I typically get along with everyone I come across.  And I think I’m pretty good at coming up with small talk with anyone from my friend’s non-English speaking nanny to my cohort and carpool-mate. Except for the aforementioned “older moms.” The moms who for whatever reason married later and had kids later. I can’t seem to crack their code.

To me, they appear to have more life experience, solid careers and knowledge of time before computers and compact discs.  To them, I’m just a sprite. So young. My skin is so good. My metabolism hasn’t crapped out yet. So young.

So yes, some of this may be true.  I married at 26 had my first kid at 28 and will have my next at 31. I married before all my friends except one. I had a kid first. I’m practically Jamie Lynn Spears. But some of it’s not. My skin may be smooth-ish, but I have zits. Lots of them.

With age may come wisdom, but not with regards to motherhood.  I always felt that motherhood was the great equalizer. Lately, though, I feel that the scales are tipped and I’d better jack on some years so I can fit in better.  But wrinkles be damned.

 

Even Thomas can’t fix this disaster.

This is kind of like how I felt playing the children’s game “Thomas and Friends: Special Delivery” with my son. (My apologies to the ladies at Brighter Minds Media for the long delay in this review.) The game, rated “E” for “Everyone” and advertised by Brighter Minds at being appropriate for a two-year-old, had me befuddled from the opening menu.

Once I figured out there was a button to tell stories and one to just play the game, I thought my son and I were in business. Until I actually started to play the game.  I’m embarassed to say I had trouble matching up James’ train tracks appropriately in the first story segment. I’m even more embarassed to say that I couldn’t figure out how to get to the next story.

My son enjoyed the colorful pictures and trains whizzing by, but I couldn’t hide my frustration with a preschool-age game. After repeating the same story countless times, and trying different combinations of sequences and story lines, I gave up.  Just like I’ve given up ever trying to have an organized Tupperware set.

Post your tips on how to help me organize my Tupperware collection, and I’ll enter you in a random drawing for the Thomas game.  Maybe you’ll have better luck than I.

I’m trying not to care too much about my unborn child’s sex.  I know boys, I love having a boy and having another would be easy and a lot cheaper. Plus, all that matters is a healthy, normal and happy baby, right?

Not from the way my family and friends are talking. Nearly the first thing everyone says to me after I tell them I’m pregnant is,

Oh, I hope you’re having a girl!

I’m never sure how to respond to such statements.  Don’t get me wrong - I’ve already started looking longingly at all the pink and purple in the stores, thinking about life with princesses and ponies, and braiding hair before the first day of school. Everyone keeps telling me that they think I’m having a girl. (People, this doesn’t help).  But I keep reminding myself that it doesn’t matter - if all I get is more trucks, tanks, and messy curls, I will be just fine.

It’s amazing how much emphasis people put on gender when your first child is a boy. The woman at the store telling me that boys are great and they “love their mommies,” but how her friend had two boys and a girl and was “so excited.”  The friends who say they thought they were having boys all along but were so “surprised and estatic” when they had girls. They all assume that having two boys is the worst case scenario.

I’m excited to meet the little gomper who’s making me so queasy.  It may turn out that I’ll be surprised and bring home a bundle of joy in pink.  But I may not and instead be buying blue and camouflage forever and ever.  My son will have a brother, and I’ll be the happiest mom on earth.
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Now for your read-along enjoyment, here’s a recap of my first trimester symptoms. What do you think it is?

- Night nausea starting at 4 pm and lasting ALL MISERABLE NIGHT LONG
- Craving for fruit and anything in vinegar and oil
- Weight gain of 7 pounds (too hard to tell where it’s settling for now)
- Fetal heart rate of 153
- Skin broken out on face and back

Say girl and you’re dead to me.

I happen to think FHB’s (family holdbacks) can extend beyond the dinner table, however.  And dear readers, I’ve been holding back.

As most of you know, while my blog is as honest as can be, I’m never able or willing to disclose personal events as they occur.  There are certain things that are sacred to my family and as much as I want to spill it, I don’t.

But now, no family holdbacks.

I’m pregnant. Thirteen weeks so.

This is part of the reason I’ve lost my motivation mojo.  I’ve spent the better part of the summer in and out of a nauseous haze, coming up for air when I remember that I have a two-year-old who really would like to play (paaay) instead of watching mommy lay on the couch.  I don’t know what I would do if I actually had a real job.

I’m sorry I’ve been holding back.  Guess that’s what happens when you’re already a neurotic Jewish mother.  I will try better, though, to make sure from now on that there’s enough food on the table for all of us to share from now on.  Unless that nagging nausea takes away my appetite.

Once the eighty-degree sunny weather hit and decided to stay for more than a week, I decided to turn it off and tune into the wonders of two-year-old (TYO) dialect.

TYO: Mommy, what are we gw’an to do noowwwww?

Mommy: I don’t know, whatever we want.

TYO: I want to paaaaay.

TYO: No no. No want to go to errands. Want to paaaay.

So play we do.  All day and night.  Until I realize we’re out of milk or something and then I walk to the Speedway on the corner and buy some bad, hormone-laced in BPA bottle generic brand that will disintegrate my child’s brain or something. I haven’t posted in quite sometime over there where my mug shot smiles out from some alternative working mom universe.  I did post here recently, mainly because I had a sob story to tell and I don’t want my friends Jill and Beth to think I’ve completely gone AWOL in the blog world.

Speaking of AWOL, so are any vestiges of readers I once had here. I know you get what you give, and I’ve given so little of late, I’m not surprised by my lack of readers, but it’s yet another reminder of the lazy-ass summer lovin’ blob I’ve become. I’m even 3 episodes behind on Project Runway and wasn’t even sure if what I was watching was the new season.

It’s quite fun forgetting there’s a world of motivated mothers out there.  Those who defy the odds, grace magazine pages, have hit books , so on and so forth. I can see why people opt-out never to return to the world of deadlines, projects, and conference calls.  Sure, paychecks are nice, (there are so many fall items like THIS BAG that I’m seriously coveting, but seriously cannot afford), but they’re nothing compared to a sweet farmer’s tan and your kid’s dirty fingernails.

Ahh … that purple sure is perrrrty, though…

His vacuum is just a weak excuse to make a mess and pretend to clean it up.

Guess who cleaned this up?

I know I’ve been rather neglectful of you lately.  It’s nothing personal really. There are so many things I’ve wanted to tell you along the way since I last wrote.  Like the grey eyebrow hair I found (disturbing), the festival I spent the entire weekend volunteering at (exhausting) and all the swimming my son and I have been doing (exhilirating!).  

But I’m getting sucked into summer.

Really, really I want to write to you, but as the summer progresses I am becoming increasingly intolerant of the real world, surfing the internet, projects and anything that requires me to use major parts of my brain. In fact, things are getting so bad, I’m even having a hard time following “Tori and Dean.” G-d knows what will happen when 90210 is back on this fall.

Anyway, Blog, I just wanted to let you know that I still love you, but I’ve got other matters to attend to right now.   Like following the comings and goings of pregnant B-list celebrities. Ah, I love summer.

Love,

Self-Made Mom

I’ll fall asleep if I have a beer right now.

But, we were in good company.  Never in my life have I seen more pregnant women, grey hairs and all out PEOPLE LIKE ME in one place. You know you’re at an old people concert when no one spills beer on your purse and the faintest smell of a certain smoke makes everyone gossip in their seats. 

Which was fine with me. Aside from a few lame-o guys trying their very worst pick up lines on my friend and I, (all I wanted to hear was the song “Yellow.” I didn’t want to engage in a discussion of the band “blowing their load early”) no one really bothered me and I walked out smelling fresh as an arena seat.  I didn’t get to sit down enough, but I also didn’t get dirty stares when I rested my old legs after 70 minutes of standing. 

I needed to conserve my energy for that long walk to my car.  Which led to my house.  And bed.  Which I was grateful to see at 11:30 pm.  Sorry, Pete. It’s too late for me to die before I get old.  I am already there.