Is It Wrong… (from the Momplex Blog archives)

July 13, 2009February 27, 2023 JennyLeave a comment

…that I can’t have a bite of chocolate in my own house without cowering in the laundry room? I’m really not a so-called emotional eater — unless you consider it an emotion when a grown woman spikes a heart rate of 185 bpm while deep-throating a Hershey bar because her ravenous 5-year-old approaches.

…that I don’t own a single pair of thong underwear? I have tried them, okay? And I will never but never believe women who continue to tell me that G-strings are more comfortable than my giant cotton Hanes tablecloth panties “once you get used to them.” I’d probably get used to poking an uncooked spaghetti noodle repeatedly into my tear duct if I did that on a daily basis, too. And I don’t care how sexy men find thong undies. They’re gross. The day my husband starts using these pretty metal bun cages to make his junk look more attractive is the day I sport panties that need be tweezed out during foreplay.

…that I don’t text? Why would I take 10 minutes to laboriously type out a message that I could just as easily speak in 10 seconds? Please don’t tell me it’s more discrete. So is braille. I don’t see people running out to learn that. Please don’t tell me I’d understand better if I just got a phone gadget with a QWERTY keyboard. QWERTY keyboards were designed to slow people down. Using them for speed-socializing just seems wrong. Also? Texting barely qualifies as conversing. It’s glorified Morse code. I just don’t get it. Like an angry senior disputing Medicare billing practices, I shall continue to shake my little fist at the vulgarity of the vanity-plate dialect that is texting! Blerg!(Maks me wn2 e@ my own gizzard. KWIM?)

…that I have completely lost all sense of style? I don’t know what happened to me. I really don’t. But somewhere between age 25 and stay-at-home motherhood, I got hit by the tacky truck. No matter what I try, I always seem to look like 1986. I think this might be because in 1986, even young girls had a mom look — big hair, shoulder pads, high-waisted jeans. While I don’t sport any of those looks now, I know for a fact that on an empirical level, my hair simply looks better big, a pair of shoulder pads would do wonders for offsetting my butt girth, and high-waisted jeans would preclude my granny panties from sticking two inches over the rim of my Levi’s. (See? Does anyone else even wear Levi’s anymore?) It’s not that I don’t know what’s in style. Well, yes, it actually is that, but what’s in style just never looks stylish draped over my particular body type or under my particular head. When I try on clothing in H&M, for example, the only hip store that has prices I can afford, I always look either (a) pregnant or (b) ridiculous. We’re talking middle-aged-man-in-drag ridiculous. So, over and over, I resort to the same “timeless” look that has carried me for a decade — the one that hasn’t turned a head in as much time.

…that I get nervous around my own child? She’s a bright, imaginative kid with a winning personality who I’m told behaves even when away from home (or I should say especially when away from home). But I have this sense that she’s sort of like Scotch-taped together that way, like she’s always five minutes and one misunderstanding shy of an emotional holocaust. Because she is. It’s a little something I like to call apple not falling far from the tree. See this post for more information.

…that I used to do a bang-on impersonation of Geri Jewell, the Facts of Life character with cerebral palsy? Of course, it’s not wrong that I can do the impersonation. My sister would even argue it’s one of the few things that was so, so right about me as a kid. But that I ever even thought to try doing it, and in mixed company? So wrong.

…that I hate seeing people smiling while by themselves? I look at them and my mind quietly screams, “GRRRR! Apetard!” Why is that? What’s my problem? There used to be a girl in my hometown who had a permagrin that would have been perfectly complemented by a swirl of exclamation points and ampersands around her head. Vacant is the term, I believe. She rode my schoolbus, and an open-mouthed smile was her natural expression. No, she was not slow. But because it was her natural expression, I could often hear her sucking back spittle through her molars. That might sound kind of sad, but believe me, if you listened to someone sucking spittle back through her molars for, oh, five or six years — even if it’s someone you love — you’d get jaded about smiling apetards, too.

…that I explained tampons to my 5-year-old today? It certainly felt wrong. But I tell you, she asked. She asked as she followed me into the bathroom, and well, if her mom isn’t going to answer that question, who is? I felt pressed upon to just dish. Over-dished is more like it. Judging from the look on her face, I bet she’ll think twice about asking Mom about anything else for a while. See? She makes me nervous!

…that I’m blogging instead of packing for our move right now? Or did I forget to mention that we found a house and are moving — in 10 days! Funnily enough, it’s a totally ’80s house that needs some updating but is totally livable without the updating. Kinda like me, no? Kinda like me.

babies · body image · daughters · death · motherhood · religion · sons · teething

Who Has It Harder? Me or Mine? (from the Momplex Blog archives)

May 9, 2009February 27, 2023 JennyLeave a comment

Exhibit A
ME: I spent most of yesterday spray painting a loft bed for my 5-year-old. Long story short, I kept running out of paint, had to wedge multiple hardware-store trips between naps and preschool stuff, and ended up inadvertently turning our new driveway pink. My arms ache terribly from spraypainting the whole freaking day away. Because it was breezy and I didn’t cover up, I also look like I have a spray-on sunburn. Alas, I learned that I’m getting so old that, in my world, spraypainting a bed is now tantamount to summiting Everest.

HER: Wandered out into the living room while I had the TV on regular television (that is, not PBS). We never have regular televison on when she’s nearby. I had left for a moment to switch a load of laundry, and when I returned, all I could hear from the tube was a horror story about a terrorist attack on a wedding somewhere in the Middle East. “The bride, groom, and four children were killed in the attack,” said the voice. Alas, she learned that people actually kill other people, including children.

HIM: Crapped his pants twice in one day. And there were whole black beans in it that looked like they were straight out of the can, which can’t feel right. Can it? Alas, he learned what it feels like to poop whole beans.

EXHIBIT B
ME: Forgot not only the baby’s 9-month well-baby checkup on Thursday, but also my first formal banjo lesson. Alas, I learned that my life is falling into some disarray due to my lifelong lack of good organizational skills.

HER: I was joking with my parents about John Cougar Mellencamp’s line “…taught to fear Jesus in a small town.” It just struck me as funny that he was taught to fear the wrong entity. Isn’t God supposed to be the fearsome one, and Jesus supposed to be his more affable incarnation? No, no, my Dad explained. It’s Jesus who sits at the right hand of God, judges people, and casts the rotten ones out of Heaven and into the fires of Hell. Well, he didn’t say it quite like that, but very nearly. My 5-year-old was sitting right there listening. Alas, she learned that she isn’t necessarily going to Heaven, where her dead and much-missed cat Abby is waiting for her.

HIM: Got two new teeth, which blistered something ugly and took a long time to finally erupt. Alas, he learned that some pain can’t be assuaged and must be endured.

EXHIBIT C
ME: Finally realized that I am stuck at 10 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight, despite being vaguely hungry all day for the past two months as well as eating more healthy things like acorn squash. And more acorn squash. Also, acorn squash. Alas, I learned that the wine consumption must be cut.

HER: Until recently, she thought all surgical procedures involved private parts but certainly not the removal of anything. This goes back to my husband getting his vasectomy. I do not recall either of us going into any specifics, but we must have given her enough information to deduce that his “privates” were involved. Anyway, my dad recently had his gall bladder removed, so he asked her if she’d like to see the scars. Terrified, she declined. My dad went ahead and explained the essence of what he’d had done, and inquired whether she knew what a gall bladder was. Embarassed and worried, she nodded yes and said, “Private parts.” Alas, she learned that people sometimes need to have whole parts of their body removed — perhaps (in her mind) even their private parts.

HIM: Started spitting up again. Alas, he learned that sometimes you have to sit in your own cold, curdled upchuck for a while before somebody notices and cleans you up.

So, who has it harder these days? The kids or me?
I think they win.

babies · craigslist · daughters · motherhood · preschoolers · sons

Ghostwriting for My Kids (from the Momplex Blog archives)

April 26, 2009February 27, 2023 JennyLeave a comment

As a reader and writer, I feel a bit bad that my kids can’t yet journal their lives. I know if I don’t write things down, I tend to forget them. Think of Poor Christina Crawford! Imagine all the counseling and regression therapy she must have needed to tap the source material for her memoir, to really remember the details of those wire-hanger moments with Mom. Because I am a better woman (I think) than Joan Crawford, I thought I’d do a little ghostwriting for my kids alongside my own entries for today — save them some future legwork, you know?

Ghostwriting for My Daughter, “E,” Age 5 Years
Today I got in trouble for not taking a bite of peanut sauce. We were at Aunt K’s and Aunt C’s house, and they’d ordered something called Tie Food. Mom said my dish was called chicken lollipops. It looked suspiciously like chewed meat on sticks to me. But did I complain? No. I ate it. But then Dad insisted I try the peanut sauce, too. (When will they learn that I am never going to love anything anyone tells me I’m going to love?) Mom got all bent out of shape and reminded me that I have to take one bite and then if I don’t like it, I can say no thank you. She said this like it was The Law. When I refused, I had to go upstairs. She said I had to think about it, that I couldn’t play up there and couldn’t come back down until I was ready to have my No Thank You Bite. I hate when she calls it that. It should be called a Forced Feeding. I held out for a whole 45 minutes, and then she came upstairs and tried to be nice, gave me some big lecture about how I can’t know what food’s going to taste like just by looking at it. I told her I don’t like sauces. She said gravy is a sauce. I told her I only like sauce that goes on potatoes. She said I could stay in the room until the next day if I liked, but that I was eventually going to get hungry, and the very next thing I would ever eat in my life WAS GOING TO BE THAT PEANUT SAUCE. Of course, I had to eat the peanut sauce. I licked a speck of it with the tippiest tip of my tongue, and she crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at my dad and insisted a lick isn’t a bite. God, she’s a control freak.

P.S. I figured out how to read today, all by myself!

Journal for Myself, Age Withheld
E figured out how to read! I am so proud of her! She read two First Reader books to me this afternoon, and I could see her eyes twinkling with pride as I turned each page. How did she figure it out on her own? I kept looking down at her little legs and grubby toes, at her lengthening fingers, and the licorice she was kneading like a stress ball as she sounded out the words, and I almost started to cry, it was so exciting. She looked so small and so big at the same time. I was just thinking last night how she seems to be growing out of something old and into something new I can’t quite identify. We’d been sleeping in the same bed, since we had a big family slumber party over at my sister’s. B was downstairs sleeping near his daddy. When I woke around 2 a.m., there was a wild and wonderful thunderstorm going and so many frogs singing in the prairie across the road. Our window was open, with the white curtains blowing and rustling. I can’t believe E slept through it. After I got up and shut the windows, I laid down and ran a hand over her hair, burning that moment into my memory: her small, warm legs next to mine, the peacefulness of her breathing, the way her cheeks still have a bit of baby roundness to them. I picked up her little fingers and stroked the backs of them. I kissed the fingernails and wove my own fingers into hers. I touched her freckled nose and felt the warmth of her brow. Then I took her close into my arms and fell back asleep. Who knew that I’d be waking up to a kid who is that much closer to being a big girl, a girl who can suddenly READ!?

Ghostwriting for My Son, “B,” Age 8 Months
Mom wouldn’t let me eat a Kong today. She also wouldn’t let me go up the stairs or pull on the skinny wooden dividers on Aunt K’s and Aunt C’s windows. She said they’d break. She is always worried something’s going to break. She also didn’t let me at the toilet. What’s breakable on the toilet? I was not allowed to eat several electronic devices or any of the books on the coffee table either. Why do they place these tasty-looking items where I can reach them? She must have stuck her salty finger in my mouth FIFTY TIMES today, which is how she managed to scoop loose a deliciously fuzzy yum-yum I had been enjoying and, later, a piece of cheese she herself had given to me, like, 15 minutes earlier. Indian giver!

P.S. I think I stood by myself today. Can’t be certain.

Journal for Myself, Age Withheld
B stood on his own today for a good 10 seconds! He’s going to be walking before we know it. I love to watch the look on his face when he realizes that nobody’s holding onto him, and that he’s not holding onto anyone or anything either. The concentration and delight in his eyes are just contagious. Whenever he’d start to teeter, one of us would catch him up under the arms, and that would send a fat little giggle up through his fat little body. He’s such a happy little guy. He’s also terribly curious, particularly about the bathroom. What is it about the toilet? I’m afraid he’s going to fall into that thing. And the mouthing! Aside from the fact that everything really does go into the mouth at this age, he’s constantly grinding his top two teeth against his bottom two teeth, so even when his mouth is empty, it looks like he’s chewing. I keep swiping out his mouth, just in case. Among other things I found in there today? A disgusting old matted wad of dog hair the size of a Tootsie Roll. Bleck.

It’s funny how I’m not as relaxed with this second baby as everyone said I’d be. I’m still a micromanaging worrywart. There’s just as much anxiety about his wellbeing, just as much worry-filled hope for him as I felt for his sister at this age. Today I stood with him by the back door and watched the rain falling. He was mashing his face to the glass, slapping at it, cooing at birds, and looking so entranced by the dribbles of water on the pane. That’s when I took a moment to really look at him, at his fat thighs sitting in my palms, and appreciate this little person to whom I am Mom. I brushed my lips along his cheek, and I remembered such tender moments with his sister, how I used to smell and smell and smell her in hopes that I’d forevermore be able to call up that scent, the feeling of her skin, the aching love for a vulnerable babe-in-arms. Which I can barely do, because every day with her is still full of more things I don’t want to forget. With them both, I keep trying to remember the Buddhist way: live in the moment. And you know what? My right now is pretty darn good.