Angry tirade in response to an issue popping up in the news a lot lately:
Do you know what is easy about being a mother? Not much. Is it amazing and truly the most important role I will ever serve in my life? Absolutely. Will I be a mother until the day I die? Yes, in every way.
However.
Was it easy to grow a human inside my uterus and have him kick and punch the you-know-what out of my ribs until 41 weeks? No.
Was it easy to endure 24 hours of labor and then push for 90 minutes until my 9 lb son emerged? No.
Was it easy to run around after my toddler son while enormous child #2 grew and grew until she, also at 9 lbs, entered the world at 41 weeks? No.
Was it easy to recover from both of these births? (I don't need to add the gory details -- most of you reading this are mothers and know what a trauma this is.)
Was it easy to have a child bite, claw, punch, and kick his way to my nipple every 13 seconds for the first 8 weeks of his life? Um, no.
Was it easy to deal with a jealous 2-year old while trying to protect, feed, bathe, and clothe his younger sister? No! Did it drive me to drink? Yes.
Was it easy to time errands around feedings and the fear of the dreaded leaky boob? No.
Yet, somehow, there were days when I was able to drag my sorry un-showered, puked on, milk-filled self out into the world when my kids were babies. And you can be damn sure that when one of them wanted to eat, I parked myself wherever I could to provide their breakfast, lunch, dinner, or snack. And 100% of the time, Mommy was the food source. If I have to expose my 3-year old son to 12 foot tall Victoria Secret models thrusting their breasts forward in his face while walking through the mall, then the world can deal with us mommies feeding our babies WHEREVER we want WHENEVER they need it.
Seriously, world?? We breastfeed our kids!! Always have, always will. It is actually natural and normal -- not words used to describe Heidi Klum's body leering over us as we Christmas shop.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Fancy
My husband and I had a discussion this morning about the use of the word "fancy."
Me: "You can bring a roast beef sandwich or soup for lunch" (as he is getting ready for work).
Him: "I don't need a lunch. I am going out to lunch with (co-worker)."
Me, in a jovially sarcastic tone: "Right. Have fun at your fancy lunch."
Him: "It is so funny to me that you think the places I go for lunch are fancy."
Me: "Well, are there children on your lap putting noodles in their hair?"
Him: "No."
Me: "Do you need to request crayons and a sippy cup with a lid from the waiter?"
Him: "No."
Me: "Can you order whatever you want, not just eat the rest of the kids' meals that they won't eat?"
Him: "Yep."
And finally, me: "Are you out of the house, sitting at a table with food and another grown-up, talking about real grown-up topics?"
Him: "Yeah..."
Me: "FANCY."
Me: "You can bring a roast beef sandwich or soup for lunch" (as he is getting ready for work).
Him: "I don't need a lunch. I am going out to lunch with (co-worker)."
Me, in a jovially sarcastic tone: "Right. Have fun at your fancy lunch."
Him: "It is so funny to me that you think the places I go for lunch are fancy."
Me: "Well, are there children on your lap putting noodles in their hair?"
Him: "No."
Me: "Do you need to request crayons and a sippy cup with a lid from the waiter?"
Him: "No."
Me: "Can you order whatever you want, not just eat the rest of the kids' meals that they won't eat?"
Him: "Yep."
And finally, me: "Are you out of the house, sitting at a table with food and another grown-up, talking about real grown-up topics?"
Him: "Yeah..."
Me: "FANCY."
6 a.m. questions for Mommy
This morning I watched some anti-hunting propaganda with my 3-year old that led to many questions this Mommy struggled to answer. You may have heard of this heavy program. It is called Bambi.
We have chosen to shield our son from guns to the best of our ability -- he has one toy water gun (which we call a water-shooter). I myself am terrified of the nature of guns, but we are a meat-eating family, and my husband is quite an outdoorsman and will probably hunt for sport at some point, potentially with our son (when he is 36 years old and Mommy finally acquiesces.)
These contradictions within our family led me to think that watching Bambi might actually be an ok idea. Our 3-year old needs to learn about some realities of life covered in this Disney classic -- like making babies and going to heaven.
Due to the barrage of gun-shots in the background, some deer fighting, a wild fire, and all the animals making googly-eyes at each other and producing babies in the next scene, there were some questions.
"Where did Bambi's mommy go?"
"Why did she go to heaven?"
"Why are the boy deer fighting?"
"Where did the mean boy deer go?"
"Where did all these babies come from?"
"How did Bambi and Feline make their babies?'
And, the most pointed question asked at the end due to a new-found obsession of his:
"Mommy, do any of the characters in this movie have a silent letter in their names?"
We have chosen to shield our son from guns to the best of our ability -- he has one toy water gun (which we call a water-shooter). I myself am terrified of the nature of guns, but we are a meat-eating family, and my husband is quite an outdoorsman and will probably hunt for sport at some point, potentially with our son (when he is 36 years old and Mommy finally acquiesces.)
These contradictions within our family led me to think that watching Bambi might actually be an ok idea. Our 3-year old needs to learn about some realities of life covered in this Disney classic -- like making babies and going to heaven.
Due to the barrage of gun-shots in the background, some deer fighting, a wild fire, and all the animals making googly-eyes at each other and producing babies in the next scene, there were some questions.
"Where did Bambi's mommy go?"
"Why did she go to heaven?"
"Why are the boy deer fighting?"
"Where did the mean boy deer go?"
"Where did all these babies come from?"
"How did Bambi and Feline make their babies?'
And, the most pointed question asked at the end due to a new-found obsession of his:
"Mommy, do any of the characters in this movie have a silent letter in their names?"
Monday, August 6, 2012
An ode to the 1950s housewife
I do not know how wives of generations past did it. There used to be an expectation, and most wives (including my mother and grandmother) delivered. A hot meal was ready for their husbands as they walked in the door. Most nights my husband, who works very hard and very long hours, walks in around dinnertime to mad chaos. The children are running amuck with BBQ sauce all over their faces and hands. Dinner is not ready, and this is often not for lack of effort. (Sometimes it is -- sometimes I really don't try because why bother?) But many days, I do. Like tonight. I attempted a freshly grilled meal of pork and asparagus, which necessitated me going outside to the back patio periodically to turn the meat and vegetables. While preparing this meal, one or both of my children did the following:
Rip up a library book
Empty my pantry
Hit each other
Pull each other's hair
Chase each other with forks
Needless to say, dinner was not ready when my husband arrived home. I am thankful that I live in 2012 and am married to a man who plays with the kids while I finish dinner and always compliments my cooking once it is finally done. And quite often, on the weekends, he cooks. It is like a mini-vacation.
Rip up a library book
Empty my pantry
Hit each other
Pull each other's hair
Chase each other with forks
Needless to say, dinner was not ready when my husband arrived home. I am thankful that I live in 2012 and am married to a man who plays with the kids while I finish dinner and always compliments my cooking once it is finally done. And quite often, on the weekends, he cooks. It is like a mini-vacation.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
And the anatomical vocabulary list keeps growing...
I recently wrote a post about my son learning the word "vagina." Well, here we go again.
He has asked on a couple of occasions about "those things above your tummy, Mommy." I have been able to change the subject each time in order to avoid this topic. I had hoped to limit the vocabulary, at least for the time being, to body parts that he and/or his sister had. However, his curiosity continued recently as I was getting dressed and both kids were (of course) in my bedroom and bathroom wreaking havoc. My son somehow got a hold of my bra and... well, here was the conversation.
"Mommy, what is this?"
"That is Mommy's."
"What is it?"
"It is something that Mommy wears under my shirt."
"What is it called?"
"It is a called a bra."
"Does Daddy wear one?"
"No, only Mommy wears one."
"Can I wear one?"
"No, kids don't wear bras. Only mommies." (Sorry for excluding all of you bra wearing women who aren't mommies -- it is just easier this way when speaking to a 3-year old.)
"But I want to wear one! And I want Daddy to wear one!"
"No, only mommies need them."
"Why do only mommies need them?"
"Because only mommies have... (here it comes)... breasts. Mommies wear bras to cover our breasts."
"What are breasts?"
"These."
"Oh. Breasts. Ok."
Anatomy lesson for week: check.
He has asked on a couple of occasions about "those things above your tummy, Mommy." I have been able to change the subject each time in order to avoid this topic. I had hoped to limit the vocabulary, at least for the time being, to body parts that he and/or his sister had. However, his curiosity continued recently as I was getting dressed and both kids were (of course) in my bedroom and bathroom wreaking havoc. My son somehow got a hold of my bra and... well, here was the conversation.
"Mommy, what is this?"
"That is Mommy's."
"What is it?"
"It is something that Mommy wears under my shirt."
"What is it called?"
"It is a called a bra."
"Does Daddy wear one?"
"No, only Mommy wears one."
"Can I wear one?"
"No, kids don't wear bras. Only mommies." (Sorry for excluding all of you bra wearing women who aren't mommies -- it is just easier this way when speaking to a 3-year old.)
"But I want to wear one! And I want Daddy to wear one!"
"No, only mommies need them."
"Why do only mommies need them?"
"Because only mommies have... (here it comes)... breasts. Mommies wear bras to cover our breasts."
"What are breasts?"
"These."
"Oh. Breasts. Ok."
Anatomy lesson for week: check.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Mommy should have known better.
While running on the treadmill at the gym this afternoon, I found myself reflecting on the day so far and feeling quite pleased. Of course there were the usual incidents of sister hitting brother in the face with a plastic screwdriver, sister dumping her cup of Cheerios on herself in the car and singing with glee, and brother melting down over me giving him an orange popsicle over a red one. And obviously because Mommy (a.k.a. Barbara Crapper, the culinarily inept sister to Betty Crocker) tried a new recipe -- homemade chicken nuggets -- she burned herself when oil splattered all over the stovetop and cabinets. Those events are givens on any old day.
And maybe it was because the children were clear on the other side of a 15,000 square foot facility, but I did feel content and peaceful while running today. And I thought to myself, STUPIDLY, that despite these and several other less than pleasant events, "This has been a pretty good day so far."
Moms! If you find yourself wanting to say this statement, or even think it, don't! This thought is not allowed to cross your mind until the kids are asleep and it is after 8:00, the house is picked up, and your wine / beer is in your hand. THEN you may think this. NOT at 4:00 when the day is still young.
Mommy should have known better.
Work-out ends and serene Mommy goes to childcare room to retrieve the children. Immediately upon entering, I see my 18-month old daughter standing at the front desk with a childcare worker. Apparently she had just made a gift in her diaper and they were about to page me to come deal with it (which would have interrupted my happy time, so I am glad she held it a few extra minutes). I pick her up and immediately smell that yes, indeed, their assessment is accurate. My son comes running and I ask him to go retrieve his shoes out of the cubby. After a few seconds, he reappears with a look of confusion and tells me they are not there. Of course they are there, Buddy. Look again. Nope, Mommy. Okay, the stench coming out of her butt is really brutal. Let's find the shoes and get going, okay? I give the childcare worker a description of the shoes, and we all begin looking. We look and look. And look. They are gone. Apparently some other 3 or 4 year old little boy thought my son's PRECIOUS Buzz Lightyear shoes that LIGHT UP were so cool that he wanted them for himself. And apparently the parent-of-the-year who picked up said child did not notice his new shoes.
Now that I have searched the entire childcare facility, all the while holding stinky-butt, I (in a very obvious loud and irritated tone directed at the gym employees) tell my son that "He was just going to have to walk to the car in socks" and that "Mommy will go to the store tomorrow and buy him new shoes because those are the only shoes that currently fit him." Petty? Yes.
Once we reach the car, I start it up and notice that the external temp is 102 degrees. I change my daughter's vile diaper in this heat, pack both kids into their seats and head home. My son cries the entire 10 minute drive about losing his shoes. "I don't want new shoes from the store! I want my Buzz Lightyear shoes! Where are they? Let's find them!" Over and over and over. Thank you to the oblivious parent whose child now owns my son's shoes.
We arrive home, and although Mommy would love a shower, I recall that there are clothes in the washer that have to be dried before bedtime -- namely my son's mattress cover and sheets, since he soaks through his pull-up and pees his bed nearly every night. While I am quickly switching the laundry (and bear in mind we have been home for 3 minutes) I hear the kids fighting and they come tearing into the laundry room. He pushes her (he claims because she pushed him first), she falls over, cries, which causes him to cry because he knows this isn't good. Mommy explodes, putting each in separate rooms. I decide this is a good time for my shower.
15 minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed, I begin to prepare dinner -- the meal I spent over an hour preparing earlier -- dicing chicken, marinating it, covering it in egg followed by a flour-panko-salt-pepper-garlic mixture, frying it in oil, and baking it. The arm burns and 2 dishwasher loads were totally worth it because I made chicken nuggets! Surely the kids will approve?
To quote my son, "Mom, where did you get these chicken nuggets? Why are they so bad and gross?"
Lesson learned, Mommy. Never speak (or think) too soon.
And maybe it was because the children were clear on the other side of a 15,000 square foot facility, but I did feel content and peaceful while running today. And I thought to myself, STUPIDLY, that despite these and several other less than pleasant events, "This has been a pretty good day so far."
Moms! If you find yourself wanting to say this statement, or even think it, don't! This thought is not allowed to cross your mind until the kids are asleep and it is after 8:00, the house is picked up, and your wine / beer is in your hand. THEN you may think this. NOT at 4:00 when the day is still young.
Mommy should have known better.
Work-out ends and serene Mommy goes to childcare room to retrieve the children. Immediately upon entering, I see my 18-month old daughter standing at the front desk with a childcare worker. Apparently she had just made a gift in her diaper and they were about to page me to come deal with it (which would have interrupted my happy time, so I am glad she held it a few extra minutes). I pick her up and immediately smell that yes, indeed, their assessment is accurate. My son comes running and I ask him to go retrieve his shoes out of the cubby. After a few seconds, he reappears with a look of confusion and tells me they are not there. Of course they are there, Buddy. Look again. Nope, Mommy. Okay, the stench coming out of her butt is really brutal. Let's find the shoes and get going, okay? I give the childcare worker a description of the shoes, and we all begin looking. We look and look. And look. They are gone. Apparently some other 3 or 4 year old little boy thought my son's PRECIOUS Buzz Lightyear shoes that LIGHT UP were so cool that he wanted them for himself. And apparently the parent-of-the-year who picked up said child did not notice his new shoes.
Now that I have searched the entire childcare facility, all the while holding stinky-butt, I (in a very obvious loud and irritated tone directed at the gym employees) tell my son that "He was just going to have to walk to the car in socks" and that "Mommy will go to the store tomorrow and buy him new shoes because those are the only shoes that currently fit him." Petty? Yes.
Once we reach the car, I start it up and notice that the external temp is 102 degrees. I change my daughter's vile diaper in this heat, pack both kids into their seats and head home. My son cries the entire 10 minute drive about losing his shoes. "I don't want new shoes from the store! I want my Buzz Lightyear shoes! Where are they? Let's find them!" Over and over and over. Thank you to the oblivious parent whose child now owns my son's shoes.
We arrive home, and although Mommy would love a shower, I recall that there are clothes in the washer that have to be dried before bedtime -- namely my son's mattress cover and sheets, since he soaks through his pull-up and pees his bed nearly every night. While I am quickly switching the laundry (and bear in mind we have been home for 3 minutes) I hear the kids fighting and they come tearing into the laundry room. He pushes her (he claims because she pushed him first), she falls over, cries, which causes him to cry because he knows this isn't good. Mommy explodes, putting each in separate rooms. I decide this is a good time for my shower.
15 minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed, I begin to prepare dinner -- the meal I spent over an hour preparing earlier -- dicing chicken, marinating it, covering it in egg followed by a flour-panko-salt-pepper-garlic mixture, frying it in oil, and baking it. The arm burns and 2 dishwasher loads were totally worth it because I made chicken nuggets! Surely the kids will approve?
To quote my son, "Mom, where did you get these chicken nuggets? Why are they so bad and gross?"
Lesson learned, Mommy. Never speak (or think) too soon.
Friday, June 22, 2012
A post entirely about child #2
Just another day with an 18-month old:
1. The night before your 18-month old daughter will cry off and on all night. You never really learn why.
2. In the morning, you will take her in for her 18-month well visit. She will get 2 shots.
3. She will take a 50 minute nap after said shots and wake up screaming.
4. You will decide to skip the gym to fit 2 major errands into the afternoon: Costco and grocery store. You don't have time to fit the gym in as well, and let's face it -- no one will want to take her from you today.
5. You will pack up the kids, drive 15 minutes to Costco, unload them in 90 degree heat into the shopping cart, walk up to the entrance, and discover that your wallet is at home.
6. You will drive home to retrieve wallet, abandon Costco mission but still make it the grocery store since you have no food for dinner.
7. You will stupidly attempt a recipe off of Pinterest that includes fancy things like avocado and zest of lime.
8. While preparing dinner, your 18-month old daughter will pull the heaviest pot you own out of the cabinet and drop it on your foot.
9. While you are wiping up the floor after her nightly dinner disaster (on your hand and knees), that same delightful daughter will walk up to you and pull a handful of hair out of your head.
10. She will wrap up this gem of a day with a temper tantrum because you will not allow her to wear necklaces to bed. Because, despite your bruised foot, bald scalp, and sleep deprivation, you actually do not want to strangle her.
1. The night before your 18-month old daughter will cry off and on all night. You never really learn why.
2. In the morning, you will take her in for her 18-month well visit. She will get 2 shots.
3. She will take a 50 minute nap after said shots and wake up screaming.
4. You will decide to skip the gym to fit 2 major errands into the afternoon: Costco and grocery store. You don't have time to fit the gym in as well, and let's face it -- no one will want to take her from you today.
5. You will pack up the kids, drive 15 minutes to Costco, unload them in 90 degree heat into the shopping cart, walk up to the entrance, and discover that your wallet is at home.
6. You will drive home to retrieve wallet, abandon Costco mission but still make it the grocery store since you have no food for dinner.
7. You will stupidly attempt a recipe off of Pinterest that includes fancy things like avocado and zest of lime.
8. While preparing dinner, your 18-month old daughter will pull the heaviest pot you own out of the cabinet and drop it on your foot.
9. While you are wiping up the floor after her nightly dinner disaster (on your hand and knees), that same delightful daughter will walk up to you and pull a handful of hair out of your head.
10. She will wrap up this gem of a day with a temper tantrum because you will not allow her to wear necklaces to bed. Because, despite your bruised foot, bald scalp, and sleep deprivation, you actually do not want to strangle her.
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