Again with the Beer Baby . . .

I’m fat.

I get it.

It happened again.  We were at a cocktail party Friday night when someone asked me, “so which number is this for you?” and glanced down at my abs-of-steel region.

Ugh. 

“We have three, and we’re done,” I replied.  

“Not pregnant.  Just fat,” I added, which prompted her to say, “oh, you’re not fat!”

Well then why’d you just insinuate that I was pregnant?  Nobody sees Kate Moss at a cocktail party, (holding a wine glass, by the way,) and comments on her pregnancy.  Poor Hubby hates when this happens, mostly because he has to clean up the emotional mess that accompanies my death spiral of self-esteem. 

I get it.  I am fluffy.  Generally, I’m okay with it.  

An acquaintance (who happens to by gay, so I totally trust him,) told me I just need to own my plus-sizeness.  He’s right.  No one is fooled by what I wear if I try to hide my plumpness.  So I try to dress appropriately; I try to look nice and wear clothes that fit.  I don’t look frumpy (except when I’m wearing my bus-stop sweatpants and my puffy coat.  On a side note, puffy coats are NOT flattering, especially on big girls.  But damn if that coat is not warm.)  Since I carry a lot of weight in the front, I can’t rock a tight dress – I need something with an empire waist, which is more flattering, but which apparently looks like I own stock in Motherhood Maternity.

I carry my weight in my front.  (And hips.  And cheeks, and upper arms, and boobs.  But NOT in the rear.  My badonkadonk is more like just a badonk.)  Just to clarify, again:

Me pregnant:

The back side is F-L-A-T.
The front?
Not so much.

Me, pregnant and bloated with a beer baby:

My point is that I am making efforts to be more healthy.  I’m doing Weight Watchers . . . AGAIN . . . and I go to the gym.  But it’s going to take some time. I am never going to be a size 10, and I am okay with that.  I am fluffy because I prefer beer and pizza to salad and a glass of ice water.  I do not have a thyroid problem nor do I have a genetic propensity for obesity.  My body has borne three children and endured various other emotional/hormonal events, and it has not bounced back.  I OWN it.   

But for the love o’ pete, it hurts my feelings when grown-ups insinuate that I am pregnant.  I struggle with it every day and I don’t blame anyone else but myself.  I try to be a kind person, a good friend, an understanding wife, a loving mother.  I wake up every day and try to be all these things, and I know, intellectually, that these qualities are what matter most.  So when you meet me at a party, let’s talk about religion and politics, but NOT my weight, because that, my friend, is a sensitive topic.

Stuff We're Not Supposed to Talk About . . .

Several posts ago I was having one of my moments.  (Read all about it here.)  You know, when I’m all frustrated and tired and feeling like a horrible mother.  My friend Steve forwarded a video to me, and it really struck a chord.

First, a little about Steve.  Steve will be in the same room with you for an hour and not say a word, then he’ll utter one sentence and it’ll be the funniest damn thing you’ve ever heard.  When we met in college, he was the quiet observer with a wicked sense of humor.  He’s that guy who you know is there but you’re not sure he’s paying attention, and then he says something witty and prophetic.  The video he forwarded is smart, funny, and painstakingly honest.  Wouldn’t you know it; Steve’s got some insight about parenting that he gleaned from something he saw on Ted.com.

Rufus Griscom and Alisa Volkman reveal four parenting facts that no one ever talks about.  I have certainly struggled with my feelings of incompetence and the thought that I’m doing it wrong if I don’t see sunshine and Care Bears for the 14 hours my children are awake.  The video is 17 minutes long, which is why I am only getting to it now even though Steve sent it months ago.  Because if I have 17 minutes to myself, I’m going to waste it spend it doing something productive, like watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey talk about how cleeassy they are. 

My gift to you, fellow mommies, random daddies, friends who feel obligated to read, and facebook stalkers, is this . . .

My unsolicited opinion regarding Griscom and Volkman’s Four Taboos:

1. You Can’t Say You Didn’t Fall in Love with Your Baby in the First Minute.

I wish someone had told me about this one, because I felt like a big failure from Day 1 because I didn’t have the urge to hold my baby every second of the ever-lovin’ day.  I needed some sleep.  Desperately.  And the truth is that you don’t even know this little person yet.  Yes, you love him but you are essentially strangers.  Furthermore, our birthday movie wouldn’t look anything like someone in Hollywood or at Lifetime television would produce.  I had read in all the what-to-expect books about how common it is for Daddy to feel jealous of Baby.  Guess what?  I was jealous.  I had carried this kid around for 9 months, I had unsuccessfully tried to squeeze him out, and now I was all drugged up from my surgery.  And guess who was getting all the attention?  It wasn’t me. 

2. You Can’t Talk About How Lonely Having a Baby Can Be.

Motherhood is isolating.  Before you become a parent, you know intellectually that having an infant (and then a toddler, preschooler, school-aged child, teenager, 30-year-old loner living in your basement, etc.) will suck up almost all of your time, but you don’t really realize yet that you have just been knocked to the bottom of the pecking order.  I got a lot of attention while I was pregnant and when the baby was first born, but then life moved on, and it moved on without me.  While my girlfriends went back to work in September, I stayed home and watched six seasons of Dawson’s Creek.  I counted the days until I could meet them on Friday afternoons for coffee with my baby in tow.  I cried one day when something came up and I was unable to go at the last minute.  I cried.  Because I couldn’t go get coffee.  (Okay, maybe that’s not a good example, given my love of caffeine, but you get the point.)  I still have my lonely days when it feels like I haven’t spoken to anyone over 4-feet-tall; and suffice it to say that none of our conversations revolve around politics, religion, or the Kardashians . . . so yes, I'm lonely.

3. You Can’t Talk About Your Miscarriage.

I have struggled with this one myself.  We waited the "requisite" 3 months before telling others that we were expecting.  I remember a conversation with my dad, however, when he asked why we had waited to long to tell them our big news.  I tried to explain the whole first trimester iffiness, to which he responded that it was kind of silly to not tell our close friends or family because if something went wrong with the pregnancy, wouldn’t we tell them anyway?  Lo and behold, he was right.  When I called to tell him about my first miscarriage and he said, “I didn’t even know you were pregnant,” it didn’t make it any easier.  My biggest burden was getting over that nagging feeling that I had done something wrong; I hadn’t rested enough, I hadn’t eaten the right things, I had had a drink before I realized I was pregnant.  What eased my burden was talking about it and getting some sympathy from friends.  I didn’t need people to feel sorry for me, but it was a strange comfort to have girlfriends say hey, I’ve been there too.  It IS a tough situation to have to endure, and it happens a lot.  So why does it have to be so private?

Don't worry, Mommy'll clean it up.
She lives for that sh*t.

4. You Can’t Say That Your “Average Happiness” Has Declined.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: my babies are not snuggly, calm, precious Gerber babies who look like they belong in a Johnson & Johnson ad.  They are dirty, snotty, little sofa climbers who track dirt all through our house and somehow produce more laundry than they have clothes. It makes sense that my happiness quotient, on average, has declined.  I don’t find happiness in the bottom of the laundry basket, and yet that’s where I seem to look for it every day.  I don’t walk out of my house every day and cry with sheer joy that I am blessed with the opportunity to drive my Swagger Wagon to Costco so I can stock up on juice boxes and industrial-sized boxes of baby wipes.  And while the other company spouses are relaxing with a glass of wine and a gourmet meal in a restaurant with cloth napkins and real silverware, I am not secretly relieved that I get to read How the Grinch Stole Christmas, in May, again.  That’s not to say that I am miserable or UNhappy.  It’s just that I don’t often get to do the things that I enjoy, like traveling sans the Goldfish big box, going to a movie that isn’t produced by Pixar, or drinking from a glass that doesn’t require a straw.  

Griscom and Volkman don’t offer any solutions in the segment that I watched, but they certainly raised some valid points about parenting reality.  I appreciate their candor and their honesty about their struggles and their humor while suggesting that no parent is perfect.  Amen to that!

Missing Mary

I feel blue.  This is generally a tough time of year for me, as it is for many people.  I think I have some seasonal depression goin’ on, and when the weather is gray and cold I start to feel pretty down.  Add to that the fact that winter holds some pretty significant anniversaries for me.  I lost my mom in December and my friend, whom I will call Mary,  in February, so the winter months can bring a lot of sadness.

I went out last night to get my toes done.  That’s right . . . I had two whole hours to myself!  I got my toes done and then went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond where I made a purchase that I now need to return, Walgreens, and a Chinese restaurant from which we will no longer be ordering.  (Cat.)  It was all VERY glamorous.  While I was at the nail salon, however, I heard Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” 

Years ago when Simon and Garfunkel were on their final tour Mary and I went to see them in concert. Mary was not known for her musical knowledge, but she humored me several times by going to see James Taylor in the pouring rain and John Denver in the scorching heat.  She said the Simon and Garfunkel Old Friends concert was one of the best she’d ever attended.

Often music serves as the background in life - I know “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by heart and I’ve sung it in the shower a gazillion times.  But last night, I really listened to the lyrics and I’ve been a little weepy ever since.  

When you're weary

Feeling small

When tears are in your eyes

I will dry them all

I'm on your side

When times get rough

And friends just can't be found

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

When you're down and out

When you're on the street

When evening falls so hard

I will comfort you

I'll take your part

When darkness comes

And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Sail on Silver Girl,

Sail on by

Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine

If you need a friend

I'm sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

Mary died of heart failure in February of 2009.  I think of Mary all the time and I miss her terribly.  She would have adored Small and it pains me that she will never know him, especially because she knew exactly how much and how long we had hoped for him.  

I had the first of two miscarriages in 2008.  I was scared and feeling isolated in NYC.  My entire support system was back home in Virginia; I really needed my own mother, Hubby was out of town, and my mother-in-law was unable to come up to help out with the boys.  Mary said simply, “I’ll come.  I want to do this for you.”  She hopped on the train and was with me within days.  She came with me to the doctor’s office, and I remember lying there, terrified. I was shaking and I was cold. She walked in the room, silent; she held my hand and cried with me.  She took on my pain and my fear as if they were her own, and in turn lessened my burden.  It’s ironic, because her demise a year later was largely a result of her feelings of weakness.  She never recognized her own strength.

I wrote once before about my failed friendship with my former BFF.  One of the reasons we are on the outs is because she says she feels I judge her.  Once when we were with a group of my friends, she said that she found it interesting that all my friends were so different from each other.  I explained that I have dear friends whom I know from different areas of my life. 

I have girlfriends whom I’ve known since we were three years old, I have girlfriends from high school, girlfriends from work, mothers of my boys’ playmates, etc.  My friends are Republicans, Democrats, free-thinkers, status-quo’ers, gay, straight, educated, blue-collar, pot-smokers, hard-partiers, teetotalers, spenders, shoppers, single, married, divorced, artists, intellectuals, athletes, bookworms, actors, Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, Mormons, private schoolers, public schoolers, meat-eaters, and, like me, chicketarians . . . the list goes on.  Our differences, our strengths, AND our weaknesses are what makes the world go ‘round.  Mary was struggling with her demons, but I loved her unconditionally.  I know she loved me too, and THAT’s what makes a true friendship.  It was not a cursory friendship – it was the real deal and I feel a huge void with her gone. 

So I’m feeling a little sad, and wishing still that I could have helped her battle her issues.  Life goes on, and we learn how to adapt to the changes that come with a loved one’s passing.  The loss becomes a part of who you are and ultimately gives you a silent strength . . . a resilience borne of necessity and a means to honor those we have loved and lost.

For those who are interested, the following is the eulogy I gave at Mary’s service.  I include it here because I still feel that it captures her essence and it makes me smile to remember her with laughter.  Here’s to my friend . . .

One of the first things that drew me to Mary was her sense of fun.  I first met her when we were both teaching part-time at GFHS.  It was my first “grown-up” job after college and I was eager to establish myself as a professional.  And yet one of my first memories of her is of us at Staples.  We had gone to pick up school supplies and somehow we found ourselves in the office furniture section of the store, pretending to page each other to the office:  “Mrs. L, please see me in the main office.”  Hanging out with Mary was, quite simply, fun.  She brought out the silly in all of us. 

         Mary was a beautiful blend of glamour and craziness.  When we first started at GFHS she had these cat-eye glasses with rhinestones that I never would have been able to pull off.  She put much effort into what she wore and how she looked, and we often said that if we’d been on Gilligan’s Island, she’d be the Ginger to our Mary Annes.  She was polished, but she was real.  When M was around 3-years-old, she had fussed at him one day before coming in to work.  She was so upset with herself, she said she felt like crawling under her desk and hiding.  And then she did!  I distinctly remember a group of us teachers reassuring her that the situation would work itself out and trying to convince her to come out from under her desk because, well, it was time to go teach the children.

         Mary was the one who brought fake parking tickets on a road trip so that we could give citations to fellow travelers at the rest-stop.  She kept a mannequin, whom she named Lafonda, in her classroom and she was the proud owner of a giant stone cat with painted toe nails that now graces her back yard. Normal people have random keys tucked in a junk drawer somewhere, afraid to throw them away lest you discover what they actually unlock.  Mary has probably 100 useless keys proudly displayed on a bulletin board in her kitchen.  And she was not a practical gift giver: I now own an expandable fork, a “complimentary” cereal bowl that tells me I’m wonderful! And a fairly blasphemous mirror, because it’s important to be “lookin’ good for Jesus.”     

         Mary was game for any adventure, as long as it didn’t involve camping.  Mary was a Waldorf-Astoria kind of gal, not one who pees in the woods.  Her sense of mischief turned even the mundane into entertainment.  During an inservice at the school board building, she and I took photos of each other sitting in the superintendent’s chair.  There we were, feet up on his desk, filing our nails, with Dr. Ed’s nameplate prominently displayed.  Probably not the best career move for two probationary teachers. 

Her creativity was evident in the kitchen, in her art classes, in her classroom and in her home.  Not many mothers take photos of their children and then paste googly eyes on top – those were some bizarre family photos!  I will miss her annual entry into the Manassas Gingerbread House contest and the Washington Post Peeps Diorama contest, where entrants make a scene constructed of Marshmallow Peeps. 

Being Mary’s friend was not always easy, but I suppose true friendship never really is.  Many of us, her friends, have experienced the entire cycle of life with her.  We struggled with her through her husband’s illness and death, and tried to help her get back on her feet as a new widow and mother to young children.  We celebrated engagements, marriages, and new babies, and we grieved miscarriages, ailing parents, and death. 

Most of all I will miss my friend.  I hope that I am always able to emulate her commitment to her family.  She spoke often of her parents and her siblings and she was proud of where their lives had taken them, whether it be close to home or to a foreign land.  Mostly she was fiercely proud of her children.  Mary loved teaching and loved being with her colleagues, but when she left school, she gave herself over 100% to being a mother.  Mary’s greatest accomplishment in this world and what will be her legacy is her children.  E, I am saddened that I didn’t have the pleasure of watching you grow up as I did R and M.  In all sincerity, R and M are two of the finest young men I know – they are warm, kind, polite, strong, generous people who each have their own strengths and dreams.  I am awed by the contributions they’re sure to make to this world.  Let’s not forget that Mary did that.  She made them who they are and has encouraged them to be true to themselves. 

Mary was far from perfect, but she was real.  Life handed her some tough circumstances and she did the very best she could.  And she struggled, as we all do from time to time.  My heart is broken, but it’s broken because I loved her, and I was blessed to have experienced the whirlwind that accompanied her friendship.  I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.