“NOTICE: This product, when extremely cold, may stick to warm lips or tongue. Allow to warm slightly before eating.”

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The dictionary has a few definitions of the word “hermit.”  I’m not going with the one in my title, or the Ornithological one.  I’m going with the one that applies to people who have grown tired of sharing their space with assholes and want to live the rest of their lives alone—or with a few chosen others—under the guise of religious devotion or not.

After the birth of my third child, I retreated into a very hermit-like existence.  I had an infant to tend to and I pretty much hated the living guts of most of the adults I was around day-to-day.  It was easy and forgivable for me to say, Eh, I think I’ll just putter around the house with the baby today and if I feel the need to go out, we’ll take a walk through the park or drive up to the Target around the corner for a few things.  Then I was hit with a series of non-devastating but very inconvenient health problems, followed by a couple of minor surgeries that took a long time to heal.  So, my reclusive behavior was again reinforced by my limited mobility.  I just couldn’t get out and about.  People understood, gave me their sympathy, went on with their bustling, chatty little lives and left me alone. 

But, I healed and the baby grew and over the past couple of years, I’ve found myself slipping into a more visible and socially intense lifestyle and I don’t like it. 

The way I’ve been able to measure this is the frequency of make-up wearing occasions.  Three years ago, I only wore make-up when my appearance would be noted—like when I ran the weekly book club at my son’s school, or when I had a parent-teacher conference, or if we were going to a group picnic for scouts or something.  I never wore make-up to run errands because I rarely bumped into people who knew me.  I’d see people that I recognized, but my status was so low that they didn’t know who I was.  I had become invisible, and I liked it.  Back then, I wore make-up once or twice a week, tops.  Now, I have make-up wearing events every day—sometimes multiple times in a day, and it’s rare for me to go anywhere and not run into several people who recognize me.  At one level, I enjoy the illusion of popularity, but on another level, I am annoyed by the need to check myself in the mirror every single time I leave the house.  All this visibility and running of my mouth is wearing me down.  There are days when I become nauseated by the sound of my own voice reverberating in my head.  I need to put an end to it.  Yesterday, I made a vow to myself to make some real efforts to get back to the quiet hermit I used to be.  I can see where I made wrong turns over the past months, and I have come up with a plan to make sure they don’t happen again.

The baby is a pre-schooler now.  She’s at an age where being around other kids is developmentally good for her.  That’s fine, but I don’t want to be around those other kids’ parents, necessarily.  I’m not one to bond with other women at the gym classes, or find that I have oodles in common with a chick at the pre-school.  It just doesn’t happen to me.  More often than not, I suffer through those encounters knowing that I plan to run home and bash the conversations I overheard in my blog or an essay or a piece of short fiction.  I see these situations as story fodder and that’s what helps to get me through them.   I could be altruistic and see them as a sacrifice I make for the wee one, because she needs exposure to these other little shits so in thirty years she can choose a life of solitude for herself.  When I’m not feeling catty and put out, I do that.  I wrap myself in the “I’m such a good mommy” blanket and actively ignore the nitwits around me with their banal dialogue.  But, that often makes its way into some piece of writing, too.  

My middle child is in a very high-profile position in the community for another ten months.  That sounds so ridiculously pompous and asinine as I read that over that it makes me cringe.  But trust me, I’ve tried to re-word it and that’s the best I’ve come up with.   I like watching my daughter as she goes about her assigned duties.  I get a bang out of it, actually.  But, there’s mingling involved… that means showering and doing my hair, putting on make-up and unstained clothes, and then standing around making small talk.  Once in a while, that’s OK, but in heavy frequency it becomes draining on me.  Not that any of these people are bad or irritating in themselves, it’s just the size of the whole thing is so overwhelming.  So many people, over such a long period of time, doing so very much.  It makes me appreciate being married to a person who is willing and able to take on a chunk of it for me.

Those are my two biggest obstacles in achieving hermithood.  The little one needs to interact with like-sized humans and we’ve made promises with the middle one.  So, it’ll be a gradual re-entry to reclusivity, as those obligations are met or change.  Once the little one is in grade school, I can truly commit myself to this goal.  Until then, I have to jump on opportunities to avoid people as they arise.

I don’t hate everyone.  I find young people particularly entertaining.  There are the teens in that program my daughter is involved with that are great to talk to, and some of their parents are quite witty.  Then there are some “kids” at the taekwondo school that I simply adore.  I put “kids” in quotes because it seems my preferable age range is from about 8 to mid-twenties.  See, the older I get, the older “kids” get, too.  It’s entirely conceivable that when I’m seventy, I’ll find the “kids” in their 30’s and 40’s to be perfectly endearing.  Right now, that happens not too much.  There is a definite correlation between kids I like and their parents though.  I’ve found that if I like the kid, I’ll often like their parents, but it doesn’t always go the other way.

Maybe I like these kids because my own social skills are retarded and I’m actually developmentally seventeen when it comes to conversing.  Or, maybe it’s just the freshness of their language and ideas.  I find that even the most awkward verbal exchanges with one of these kids to be more interesting than a smooth one with the mom of another pre-schooler, where we cover the same old stagnant topics using the same old tired vocabulary, silently judging each other through it all.   So, I’ll hang onto the kids.  I’ll continue leave my split-level, suburban hermitage to go mingle with them and their parents because it’s fun.  And, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing at the schools because I like being involved in the kids’ lives in that way.  So, it seems that my options for being a recluse are quite limited.  

It just all needs to be taken down.  I’d like to put things in slow motion and reduce the volume and brightness a few degrees.  Maybe I don’t need to hide from everyone and everything, I just need to take a break from it to catch my breath.  Maybe a hermit vacation would hit the spot.  Or maybe a quiet weekend with the phone off, a good book, a cup of tea and a plate of spiced cookies made with molasses, raisins and nuts.  

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And I’ve become a planner.

I used to chill hard, and now I plan er, harder. I mean it. I must drive my babysiter nuts because I plan out our week Sunday night. Example:

“So Monday I’m going to work from 10am until lunchtime or so, and than we can go grab lunch at the diner, and I want to bring Paige to the park so lets do that, followed by some work before dinner, okay? Tuesday lets plant flowers in the morning, and I’ll work for 3 hrs 45 minutes and we’ll make chicken salad with curry and apples for lunch and than Paige will nap and I’ll work and than we can go for a walk in the forest but than we’ll take a swim OR sit in the grass and talk..”

I actually plan out conversations.

What’s happening to me? I am a plan freak! The grandma borrowed Paige for the weekend and was deciding whether or not she would take her until Tuesday, she just needed to hear back form her job. Well, I called FIVE TIMES because I felt I couldn’t go on until I knew my plans. Like, if I knew I had an extra 24 hours to myself I’d probably spend more time laying around and reading, or twirling my hair…but if I didn’t I’d crack down and kick some ass cleaning.

I need help. I’m beginging to annoy the SHIT out of well, everyone.

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You see, in our humble abode, the kids and I have a little agreement. I allow the cleaning to be carelessly tossed to the wayside while we engage in cooking lessons, educational bridging exercises, kiddie pool wading and various summer fun activities. The way I figure it, trying to keep the house clean while the kids are present and involved in the messy business of being children, is pretty much a losing battle. Choosing to fight such battles just makes for afternoons filled with nothing but bouts of hair pulling frustration and frantic attempts to erase muddy footprints with the mop before the next stampede of puddle jumpers descends upon the family room.

Why bother?

That is where my husband and I disagree. He is the advocate for preventative cleaning measures and holds the same ideals of keeping a perpetually tidy house, as every other clean freak in the nation.  If he only knew how truly disgusting the house becomes every weekday, from the hours of 7:00 am until he returns home, he would probably have a conniption fit. In fact, I have to keep myself from laughing, on the weekends, when I see him anxiously twiddling his thumbs in the corner of the kitchen as he watches us leisurely go from the first meal of the day to the first activity, without so much as a sweep or table scrubbing. He can only go so long, without asking if “I’d like some help tidying up the area before it gets too bad.” Usually I will oblige his need for immediate sanitation satisfaction, but sometimes I will tell him that I’ll get to it in a minute, just for the fun of watching him pick up a towel and peevishly start scrubbing dishes. It is mean, I know. Hey…after ten years of marriage, I have to find some way of paying him back for refusing to use the laundry hamper for the disposal of his soiled garments, over and over again!

Lucky for me, the husband has a knack for finding a bigger, better more efficient way of doing event he tiniest of household chores. Then, when I finally do get around to picking up a mop, there will be a more efficient way of getting the job done, in less time!  Thanks to his freakish enjoyment of inventing these methods, I have my five o’clock cleaning routine whittled down to a silky smooth forty minutes. His method even leaves me with five extra minutes to check my email and start dinner. When the mess-a-phobe…er, husband comes through our front door, he sees a clean house, a sane mother, dinner on the stove and is none the wiser. Bwahahaha! But please, keep this between us. It may ruin my ability to sneak in some occasional day time blogging and then life, as I know it, would be much less enjoyable. Shhh, it will be our little secret!

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Like many imperfect parents, I’m more or less a very good parent on most days… but this requires a certain amount of concentrated effort and a whole lot of help. I used to get help in a bottle, and now I get help from a variety of sources.

But I still need and want a vice.. something that serves no other purpose than pleasure and rebellion. A way to cut loose and be onesself without getting mistaken for a “ma’am” or a “sir”… or someone who is, say, turning 40.

I like to joke about starting a respite center for mothers staffed with hot Italian boys (or girls, depending on your preferences).. and I’m only sort of joking. Seriously, it’s so very easy to take parenting too farging seriously these days.

But the thing is, I miss having a vice. I don’t want anything life or health or marriage threatening, just something to spice things up and remind me of the wild girl I used to be long long ago.

So when my friend told me of her new “thing” for nicotine-free cigarettes (doesn’t that sound like “no strings attached” sex?? nice idea but highly unlikely?), I thought I’d give them a try.

I’ll report back soon.. but until then.. any vices you’d recommend?

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Here is how my day went yesterday…

I get home from work and immediately begin running errands for three hours straight with my dog, purchasing items for my dog. First the organic pet store 20 minutes from our house. There, with my 75 pound boxer at my side, I have to haul a 30 pound bag of dog food through the store. I get to the register and have to toss the monster bag on the counter (which is conveniently about 4 1/2 feet high). After paying $50 for Hunter’s organic, all natural kibble, I haul the bag to the car. I almost fall over as Hunter lurches me backwards so he can urinate on a bush.

Next stop, a larger pet supply store about 30 minutes away. Off Hunter and I go. The 30 minute trip turns into 45 as traffic backs up. Again, super convenient. We get to the store and Hunter is psyched! We spend 10 minutes walking outside so he can relieve himself upon every bush, tree, stone, blade of grass. He drags me inside and some deranged chiuaua goes postal on my pooch. After the excitement we make it back to the treat aisle. This is always a painful process as Hunter is allergic to just about everything. The ingestion of chicken, for one thing, means an emergency visit to the vet. Chicken happens to be in nearly EVERY dog treat. Again, freakin’ convenient. I’m trying to elegantly stoop down and stand on my tippies as I reach for the few treats he can eat. They also happen to be the most expensive. I hear at least four passer bys comment on how strong and playful my dog is as he does his best to make me fall on my tush.

Then panic sets in. Oh crap! Where are those all natural, locally made carob-chip cookies that my pooch adores? The ones that don’t use eggs. Where are they? They are one of three treats he can eat without developing an allergic reaction, or setting off his IBS. That’s right, my dog has Irritable Bowel Syndrome to boot. Conveniently they have been discontinued. Fine. Off we go with a small bounty of his allergen free, all natural, non-IBS irritating treats. Another $50 at the register.

Back outside the ritual of peeing on every surface continues. We get into the car and head back to the city. 45 minutes later and we are at the small pet boutique that carries the only canned food he can eat — a blend of venison and potatoes. Now why wouldn’t I pick up these cans at the two previous stores? Because, conveniently, this is the only store in a 50 mile radius that carries it. Of course they don’t carry his dry food or any of his treats. I juggle 10 cans in my free arm, the other holding tightly to Hunter’s leash, because this fancy-pants store doesn’t have carts or baskets. $30 and we’re off to the vet’s office.

Hunter always loved the vet. This is the man who, after many painful over-night stays, IV drips, skin tests, and doggie barium enemas, discovered all of Hunter’s ailments. Then Hunter developed a nasty tumor on his ear. Treating it surgically wasn’t really an option because of its locations, so a course of steroids were prescribed. That was fine and dandy, until Hunter had to visit the vet’s office to have the tumor scraped. As you can imagine it was not pleasant. As soon as Hunter realizes whose parking lot we’re in he begins to frantically pace in the backseat. I fight to get him into the office. There I pick up his allergy pills, anti-vomiting pills, and IBS medication. Hunter also needs his allergy shot. This does not make him a happy canine. He tries desperately to escape while I’m paying the hefty bill. $289.

We finally make it home and I’m drained, mentally, physically, and financially. Conveniently, Hunter wants to play football outside. Of course I could ignore him, tell him to go lay down and take a nap, but that would be too damn convenient.

My husband and I go to bed around 11:30. Hunter is snug in between us. At 4am I awake to the sound of him pacing around the house — never a good sign. I wait five minutes, hoping it will pass. Then I hear a sound that can only be compared to empty soda cans crashing to the floor. I jump out of bed and run to the kitchen. Nothing. I circle around to the living room and I see a very timid looking Hunter. He’s shaking. I look down and — ewww — a grotesque, large splattering of what appears to be ten servings of chocolate pudding. Just what I want to see at 4 in the morning.

I usher a traumatized Hunter outside as I clean the mess. Just me in a t-shirt, sans pants, cleaning up doggie diarrhea in front of my open, full glass front door.

After 20 minutes I wrap a blanket around me, just now realizing that I’m half naked, and call my dog inside. He’s too upset to come in. We’ve never hit him, and we always console and comfort him when he gets sick, but he won’t budge. I now have to get my sleeping husband out of bed to go outside, pick up our 75 pound dog, and bring him in. After a few minutes of hugging, gentle words, and a few doses of his medications, Hunter hops into bed with us. He burrows his head, places a paw on my leg, and falls fast asleep. Conveniently, I lay awake for another hour, stroking his belly.

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Their bathroom is like a shrine to Davey Jones’s locker, for crying out loud! My kids feel like they are riding the Pirate’s Of The Carribbean, every time they flush. Even I have considered grabbing a bottle of rum and soaking in the ambiance, while downloading. It’s like a mini vacation every time nature calls!

My sister in law found the painting below, in a remote corner of her dad’s house. It fits perfectly and was free! It was what inspired her to do a nautical theme. Her college aged son, suggested a dark twist of adding the pirate decor.

My kids love the fact that the toilet has a treasure chest and cup-o-jewels on the tank.

The ominous portrait of Black Beard hangs beside the free standing wash basin. Beside it (not shown) are the infamous keys that unlock the imprisoned pirates from the Disney classic movies.

I have to admit, this bathroom is one of the coolest I’ve ever peed in. I don’t blame the kids for wanting to spend so much time in it. It made me consider my own bathroom decor. The kids never seem to want to use our bathrooms. I have found puddles of urine and little stink pickles in every nook and cranny of our house (including the air conditioning unit,) except for the restroom. Maybe the pink floral and jungle themes were not suiting my kids’ fancies. My sister in law suggested using a Disney theme, like the inspiration she drew from “Pirates Of The Carribbean.” I took her advice, but it’s just not getting the same popular response from the kids. In fact, they won’t go anywhere near the bathrooms now. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the “Haunted Mansion” theme as my inspiration. What do you think?

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Saving money is even harder than finding fun in the coupon game. Some say that it is a thrill to look at their savings account and see the figures grow. When I look at our savings account balance, all I see is my new bed room set, waiting to be purchased. When my husband lectures me on retirement and investing, it is like he is speaking Spanish. Sure, I can understand what he is saying, but my native language is much more effortless to comprehend. I speak fluent Spendanese. If there was a game for who can spend the most, I’d be the champ. If you hand me a Nordstrom catalog, I can easily pick out the most expensive pair of Manolo Blahniks on the page, without seeing the prices. How? Easy, they are the pair that my eye is attracted to. Some would say that it is a gift, but it has become my curse.

I have a role to fulfill as a responsible parent of seven kids. It is my duty to save money, do without luxuries and buy generic brands. Do I enjoy it? No. It is my cross to bear. There are so many great things about having a large family and one income. I get to stay home and be the one to raise my kids. I get to witness all of their first milestones. I get to blog in my bikini, while getting a tan. I will never be bored. I get seven bed time kisses. I will have lots of grandkids, someday! I will (hopefully) have one kid that likes me enough to change my diaper when I get old. The money issue, however, is one of the less desirable parts of my life as a mother of seven. I will wear my Target brand jeans, but I will not swing my hips the way I would in True Religions. I will drink my five dollar bottle of wine, but it won’t taste as good. I will drive my 15 passenger van, but will not rev the engine as if I were driving a Jaguar. I accept it, I live it, but nobody can persuade me to be thrilled about it!

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But enough about him. This was my first adult camping experience minus little ones. We always camp in a large group — about 15 adults, 10 kids, and 5 dogs. Yeah, the other laid-back, chill campers just love when we pull up. It’s usually four days of chaotic fun, complete with fully-decorated cabins and late nights. And regardless of my intentions of having a relaxing long weekend in the woods, I always end up more tired and run down.

I blame the kids. That’s right — putting all the blame on them! Even though none of the kids are mine, we adopt the “it takes a village” approach when camping. I don’t think there is any other way. You’ve got bears and greedy rabies-filled raccoons. Big bonfires with lethal ambers are burning 24/7 (you would think that an 11 year old would know NOT to pick up a glass bottle from the fire, but no!). The creek that runs around the cabins can be a deathtrap. And the picturesque, although dangerous, wooded hills and cliffs behind the cabins just scream “climb me!” Then add on the dogs. We don’t leash them, because that would be too easy, and seems unnatural in such a natural setting. They’re a good pack, but you can’t take your eye off of them for a minute.

As if keeping your eyes peeled at all times wasn’t enough, our group has this insane desire to cook meals as if we were vacationing with state-of-the-art kitchens and tools. There is fry-night, during which 3 outside deep-fryers are constantly cooking wings, french fries, blooming onions and mozzarella sticks (all made from scratch). We fully prepare all meals to meet the major food groups (which I doubt we’d do if we weren’t feeding kids). And don’t forget breakfast. Cereal doesn’t fly with us. One cabin lovingly prepares biscuits with gravy. Another tackles pancakes and bacon. And finally, eggs-McHagar and hash browns (recipe available!). The coffee is brewing while adults take turns driving kids to the bathroom, going on a quick distractionary hike, or insisting that they put on dry shoes.

What is my point? After my relaxing, kid-free camping weekend I have learned one thing. Camping is way more fun with kids around. Seriously.

Yeah, it was nice not having to say “earmuffs” every 2 minutes. Even nicer was the lack of the “ca-caw” signal, followed by a certain mommy quickly putting out her cigarette so she could play the role of the non-smoker in front of her young kids. But I missed the constant buzz, the kids running around the fire while we yell at them in unison. I never thought that this camping trip wouldn’t include a craft table! Do you know how boring the afternoon can be without a craft table? Charades wasn’t nearly as entertaining without a 6 year old acting out The Godfather. When the adults have had too much to drink, there is no one else to talk to. And when I decided to skip the mid-day nap I was totally left to my own devices. There was no excited 8 year old to play catch with, no 12 year old girl to play with my hair. Complete crap!

I have now decided that from now on, in addition to pots and pans, marshmallow skewers, tiki lights, air mattresses, and enough food for a month, I will always pack a kid or two for a weekend of camping.

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The loss of my tub’s virginity, was enough to make me want to cry. Not because it happened once, but because it will be considered open territiory from here on out. Like, “Hey Dad, the bearded dragons need a good scrubbing. I’m gonna use mom’s tub ‘cuz they like the jets.” Mark my word, it won’t be long until I’m sharing bubble bath with the resident reptiles. The tub isn’t the only thing in this house that has been erroneously encroached upon and ultimately soiled. I am always finding greasy little lip marks on my beloved Dr. Pepper. The kids know how badly their practice of sipping on my soda pisses me off, yet they do it every time I turn my back for a second. I despise those tiny floating remnants of back wash and the way they taunt me to take a big gulp without ingesting one of them. Most of the time, I chug the whole damn can before even setting it down, because I know it is my only chance to drink the contents, without encountering spittle. My spawn have gotten wise to my game, though. I recently discovered many cans, sitting in our fridge, empty and placed back in their original positions. I am in the midst of devising a repellant solution, made of vinegar and hot sauce. I will fill half full cans of soda, then sit back and watch as the little miscreants suffer the wrath of the meanest mommy on the planet.

The way I see it, there are two choices. I can either allow the “Me” to fight back and rage war against the ones who threaten my right to retain a smidge of individuality. Traveling this route could be time consuming and potentially deadly (for me.) My other option is to let the “Mom’ win and wave the white flag. I’m only twenty nine and I still have a long stint as a stay at home mother. It will be at least 16 more years until I can boot the last one out. If I give up now, I might very well live out the next 16 years in a comatose state and stink like a bucket full of buttholes from the lack of a decent bath. I think I’ll take my chances and fight for my right to cootie free Dr. Pepper and a non-scummy tub. After all, the “Mom’ may make up a larger part of who I am, but the “Me’ still has seniority!

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My husband and I do OK for ourselves. In an attempt to save money for our future we have decided to live frugally for the time being. Our house isn’t decked out (although we will be siding it this month!!!). We live within our means. We do have nice clothes, dine out occasionally, and can be seen at our local watering hole once in a while. I even splurged today on Red Sox tickets! However, the need to spend incessantly among some that I know has become irritating!

Many of us have, at some point, lived beyond our means. And where has that gotten us? You don’t need new furniture every two years. You really don’t need a TV that rivals a movie theater. You’re new monster truck will be a hit at the gas station. And those jeans you paid $120 for — no one can tell. They look like the same pair I saw at JC Penny for $20.

If spend, spend, spend is your prerogative, fine. Knock yourself out. But when you can’t afford it, and you complain constantly about cash flow, bills, and the rising price of gas and groceries, you kind of make me want to stab myself with my Target flatware (that I bought at 40 percent off).

This need to keep up with the Jones’ can’t just exist within my circle of friends. Has anyone else experienced this, or am I just being a green-eyed monster?

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I remember watching a documentary on the history of tattoos a few years back. And, if my memory serves me, this was a custom that certain tribes used as a coming-of-age status. The idea was to withstand the pain of the tattooing process, and the tattoo was the proof that the boy did endure it and was now a man. They didn’t get the tattoo because of the image, the image was a result of the process. It made sense.

It also made sense that it was for men and not women. Women have their own coming-of-age status symbols. For one, every 28 days, we bleed for a week. The proof that we endure that pain is that everyone in our hut is still alive after the week is done. If that’s not enough, then given the right circumstances, we have live human beings yanked out from our bodies in one way or another. The proof we survived that is well, the child.

But, if even that isn’t enough, then we also have our stretch marks, saggy skin, deformed belly buttons and floppy tits to commemorate the experience. So, what’s with the body altering tattoos and piercings?

I was at the aquarium the other day and I saw a woman with two sons. She was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and on one arm, she had a tattoo of a flower and a boy’s name and a date of birth. On the other arm, she had another tattoo of a flower and the other boy’s name and date of birth. I don’t know why she did that. I talked about it with my husband later and I said that maybe the boys were adopted, and she felt she missed out on the pain and physical body alteration, so she had that done to compensate? Or maybe she suffered short-term memory loss and was constantly afraid of forgetting who those kids were and when they were born? I don’t know. Because otherwise, the boys could just tell you their names and birth dates. It didn’t need to be permanently etched into her skin.

Isn’t it the same with piercings? Weren’t they originally supposed to be proof of pain tolerance? I know some were intended to be solely ornamental. But, bull rings in the nose? Isn’t that just a bad idea? There’s a reason that farmers put the rings in noses of bulls in that particular manner–because the pain is so excruciating, the bull has no choice but to submit to whatever’s pulling on it. Seems like a really, really bad thing for a young woman to voluntarily do to herself, doesn’t it?

Now, I am typically a “live and let live” sort of gal. I really don’t care if someone wants to cover her entire body with green ink and poke herself all full of holes, here, there, and everywhere. But, the idea of mothers doing it irritates me. It irritates me because like I said, we have built-in proofs of pain tolerance. Badges of our unique status already walking around and also forever marking our body. But, rather than make it fashionable to go around showing off those, we’re instead adhering to men’s pain tolerance symbols. Does that seem right? Why not make it really the new cool thing to show off our post-partum bellies? Instead of investing in uncomfortable bras that try to boost our breasts into gravity defying shapes, why not adopt some fashions that let them swing low and free like our tribal sisters? Have pride in the pain and disfigurement that went along with pregnancy and childbirth. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate feminist stance?

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But right now? Right now her interests include: putting things in her mouth, falling and hitting her head on things, crawling at record speeds around our home, getting stuck under coffee tables, putting the cat in headlocks, dog bones, and giving me heart attacks.  She can get into a good Touch and Feel book for 30 seconds at a time, and sometimes if I do funny voices and act-a-fool she’ll giggle. We went to the zoo and spent a good deal of time in front of the fish tanks We also enjoy shopping. Paige is perfectly content making goo goo eyes with strangers in the mall if it means I’m pushing her around all day and providing her with apple strawberry Gerber Stars and carrot juice.

But I got to let it out folks.

I don’t like playing with my daughter. Touch and Feel’s are cute but I can’t read “Zoo’s Who” over and over again without thinking about my email. I can only feign enthusiasm for the fish in the tank a few times before I realize I’d rather be reading the new novel I have sitting on my desk. I like to go to the park and feed the ducks but I don’t like watching my daughter like a hawk so she doesn’t put branches and bugs into her mouth. I feel horrible about this, really and truly. I want to be super mom and get psyched about everything. I want to crawl around the floor all day enthralled to be picking up dust bunnies before my daughter can get to them. In fact, I want to be the kind of mom that gets rid if dust bunnies before they even happen even with a dog, cat, and shag rug.

But I can’t.

And for the record, I’m really glad she’s sleeping, where’s my book?

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And now you’re at Grandmas for the night. And I miss you, you’ve been gone for about three hours. Why is it I daydream about free nights like this and when they come I sit around eating chicken salad, doing laundry, contemplating going to sleep so I can wake up sooner to see you tomorow thus starting the cycle of getting annoyed/wanting you at a sitters/missing you.

The world will never know.

Go to bed,

Love mommy

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“Jump, Mommy kangaroo, jump with me!”

“Not now, Baby kangaroo.”

“Jump with me!”

“Mommy kangaroo hasn’t been that big into jumping since puberty, hon.”

“Mommy kangaroo has big boobies. I’ve got little boobies. When I get really bigger, I’ll have big boobies and then I can’t jump.”

What am I teaching her with my laziness and unsupportive bras? That she can’t jump once she gets boobs?

Then again, there’s genetics. I was a C-cup in sixth grade. Her father’s mother didn’t sprout until high school, but by the time she graduated she was 40-24-36. Unless there’s something *very* freaky in the water, my little munchkin is going to look like she’s 20 before she gets her learner’s permit.

“Honey?”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got financial planning with your company, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You need to make an appointment with them. Discuss savings plans with the goal of being able to afford a Swiss convent school in about ten years.”

“Is Penny talking about her boobies again?”

“You know it.”

“Have you tried telling her she’s really a boy?”

“Honey, we can’t afford private school. You think we’re going to be able to foot *those* kinds of therapy bills?”

“Point made. Just start in with the ’sex is evil’ talk.”

“I’d rather leave it to the nuns.”

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When I went to college and managed to loose health insurance I lost my doctor thus loosing my “ADD” medication. Feeling scatterbrained and hungry I mostly ate my way through my first semester. Taco Bell at lunch time? Okay! My mom’s amazing Sunday night dinners followed by my Aunt’s chocolate chip cookies? Bring it on bitches. I had spent my high school feeling wired, and surviving on granola bars and missing out on all my favorite foods. Post teen hood years I was a tad bit chubby but no one seems to remember that, focusing on when I was a twig. A medicated twig.

So yes, motherhood has reared it’s fat  head. My thighs rub together and I’ve got a belly that sticks out of my tee shirts in all it’s stretch marked goodness, and I may have back fat. The only plus side to all this is my boobs are huge and my husband loves them. It took me awhile to deal with this. I’m sure my husband wanted to grab me by my aforementioned back fat and drop kick me for all the times I asked him “do you think I’m SEXY? Do you think I’m FAT…if I am chubby am I STILL sexy? Are my boobs sagging? Look at my stomach! I’m uglyyyyyy [followed my wailing and cursing and maybe throwing a book or two...]

It’s not like now I don’t care. And it’s certainly that I don’t care about being healthy because I do! I just accept it. I had a baby, a nine pound baby and she stretched me out. She gave me back fat. She weighed my boobs down with milk, and yes maybe I ate too many Oreos but who cares? When my mom tells me my belly still looks like I’m “five months pregnant…” I pleasantly tell her to shutup. When my mother in law kinda smirks at me as I’m baking chocolate chip banana bread and goes “no diet huh?” I pleasantly think “shutup..” And I really don’t care.
I’m sexy!

Today.

Right now.

Tomorow I might feel gross again.

How did you deal with your post partum bodies? Did you worship them? Loose all the baby weight within 2 days of giving birth and have no idea what I’m talking about? Or sometimes want to smash mirrors?

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Country bumpkins my friends, are hot. They’re all sunburnt noses and flimsy sundresses. They take baths in claw foot tubs after a long day making jam, and they leave the door open. They make love on giant four poster beds all creaking and clawing and there’s no air conditioning so everybody is a sweaty mess. Uh huh, that’s what I think when I think of “perfect farm girl…”

But I mean, I don’t live on a farm. I live on shitty Staten Island in a tiny apartment with too much stuff. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t suck too much, I do live within walking distance to a craft store and a TJ Maxx but as far as traffic, the general population, crime, shitty schools etc go I hate it. The private school has a huge sign hanging over it that says “DON’T KILL THE UNBORN BABIES…” it’s very welcome. So our lease is up in two months and we are getting the (pardon) fuck out. Debating city vs more rural suburb was easy. I don’t want to pay 3 grand for a tiny apartment when we both work from home. I want to drive fifteen minutes to get to Trader Joes. I’ve never drove! I want trees, flowers, and backyard for our dog to run around in. I want to let my cat roam the neighborhood.

So I’m happy and psyched to say Saturday we are going to peep our dream home. It’s a rent-to-buy (sup shitty market) but we are hoping to buy in a year or two. It’s got a detached garage so Phil can have a mancuary and I don’t even need to see him! Sitting in our living room! Working! Trying to prevent my daughter from playing with his USB cords! And it’s got 2 acres, and it’s only 15 minutes from my own fantastic mommy, and it has a room I can have all to myself for writing. I wanted to share my happiness! Lets pray we get it.

So what’s your take, city, or country bumpkin?

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Paige and I made the great escape to Grandma’s for a weekend of debauchery, and by debauchery I mean we went to Trader Joe’s and out to lunch a lot. We also spend three hours in Target, oh behave! I love my mom so much even if she asks me “why my belly still looks puffy and like I’m pregnant…”  The bitch.

I had a great few days spending time with my mom, my brother, and his girlfriend….which brings me to the topic at hand which is my need for a wife. Things just went so god damn smooth during my visit. My mom, and brothers girlfriend worked like awesome in sync team members kicking ass at child rearing. One of us was sleepy? We hung out with Paige while one napped (okay, that was me, I was the only tired one..), changing a diaper in a diner while Paige screamed? A breeze! Maneuvering hot coffees, a carriage, and some bags over bumpy suburban roads? No sweat! (a little coffee ended up on Paige but in my defense it was luke warm..) Naps, feedings, the fact that my daughter was completely off her schedule and refusing to sleep at night? Not a big deal because we helped each other out.

I seriously think woman  just get it. Now, as annoying as he is my husband’s still incredibly helpful and a kick ass dad but I just get such a natural high from being around woman and my own child. Because woman get it. Lauren and my mother never say “Why are you so tired, she only woke up three times last night…”

I’m feeling sick, and brain dead today so that’s all for now but once I catch up on caffeine, sleep, and remove this infection from my eye causing me to squint at my screen I’ll be back in action.

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Then the other night, while watching my beloved Discovery Health channel, I caught a show called House of Twins. Without any infertility or hormone treatments, one couple had THREE SETS OF TWINS!!! Three pregnancies — six babies.

Turns out the momma is creating a high level of a follicle-stimulating hormone – meaning she is hormonally wired to have twins.  I think I’ll go in for tests tomorrow…

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