rouse them from catatonic slumber on school days, today they are ready to go, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

8:07 AM – I am told that I “can’t be on WipeOut because small people do better.”

8:32 AM – the very first “What are we gonna do today?” of summer vacation. 

8:40 AM – “What are we gonna do today?”

9:07 AM – “What are we gonna do today?”

9:08 AM – Mommy threatens to take away a quarter for every time Large asks, “what are we gonna do today?”

9:11 AM – Large: “I’m just so anxious about what we’re gonna do today!”

9:31 AM – “So what are we gonna do?  Just sit in the house all day?”  (Someone’s getting sassy!)

9:38 AM – Lesson of the Day:  when the toilet is clogged with toilet paper that Small has stuffed in the bowl, for the love o’ pete, don’t poop on top of it. 

9:43 AM – Addendum to Lesson of the Day: don’t leave the bathroom door open, which will allow for Small to throw two Rice Krispie Treats and a pair of Crocs into the toilet. 

10:00 AM - Mommy:  “Can you get off the table, please?”  

10:16 AM – It’s Albert Pujols; not Albert Poopholes.  But Poopholes is much funnier.

10:32 AM – picture frame mysteriously falls from wall, throwing Mommy’s prized Gallery Wall off balance.  I become aware of this when Medium sheepishly announces, “Um, I have something to tell you, and I’m gonna be in BIG trouble.”  This never ends well.  

10:58 AM – restart WipeOut, so we can watch it AGAIN.

11:14 AM – Medium: “Did you know that Justin Beiber sings 'Eenie Meenie Miney Moe'?  And so does his best friend Utcher.”

11:20 AM – I know!  Let’s go to Target!  There’s a Starbucks there!

11:38 AM – “(Gasp!)  Mom!  Oh, never mind.  I thought that was Miss K’s car.”  Because we ALWAYS see K at Target. 

11:45 AM – Large: “EXTRA Large?”  Um, can we refrain from commenting, please?

1:00 PM – Blessed Nap Time for Small.  Find something quiet to do. 

1:07 PM – see neighbor boys outside with their mom, who is taking them to the tennis courts, and they want to know, can Large and Medium come?  Gee, I just put Small down for a nap . . . “I can take them,” says neighbor mom.  Well-played, Boy Mommy.  Well-played. 

1:08 PM – After admonitions to use their best manners, be good listeners, etc., Mommy sits on couch to catch up on the world news.  (Afghanistan?  Midwest Flooding?  The upcoming Presidential Race?)  And also, Real Housewives of New Jersey.

2:00 PM – they’re back.

2:14 PM - Overheard from basement: “Whoa.  It’s a good thing you were wearing a helmet.”

2:36 PM - Medium: “Is Pluto just a really small planet, or is it big but just really far away?”  F*ck if I know, kid.

2:53 PM – “Mom!  Come see!  There’s ants in here and they’re eating a dead fly!”

3:00 PM – Small wakes up from nap.

3:06 PM - Large:  “Mom.  Small has a runny nose.  Can you do something?”

3:07 PM – Medium begins doing laps around the kitchen and living room on the Ride-On vehicle intended for the baby and complete with a set of headphones.  At last count, he was on lap 75.  He’s perfectly content.  

4:00 PM – Know what time it is?  It’s Happy Hour!  We’re just gonna have one glass.

4:23 PM - Mommy:  “No, I don’t want to do Easy Bake right now.  Mommy’s busy.”

5:00 PM – kicked the bottle.

5:13 PM – Daddy’s home early!  Takes the kids out.  Somewhere.  Not sure where, but when they return, they’re singing . . .

7:20 PM – “I like big butts and I cannot lie.  You otha brothas can’t deny.  When a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in yo’ face you get SPRUNG!”  Super.

8:00 PM – While cleaning up bath toys, I notice equivalent of a cup of sediment in a ring around the bottom of our bathtub.  A sure sign of a good day!

Advice for the Suburban Mommy in the Big City

I have an acquaintance who is about to embark on her New York City adventure as her husband is being transferred.  Similarly, Hubby and I lived in Manhattan for three years while he did a rotation with his firm.  Millions of Manhattanites raise their children in the city, but when you are a suburban girl moving to the big city, there are many nuances of which you are unaware.  It’s the Country Mouse and the City Mouse all over again, except with offspring and a lot less parking.

My advice to a Suburban Mommy on becoming a City Mommy:

1.  Teach your children early that Manhattan is a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities.  This will save you from embarrassment when your 3-year-old sees a Hassidic Jew and loudly proclaims, “look!  It’s Abraham Lincoln!” 

2.  Locate all the Starbucks and Barnes and Noble locations because they have restrooms.  Unfortunately, when your child has diarrhea in front of the Toys R Us in Times Square, none of these locations will be close enough.  Don’t ask me how I know this, but trust that I know of what I speak.  The good news is that a bout of gastric evacuation will gain you more personal space than you have EVER had in Times Square.

3.  You know how when you’re walking down the sidewalk in your neighborhood and you pass someone you don’t know you smile and say good morning anyway?  Don’t do that in the city.  In the words of my shrink, “stop smiling at people.  They think you’re a freak.”  For this I paid her big bucks.

4.  That wasn’t a squirrel.  It was a rat.  A big one.

5.  Your stroller will not fit into any retail establishment.  Buy a bike lock, leave the stroller outside, and enjoy wrestling your wiggly kids in the Ralph Lauren flagship store.  Lock it, or you will see a homeless man transporting all his wordly possessions with your Bugaboo.

6.  Finding  a sweet parking spot on the street is a huge responsibility, and it is not to be taken lightly.  When the street sweepers come through, you will need to remove your car from that spot, but ONLY for the duration of time it takes the street sweeper to sweep that spot.  What I mean is, you need to pull out of the spot into mainstream traffic and block traffic until he passes and you can, fingers crossed!, pull back into your spot before some jackwad races in there.  This is how it’s done, folks.  Ambulance behind you?  Wait in line, buddy; nobody’s getting my spot!

7.  While I can’t stress enough how important it is to teach your children sidewalk safety immediately, I might suggest being aware of your word choice when doing so.  It can be frightening to be waiting at the curb with the aforementioned melting pot ingredients and have your child remind you that we don’t walk until the White Man tells us we can go.

8.  Speaking of which, you cannot cross Park Avenue in one light cycle by walking.  You need to grab your kids and run, or else you’re going to get stuck in the median (which is lovely with its spring tulips, by the way,) and have to keep the hair out of your eyes as yellow cabs whiz past you as if they are getting ready for take-off at LaGuardia.

9.  You can purchase gorgeous fresh fruit and vegetables from street vendors.  And also pot.

10.  Your stroller is your primary source of transportation, but be careful not to overpack.  You will be carrying that bad boy UP the stairs in the Subway station, along with all your accoutrements AND your children.  Plan accordingly, because it’s about 50/50 that someone will offer to help you.

To be continued . . . 

The Price I Pay for Coffee

I went to the eye doctor a few weeks ago because my left eye had been twitching for about two weeks.  Usually it happens if I’m overly tired, but two weeks was a little excessive so I made an appointment with the optometrist at Target.

Because when you think good eye health, you think Target.

I ran into my girlfriend, K, in the parking lot.  We both spend an excessive amount of time at Target and we’ve accidentally run into each other several times over the past couple years.  (In fact, it's our mutual love of the Retail Holy Land that binds us together in friendship.  That and the fact that we're both batsh*t crazy with this whole Motherhood gig.)  I told her I was headed to my appointment and that I figured I had early-onset Parkinson’s or some sort of seizure disorder.  I have a flair for the dramatic . . .

After my appointment as I was loading my little ducklings into the Swagger Wagon, I saw K again.  Concerned, she asked what my prognosis was.  Her face lost all color when I told her, “it’s worse than I thought.”

Coffee = Love

Panicked, her hand on my arm in genuine friendship, she asked quietly, “what?  What is it?”

With a catch in my throat, I swallowed and delivered the news. “She wants me to cut out caffeine.”

I’d rather have Parkinson’s.

So yes, I still have the twitch.  A little facial tic never hurt anyone, and it's a small price to pay for caffeinated happiness.  I have no self control, discipline, or will power.  I admit it.  Don't judge me.

Back from My Most Recent (but certainly not my last) Meltdown

Worry not, my peeps.  I’m back! 

A Multiple Choice Quiz –

I took a brief hiatus because

1. I had a little motherly meltdown
2. I’ve been overwhelmed with tasks
3. I had to send the computer in for repairs
4. Blogspot was down
5. All of the Above

The answer, of course, is E, but let's focus on my meltown, shall we?  

Let’s start from the very beginning.  It is no secret that I find motherhood to be exhausting.  That’s not to say that motherhood doesn’t come naturally.  I’ve always wanted to be a mother, to stay home with my children, and to raise a family.  In the big scheme o’ things, I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing.  But the monotony of doing the same things, day in and day out, son up to son down, is exhausting. 

And to all those mothers who post on Facebook about how sad you are that your kids are going back to school on a random Monday because you’ve SO enjoyed having them all to yourself for the weekend, I call bullsh*t.  

That’s right . . . I said it!

We, as women, do each other a disservice by constantly trying to portray ourselves as the epitome of Motherhood.  (Admit it, when you read the above statement, a part of you thought I never feel that way.)  We try to be the Martyr, the woman who selflessly gave up everything in order to devote her life to raising upstanding little citizens with good manners.  In the back of my mind, however, is this nagging question: who am I going to be in 18 years when all three of my boys are independent of me?

Lately I have felt as if I am living my life in order to accommodate others.  I get up in the morning so that I can get the boys fed and ready for school.  I may go to the gym in the morning, but I try to be home in time to put Small down for a nap.  I need to be at the end of the street by 11:10 so that I can get Medium off the bus.  We run errands (groceries for the family, dry cleaning for Daddy, the bank, the hardware store, the drugstore, etc.) and then return so that Small can get another nap, and then it’s back to the bus stop at 3. I fix a snack for the kids, then supervise homework and make sure everyone is ready for practice or art class or cub scouts.  We eat dinner early because we need time for baths and books before bedtime at 8.  There is NO time for me to read a grown-up book, or sit quietly and knit, or work on a scrapbook.  If Hubby has to work late or is out of town, it’s no biggie because we all know that I’ve got it covered. 

It’s not as if I’m a Kept Woman.  Hubby encourages me to go out and to find time for myself, but I have Mommy Guilt; that nagging thought that I could sit on the sofa and watch Oprah, OR I could finish up the laundry, or unload the dishwasher, or make the beds, or wipe down the counters, or any one of the gazillion other things that will need to get done at some point so I might as well just do it now.  We actually agree that I need to make ME a priority, but I am my own worst enemy. 

My most recent meltdown occurred after I saw my friend, K, at Target.  Natch.  I ran into K in the parking lot, told her that we were getting ready to dine at Target’s café, and I invited her and her brood of 4 boys to join us.  I had a little time to kill before my eye appointment, also at Target.  Seriously, if Target had a gynecologist and a dentist, I’d never have to go anywhere else.  K was in the middle of a particularly tough week, full of the everyday minutia that on any other day would be fine, but today it’s just driving you batsh*t crazy.  (You know what I’m talking about: yesterday you woulda said, you want to walk next to the cart?  Okay!  Today you’re thinking, just get in the f*cking cart, you package-opening little aisle runner!) 

Ahem.

I tried to be supportive.  I put on my Good Friend cap and reminded her what a wonderful mother she is, as is evidenced by the fact that her kids seem to openly adore her and she is really good with them.  I listened to her as she vented, as we all need to do every once in a while.  I reminded her how important it is that we make time for ourselves, and I mentioned that I was meeting a girlfriend for a few hours of creativity on the next Saturday night.

Except Hubby ended up having to work late Saturday, and the first thing cut from the calendar was Mommy’s scrapbooking night. 

A Meltdown ensued.

Hubby had been working late for a while so I had barely had any time to myself, peeing and showering included.  (I figured out one day that the ONLY adult conversation I had was with the guy at Moe’s who took my order.  They’re always so welcoming there!  Every time I walk in they yell, “welcome to Moe’s,” like they’ve missed me or something.  What?  They do that to everyone?  Sigh.)  I really needed a little time away from my family, and I REALLY needed a little bit of quiet.  When it became evident that neither was going to happen, I lost my sh*t.  I went into the whole crying, snotting, persweating I-don’t-know-who-I-am-anymore-I-can-literally-feel-myself-getting-stupider-I’m-just-so-tired meltdown.  It weren’t pretty.

I love my boys and I love my husband.  I have a good life.  But here’s the thing: every once in a while, I need to have a good cleansing cry and a little outside validation – someone to tell me that I’m important and I’m appreciated and I’m doing an okay job and that, fingers crossed, none of my boys will end up in prison.  I need to sit in the Starbucks parking lot BY MYSELF and enjoy my cup of coffee while listening to something other than The Hamster Dance or Veggie Tales dialogue.  I need to remind my children and my spouse and myself that I am so much more than just a mother.  True, it is my most important role right now, but it cannot be at the expense of everything else that I am.  I have helped perpetuate this notion within my family, but I am going to make a conscious effort not to feel guilty when/if I try to carve out a little time for myself.  You heard it here first - here's hoping I can follow through!

Unadulterated *ss-Kissing

I have recently begun a campaign to get a shout-out on the Rants From Mommlyand blog.  (http://www.rantsfrommommyland.com/)  These ladies, Kate and Lydia, are hilarious - they have this blog and now they've gotten a writing gig and everything.  Remember how Ellen campaigned to get on the cover of Oprah's O Magazine?

Ellen just kept talking about how she wanted to be on the cover of O Magazine, which was funny because Oprah is Queen of the Universe and she's the only one who is ever on the cover.  But it worked!  


So this is my campaign to get a shout-out on RantsfromMommyland.com.  They have a section called "Blogs We Love," and my current goal in life is to be ON THAT LIST.  

I sent them an email this morning, detailing all the reasons why they should love me:

1.  I loves Target.  When I lived in Manhattan, I used to take the subway 2 stops into Harlem to get my car out of the garage so I could drive it 45 minutes into Queens or Connecticut just so I could go to Target.  

2.  I have three boys, because even God knows that this house is only big enough for one princess.  And that would be me.

3.  I truly believe that if I am reincarnated, I will come back as Ms. Dolly Parton.  In fact, my signature karaoke song is "9 to 5."

4.  Though I birthed my last child a little over a year ago, in reality I've been trying to take off the baby weight (which consists mostly of chocolate and Doritos.  Original, not the Cool Ranch,) for about 8 years.  I am a Lifetime member of Weight Watchers, and I've decided that this means I will be struggling with my weight for the duration of my lifetime.

5.  I have the mouth of a sailor - but there are certain words I do NOT say, and I do my best not to HEAR them either.  I refer to nether-regions. 

6.  I was recently told by a perfectly respectable Tarot Card Reader that I am a deep person, and I have therefore dubbed myself the Dalai Mama.

7.  I need to find a way to make money doing this blog thing.  I'm a SAHM, and I would love to not have to justify to anyone my 7-days-a-week coffee habit.  My husband works hard to support our family . . . and apparently my caffeine addiction based on the amount of money and time I spend at Starbucks.

8.  My misadventures at the gym are Pulitzer Prize worthy.  You can't make this sh*t up. ( http://boymommynyc.blogspot.com/2011/01/zen-of-nugget.html)  You know the fabulous woman in the cute workout clothes whose hair stays perfectly coiffed throughout Body Pump?  (kate.)  That's not me.  I'm the fat girl in the back.

9.  I, too, have a shelf.  It's where I keep my crumbs.  I inherited it from my grandmother, who also called it her shelf.  Like me, she took pride in all of her chins and swore that her kidneys were next to her eyeballs, which is why she was so emotional.

10.  I buried my mother in a pair of Tweety Bird socks because I knew she wouldn't want to be wearing pantyhose for All Eternity.  Mama raised me right.

Check out their blog at rantsfrommommyland.com.  When I'm a rich and famous writer, world-renowned for my biting wit and sarcasm, I'll buy you a car.  I promise.