When Irish Eyes Are...Unexpected

Something fun happened to me last week. I went to the grocery store by myself. Holla! But wait, there's more. I was standing in the produce section eyeing the watermelons and cantaloupes when I was startled by someone saying my name- in an Irish accent, no less. And suddenly there he was. No, not Colin Farrell. (Damn!) Far from it. It was my gynecologist. Several thoughts hit me at once. First- this guy is 65 years old and he has a better memory than I do. Especially considering he's used to seeing his patients with little to no clothes on. Second- the last time he saw me, he wasn't exactly looking at my face the entire time, begging the question of whether I should be even more impressed with his memory or that much more mortified. And third- we were standing by the melons. Yep. The irony was almost stronger than the overwhelming urge to squeeze my legs as close together as possible.

It's akin to being a kid and seeing one of your teachers when you're out shopping (but without the memories of cold hard steel up your lady biz). I remember running into my second grade teacher at the grocery store one day and I was awestruck. Teachers actually left school? They had to buy groceries too?? What did they eat? Did that mean they went to movies too? Maybe they actually had lives other than flashcards and spelling tests and report cards. So that day in Kroger, I was jarred not only by the fact that had I just run into a man who had seen parts of me that my husband hasn't even seen (nor does he want to), but also that he was out and about like a normal guy. Without the white coat and scrubs and without all the questions about my cervix. And his cart wasn't, in fact, full of speculums and KY-Jelly like I assumed it would be. (I know because I stole a quick glance). Apparently, he likes watermelon and cheese and cereal. I'm guessing he might even like to go to Target and buy senseless crap because, well, it's Target. He, too, has a life outside of fundal measurements and stirrups and commanding women to push.

So how does one end an awkward run-in like this? "See you, uh, at my next pap smear...?" Probably not. Suffice it to say, I was relieved when he ended it for me with a simple, "enjoy those babies."

Of course. The two culminations of the numerous bodily violations that occurred in suite 500 of our hospital were now sitting at home waiting for me. And that, is a good feeling.

The Forgotten Four Letter Word

There's a scene in Sex and the City 2 where Charlotte is in the kitchen frantically making cupcakes with her oldest daughter while her younger daughter is in her highchair screaming and throwing a hissy fit. Her older daughter then smears bright red handprints all over the back of Charlotte's cream vintage Valentino skirt, at which point, Charlotte declares a mommy time-out, locks herself in her pantry and starts to cry.

That was me yesterday. Minus the vintage Valentino skirt and gorgeous apartment in upper Manhattan.

In those moments, I struggle against the compulsion to feel ashamed and to feel like I've taken the mommy test and gotten a big, fat FAIL. I even tell myself it's okay when shit goes down in the comfort of my own home and no one else has to see it because then I don't have to tell anyone about it. Then, it's almost like it didn't actually happen. It's a terribly lonely feeling though- not to talk about it. And the reality is that I'm not alone, or unique, in dealing with the really sucky parts of parenting. My best friend texted me a few weeks ago and told me that she, too, was having the Charlotte York Goldenblatt meltdown-in-the-pantry kind of day. Maybe for some, it's the kind of day when you want to wear something other than faded yoga capri pants and a crusty tank-top with remnants of either dried food or poop. Or when you go out on a limb by wearing something cute or new or- hell, just something clean- only to have it spit up on. If you take days like those, toss in a few tantrums, a headache that won't respond to any over-the-counter medicine, you will arrive at a moment when locking yourself in the pantry or bathroom seems like an entirely appropriate alternative. Just slip mommy some of her special pills under the door, please, and GO THE EFF AWAY.

Today, we were leaving the beach when Ella had what I can undoubtedly say was her worst tantrum yet. As I carried her further away from the ocean (she refused to walk), the crying quickly escalated to all out screaming, kicking and writhing. You know it's bad when you're outside at the beach with all of it's other ambient beachy noise and people can still hear your child over all of it. People stared as she did the "limp rag doll" when I tried to put her down. A few times I admittedly just let her drop and roll around on the sand, just so I could catch my breath. A few passers-by gave that knowing "been-there-done-that" apologetic look. I slung her upside down by her feet over my shoulders while she punched and scratched and clawed and kicked and made sounds that didn't sound human. A couple of people even stopped to ask us if we needed help. (Or perhaps they were wondering if they should call child protective services). By the time we got out to our car, I totally expected to see her head do a 360 degree rotation a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist. (Okay, maybe a little strong...but I swear, sometimes demon possession is the closest thing to illustrating the bi-polar mood swings of your average 2 year old).

It was painfully obvious to me on that walk back to our car that I was that mom. My cheeks burned with shame. I was the one who couldn't control her kid. The one that I, myself, had once shot pitiful glances to in the grocery store or in restaurants years ago when I had the pleasure of going sans children. And here I was, now crying right alongside my daughter who was fighting too hard for me to even attempt buckling her in her carseat. At that moment, I desperately wanted that pantry to lock myself in. I wanted to hide my tears and utter helplessness. I wanted desperately to save face. But even greater than all of those things was my gratitude for my best friend and my husband who were there to first, help get Ella strapped into her seat and then, to hand me a paper bag to breathe in and tell me that I wasn't a bad mom. I was just a normal mom going through yet another kind of refining fire. It wasn't a relief, but it was truth.

So the pressing question: why try to save face in moments like those? When there are a plethora of other four letter words that can (and did) escape my lips, why is it that the hardest one for me to say is "help?".

Motherhood isn't for wimps, that's for damn sure.

Love for the Woombie

I have said it over and over, but it bears repeating: If the epidural was the best money I ever spent pre-baby, then this was the best money I ever spent post-baby. (And a heckuva lot cheaper than the epidural). I was skeptical, at first, that this cocoon-looking sack would really give my tired, hormonal body a good stretch of sleep via my 7 week old daughter, but I was at my breaking point and willing to try anything. Anything. The first night I zipped her up, looking very much like a baby sausage, went to bed around 10 and kept my fingers crossed. I woke up at 5 the next morning and she was still sound asleep. Really? Too good to be true? Only time would tell. But night after night, her stretches of sleep increased, as did my amazement. My under-eye circles started to disappear. I got my sense of humor back. My coffee even tasted better. I stopped being crazy-hormonal-b*tch-from-hell Kristin and started being the girl my husband said he wanted to marry (because I'm pretty sure there were times when he thought, I did NOT sign on for this).

All of this for about 30 smacks.

I got a chance to test out the Woombie's magic again this past February when my son was born. Though not nearly the great sleeper my daughter was (he just now started sleeping through the night at nearly 4 months), he managed 5-6 hour stretches of sleep when he was just a few weeks old and I feel pretty darn confidant that it was largely due to this little piece of fabric. So confidant, in fact, that I just ordered him another one in size "big baby" and have started to nervously watch for the UPS man because I know he may only have a few more days, at best, in the NB size before he busts the zipper. And I fear that may make for a difficult night.

*Diclosure: This is not an official review. Woombie.com did not pay me to say any of this. It's just a little gushing from an over-tired Momma who is finally having her sleep- and sanity- restored.;-)

The Price of My Favorite Pair of Jeans

I've decided that I shouldn't ever complain about the few extra pounds of baby weight I've yet to shed. History would say it's just not a smart move. The last time I did that after having Ella, I got nailed with a stomach bug, so while I did lose what was left of my muffin top, I was also losing my lunch and dinner and breakfast and, well, you get the idea. Apparently this time around, it's strep throat. (Which I would gladly take any day over the stomach bug). Takes me back to the days when I regularly got strep throat as a little girl. (I always knew it was bad when my doctor had me open my mouth and then reeled back and said, "whoa.") But it's been so long since I've had it and time does a great job of deadening the senses and skewing the details and I forgot just how much it sucks. (Oddly enough, I conveniently forgot certain things about pregnancy too. I somehow remembered that morning sickness "wasn't so bad." Seriously? And now I pray that I will always remember the day I spent on the bathroom floor when my little guy was apparently implanting in my uterus before I let Jake or anyone else talk me into going for #3). But back to the throat thing. It hurts to swallow anything. I forgot about this. Water. Saliva. Sour Patch Kids (I had a hankering for them. Yes, it's weird). What little appetite I do have is satisfied with cherry, orange and grape popsicles and today for lunch, I had mac-n-cheese and a few tater tots. I've adopted the "eat whatever sounds good" rule and have discovered that I have the palate of a 3 year old.

I wish I could say that I always try to find the good in the not-good situations. At times like these, unfortunately, it's much easier to say, "Woe to me. My throat hurts like a b**ch." (I do say it, just not in front of the kids). But today, as I was changing out the last of my winter clothing for spring and summer garb, I thought, well maybe I'll just try on those jeans again. Lo and behold, my favorite pair fits. And the reason they're my favorite pair? Because they're the ones I wore before I got pregnant with Milo- the coveted size 6 that have been sitting under the 11 other pairs of maternity jeans I've had to work my way through. Yes, yes, I might still be pasty and my muscle tone is only "meh," BUT... I didn't have to lie down flat on my bed to get them zipped up and that, my friends, counts as a victory in my book.

So, to the white spots on the back of my throat and my swollen lymph nodes, I say, thank you. Oh, and suck it. I win.

Today, Right This Minute.

It's one of those days.

I went to bed last night ready to wake up and tackle the day, ready to hit the ground running. But it's 6:49 a.m and the day has already tackled me, has me pinned to the mat. My throat aches, my head throbs, my body is heavy- and not just in reference to the last 10 lbs of baby weight that are still holding onto my thighs for dear life. I imagine for one second that I can just turn over and go back to sleep for a few hours. (Okay, a few days). What if I could just go make a cup of tea, soak myself to the bone in a steamy shower and give myself even an hour to try and swim out of my dense, foggy state?

Today right this minute, I feel broken. I feel sick. Correction: I am sick. Jake is out the door for work at 8:05 and I realize we've barely even spoken this morning. I miss him. Odd how you can miss someone who sleeps beside you every night. I miss talking to him. I miss having coherent thoughts of my own. There may not be that much space between us, but there's just enough distance to fit two small, precious children. Will that distance grow as quickly as they do? I'm afraid of becoming a statistic: a husband and wife who essentially become glorified roommates, sharing a mortgage and divvying up chores and after school activities. I know deep down that we're okay, and that we'll always be okay- and that even when we're not, we'll find our way back. We always have. But today, I wish I was a little more "wife," and a little less "mommy." I wish my body belonged to me again. And so I continue my love/hate relationship with breastfeeding. 3 months down, 9 to go? Maybe only 6?

I sit on the couch listening to Ella chatter in her room and today, right this minute, I don't feel like I'm enough for her. She'll want to go outside and play. She'll want me to get down on the floor and wrestle with her and I know I don't have it in me. So it'll be a morning with Nick Jr and all of our animated friends. I have all of the theme songs memorized. Actually, so does she. Why does that suddenly make feel guilty? The minutes are ticking before Milo will wake up and want to eat. Do people actually hire wet nurses anymore? Where would I even go to look for one? Okay, back to reality.

But my mind wanders. On mornings like these, I play a dangerous game of "what ifs." What if I had a normal 9-5 job, sitting in a cubie climbing out from a mountain of emails and sitting in hopelessly boring and/or unproductive meetings? I would probably call in sick today and put my "out of office" message on my voicemail. I can't be reached. I'm not available. Don't bother. Go away. I'll get back to you tomorrow.

But I can't say that to my almost 2 year old. Nope.

The boss will be needing a clean diaper soon. And then her waffles and yogurt, with a side of strawberries. Then there are the bills, the laundry, the inevitable blowouts and tantrums and spilled sippy cups. Today, I will find a way to keep my head above water at least until naptime, when I can let myself succumb to the tears that I know she won't understand.

The truth is that if I did have that 9-5 job I sometimes visualize in my mind, there's a very good chance that I'd spend at least 6 of those 8 hours thinking about and missing my babies. I need to remember that today. Being a mommy is hard, especially right this minute. But may there be long naps and early bedtimes for us all tonight.

The Art of the Shart.

Yep, I just said it.

During Milo's first month, it never failed that I would no sooner get a clean diaper on him than his little face would turn beet red and the "gas" that I thought he had already gotten out of his system decided to make another forceful exit- and bring some friends along for the ride. During most diaper changes, I was usually far too concerned with keeping his little man parts covered to consider that there was another "exit" down there that needed guarding. But I've discovered that diapers don't mean a thing, really, and just because parts are covered, doesn't mean you're safe. The other day, I was holding Milo over my shoulder trying to get him to burp. It should also be mentioned that I was sitting on the couch with a bath towel, draped only partially over me because I was halfway through my shower when he decided to start screaming. Since he's always been a bit of a gassy baby to begin with, I wasn't too surprised when he bunched his legs up and started grunting. But I will know better next time.

It took me half a second to realize that something warm and sticky was on my face. In my hair. On my nose and upper lip. In my EYE. Oh GOD, in my EYE.

And it's amazing what goes through your mind in the 2.5 seconds that follow a poop bomb that explodes in your face. After all, this is my own flesh and blood. This is my heart. But he just sharted in. my. face. And in that one instant, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Instead, I just sat there on the couch, paralyzed, afraid to move for fear that I would discover it in more places. And then I started to gag. People who know me well can attest that even though I have a strange and intense fear of throwing up, I hardly EVER do and I have a fairly strong gag reflex. But this nearly pushed me over the edge. In fact, I think I would have rather been thrown up on than this- and that's a BOLD statement coming from me.

So after another shower and a delicate attempt to put hand-sanitizer all over my face (hmmm...alcohol and eyeballs are never a good combo), I recovered. And he just grinned at me. He knew exactly what he'd done. But I think that I do, in fact, have the upper hand. When he comes to me 13 years from now and asks why he has to clean his room/go to school/go to bed early, I'll say, "because I'm your mother and I said so. And because you sharted in my face when you were 2 months old. So there."