My mom’s dragon breath has stayed with me for years. It’s the reason why I’m not a coffee drinker today. That, and coffee tastes like ass. But I’ve been seriously thinking about jumping on the coffee bandwagon. It’s the sleepless nights combined with the afternoon sluggishness and the nagging need to work on my “real” writing that is pushing me toward it. I figured if I stayed up a little later and worked on my novel when the entire house is put to bed and quiet, then maybe I’d be one step closer to achieving my lifelong dream of getting published. There is no way I could do this without drinking a pot or two of coffee to get me through, or else I’d want to take a long walk off a short pier.
When I say coffee, I’m not talking about the fancy frou-frou drinks at Starbucks. I mean plain ol’ make-it-yourself sludge. The kind of coffee that cleans out your insides as if you’d eaten a bushel of prunes followed by a basket of bran muffins.
I hear that coffee is a wonder drink capable of supplying a caffeine jolt, keeping you regular, and suppressing your appetite. So many pros. The biggest con, maybe the only one, has to be the dragon breath.
I figured when I became a mom that naturally the next step would be to start enjoying a cup of Joe during my morning routine, not feeling quite human until I took my first jittery drink. But it hasn’t happened yet. I’m afraid to become dependent on it if I take even one gulp.I don’t want to end up a slave to my coffee-maker, a virtual zombie without my java. But I guess I’m already part-zombie, so I should just buy some Altoids and learn how I take my coffee. I’m thinking with A LOT of sugar.
Remember the days when you could eat anything you wanted, skip the gym, and still only have one chin?
Yeah, I don’t either.
Oprah and I have one thing in common: food is our drug of choice! Not alcohol (though I do love a glass of champagne) not crack (it is whack after all) but food–delicious, comforting food.
The hubby and I are both afflicted with the love of eating. So much so that I pray we don’t end up on The Biggest Loser Couples in 5 years. Who am I kidding? In 2 years. I would seriously cry if that overly toned Jillian Michaels was screaming at me to “Just say no to doughnuts.” It’s not like I eat them on the reg, just when I deserve a treat. Which, come to think of it, is all the time. Doesn’t she know that raising a baby is hard work?
That’s the whole problem. I think I deserve some sort of pick-me-up when the day is a particularly trying one (or the night was an extra sleepless one). A cookie here or mini-Coke there. Just a little hit of something sweet to take the edge off.
I love all the studies that say junk food is as addictive as drugs. The hubby and I joke that we’re cursed with a disease. But really the only disease we have is laziness. We know it, we just don’t want to acknowledge it. Before the baby, I was confident I would return to the gym with the same dedication I had when I was only 2 months along. The baby weight didn’t stand a chance against me and that elliptical machine, or so I thought. I have yet to step foot in a gym 8 months postpartum. There’s just no time. Or motivation.
Until now. I’m going to junk food rehab. The only way to do it is to shift my addiction to something else: shoes. For every 10 pounds I lose, I get a new pair of shoes. And not the cheapies from Tar-jay I normally buy. Good ones from an actual department store.
Oh, to be fat and happy, eh Oprah?
Back when we were young and untethered, the hubby and I upped and moved to San Diego. We felt more at home than the small town we hailed from, so it’s no mystery that we plan on returning one day. Last night while taking one armful of laundry out of the dryer and throwing in the next, I was reminded of the first place we lived. More specifically I was reminded of the chick who lived in the granny flat behind our house. Normally I’d say woman or young woman, but this gal was the very definition of chick. She dotted her i’s with hearts and her name rhymed with Gimme.
I didn’t have any gripes about her other than the laundry room situation. We shared a washer and dryer. No big deal. I only did 3 loads of laundry a week, tops. That seems preposterous now. I practically do 3 loads a day! Funny how the addition of such a little person creates so much more dirty laundry.
It makes sense to me now that both the washing machine and the dryer were always jam-packed with “Gimme’s” clothes, as well as her son’s and daughter’s things. At first I was polite about it. I’d take her stuff out of the dryer and neatly arrange it on top. But it felt utterly wrong touching a stranger’s underthings…even if they were clean. So as time went on, I’d just stack everything in a huge lopsided tower on top of the dryer as there was no other place to put it, feeling some sort of weird vindication when it all ended up on the dirty ground. When I couldn’t take it anymore I asked her to clean it up. Her clothes were everywhere, like a teenager’s bedroom floor.
I don’t remember if it ever got better. We moved out after our one year lease was up. We loved that house and probably would’ve stayed if there had been an actual Granny living in the granny flat.
Now when I open my dryer door and see a load of laundry from days before, I think of Gimme and how hard it must have been for her to do anything being a single mom to 2 young kids. Then I think I shouldn’t have been so annoyed with her, that she was probably doing the best she knew how. Perhaps it’s my karma to always have a dryer full of clothes now for ever passing judgement, for ever thinking that I would never be like Gimme.
I still think there’s something wrong with a grown woman dotting her i’s with hearts.
The hubby and I are on our way to becoming Ma and Pa, our new nicknames for each other lacking any passion or flirtation. I picture us eighteen years from now – older, even dorkier versions of ourselves wearing fanny packs and visors to our daughter’s graduation. Then later, hearing aids and false teeth. Doesn’t get sexier than that! It’s our destiny to be that obnoxious couple who refers to each other as Mom and Dad even though we’re not, in fact, each other’s mother or father.
It’s already happening. He calls me Mama instead of Sweetie and I call him Daddy instead of Honey. It’s like when you first get married and you just can’t wait to use your new title of Wife or Husband. It’s thrilling…until the novelty wears off. Then you’re just the ol’ ball to his chain.
Did it happen overnight? Perhaps when we left the hospital with our baby, we drove over some invisible line into the Parent-hood whereby we were initiated into the “gang” (without having to prove ourselves by doing a drive-by). We were forced to leave our former selves behind and go forth as parents, surrendering any shred of coolness we might’ve had left. We all know parents aren’t people, they’re just Fun-Nazis.
So maybe we should teach our daughter to call us by our first names? We’d be the coolest parents on the block, and we wouldn’t have to completely give up our identities. Only kidding. I waited a very long time to become a mom. I love who my daughter has made me and will wear my new name proudly whether it be Mommy, Mama, or Mummy!
Mom hair is almost as bad as mom jeans. If someone can guess your age and how many kids you have based on your hairstyle alone, then you’re in trouble. When I was growing up, my mom had the quintessential mom ‘do circa 1985 (see above). It’s still what I see when I picture her today, not her updated, highlighted bob. Her ultra-short hairstyle back then makes total sense now. It probably took her all of 5 minutes to do. That’s what I’m talking about!
Many new moms succumb to cutting off their lovely ladylocks because there’s just no time to devote to brushing, drying, straightening, and smoothing when there’s a baby in the next room who might be trying to eat an extension cord.
I’m one of those new moms now. I loved my long hair when I actually took the time to blow-dry and flat-iron it, making it smooth and shiny. But I hated my long hair because I never felt like putting in the effort, hence why it always ended up in a raggedy ponytail. So, like many new moms I made an appointment to have it chopped off.
It’s funny how our hair defines who we are. Now that I’m a mom I think I’m too old to have long hair in the same way that mini-skirts are a no-no (not that I’d be wearing one anyway). Long hair is mostly reserved for teens and chicks in their 20′s, not moms more concerned with grocery lists and playdates. The one exception might be Angelina. Is there anything that woman can’t do?
This isn’t to say I won’t have long hair again someday. It might be against my better judgement, and will probably signal that I’m suffering a mid-life crisis, but isn’t it better than buying a shiny red sports car?
Cut it off, grow it out, dye it dark, repeat. Hair is the one thing I do have control over!
Babies weave some kind of magic over people. It’s almost impossible to resist their chubby cheeks and gummy smiles. I know a few people who can, but the majority of the world can’t get enough. This is probably why I have so many blue-hairs stopping me every two feet at the grocery store, proclaiming that my daughter is the cutest baby. When it was just me I used to blend in with the fruits and vegetables, but now with my daughter it’s like there’s a neon sign over our heads saying, “Compliment this baby and you might win a brand new car.” All the attention is very sweet, and I always thank them, but when it happens so often it makes me wonder. And slightly worry. If these ladies didn’t have walkers or arthritis slowing them down, would they try to high-tail it outta there with my baby? No, I know the sight of my munchkin triggers happy memories of their own little ones, that’s all.
Before our daughter came along, my hubby was in the group that could resist the gummy smile of an infant. He didn’t think babies were cute or cuddly, and never wanted to hold one. Then our lovely bear came along and he couldn’t get enough! Suddenly he loved them all! Of course he didn’t think they were as cute as his own, but they were adorable in their own way. I admit there isn’t anything sweeter than a man getting all mushy over a tiny baby. So in conclusion, if a baby can make my hubby’s Grinch-heart grow to love them, then their voodoo must be very strong!
I’m the type of person who unpacks from a weekend away the moment I step back into the house. There’s something very satisfying about putting my things away in their rightful spots and tossing dirty clothes in the hamper. Within minutes of returning home, it’s like I never left in the first place. Maybe it’s so rewarding because I’m a homebody, or maybe it’s because I’m slightly OCD (onecrazydummy). It’s kinda scary when you identify with Annie Wilkes from Misery — noticing that the penguin figurine she has is pointing in the wrong direction! Yep, in my organized world, everything has a place and a direction too. Yet, it seems I’m lacking my direction now.
Procrastination has taken over my life! Nothing made me realize this more than the used paint brush that sat wrapped in cellophane inside my fridge for well over a week. It’s a trick I learned somewhere so you don’t have to wash your brush right away if you’re going to do any touch-ups. There were only a few minor spots to go over, but it took me forever before I actually finished the job. What motivated me wasn’t that there was an unfinished chore to be done, but that I was worried somehow the paint toxins were leeching into all of our cheese slices and nectarines, thus giving us some rare form of cancer…which it probably already has. Sorry to be a Debbie Downer. Optimism has never been my strong suit.
Before my daughter came along, I liked to do things in a timely manner…now that’s a thing of the past. And this is not just another ranting about how I don’t have time to do anything anymore…even though it sounds very similar. Because even when I have the time, I choose to put it off another day. So really there’s no excuse.
It’s one thing to realize that my time is better spent cuddling and playing with my baby than worrying about how clean my house is, but maybe it’s time to stop dragging my feet when there are dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds blowing across my living room floor and a foot of freshly fallen dust on my nightstand.
1. Sleep: Well duh, that’s a no-brainer. Gone are the lazy Sunday afternoons, falling asleep on the couch to HGTV in the background. And gone are the uninterrupted nights of peaceful slumber. I wish someone would figure out how we could recharge ourselves each night without having to sleep for 8 hours. Like a cellphone or an electric car, we could plug in and feel as if we had slept all night. That would do wonders for my life as a new mom and aspiring writer. Think of all the extra time I’d have to procrastinate even more!
2. Vacations: The hubby and I are fortunate to have had awesome vacations in the past. Kauai, Mexico, Santa Barbara to name the most recent ones. But I guess I was a vacation snob — enjoying my time, but my life was already one long vacation. Only working a part-time job while pursuing my passion for writing, and taking care of a household that consisted of the hubby, me, and our animals…piece of cake! So while I looked forward to “going on vacation,” it wasn’t something that I needed because my life was too stressful or chaotic. Now, I’d just about sell my soul to be lounging on a white-sand beach under a blazing sun, sipping a drink with an umbrella in it. I wouldn’t even care that this body isn’t swimsuit ready — I’d go get the best spray-tan money could afford (since we all know tan fat looks better than pale fat) and I’d relax the hell out of that vacation!
3. Business Time: It’s no surprise that your love life (and by love life I mean sex life — sorry Mom) takes a drastic hit after the addition of your precious bundle. I take that back, maybe it was a surprise to the hubby. Gone are the spontaneous rolls in the hay…at least for a little while. “Business Time” before a baby is anything but business, and after a baby is exactly that…scheduled maitenance. Sorry dads, no new mummy is looking to jump back in the saddle, so to speak, soon after having their baby. And once you do feel ready, her mere presence in the next room while you’re gearing up for the hippity-dippity is enough to thwart it before it even starts.
In closing, to all my friends who plan on having kids but haven’t started a family yet. Go on vacation, sleep like there’s no tomorrow, and have lots of sex in between. Then you’ll be ready.
I’d rather walk barefoot across burning coals than be sick. Yes, I’m that melodramatic…especially when I have a cold. It’s one thing to be under the weather when all you have to do is lay around eating chicken noodle soup and watching the Kardashian sisters squabble about their oh-so-hard lives. But it’s a whole ‘nother thing if you’re sick and you have to take care of a helpless infant. Not my definition of fun at all!
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a big baby when it comes to dealing with a cold. I moan and complain about how much I hate being sick which doesn’t help matters or make the cold go away any faster. But I never knew what it was to be sick and have to put your sickness second. All I want to do is remain immobile and have someone wait on me hand and foot. I can barely read my daughter a story and forget trying to hum her a song as she drifts off to sleep. I sound like Marge Simpson hacking up a hairball.
If there’s a silver-lining, it’s that my baby thinks it’s funny when I cough or clear my throat. As long as she’s laughing and happy, then it makes dealing with this cold not the absolute worst thing in the world. It’s the 2 am and 5am wake-ups that are killing me.
It dawned on me that I must have messed up karmically since this is my second cold in just a manner of 2 months. What did it? That spider I killed the other day? Or that I didn’t pick up my dogs’ poop on our last walk? I guess I deserved it then.
This cold has shown me that my days of being cared for are over. Now I’m lowest on the totem pole. I have to be okay with that, because as a mummy I don’t get to call in sick…ever. So I say, damn you germs (fist shaking in the air) and pop another cough drop in my mouth.
“Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.”
It’s irrational that I worry about my daughter growing up and killing me one day. Crazy as it sounds, it happens. Look at the infamous Menedez brothers or Lizzie Borden. Or the most recent story I heard about on the news this morning. They called the kids a pair of star-crossed lovers a la Romeo & Juliet. They were forbidden to be together by the 14-year-old girl’s mother, so what do they decide? To off her. Scary shit! That poor mom was probably just looking out for her young daughter and that was the thanks she got.
I watch too many of these 48 Hours Mystery shows and Dateline specials. It’s no wonder I have nightmares about getting rid of bodies. I’ve always had a fascination with mystery novels and Hitchcock movies, an interest in the macabre. I guess I’m addicted to these shows because I’m always shocked at what people are capable of. I couldn’t fathom killing anyone let alone a family member who I love (even when I thought I “hated” them, I still loved them). I’m hoping by showering our dear child with lots of love and attention, she’ll never want to put me or her father in the ground!
The most frightening part was that the daughter looked like a normal kid in the before pictures. She didn’t look like the monster that she became. I don’t know all the details, maybe the home life was abusive or whatnot, but I don’t see any excuse for murder.
Looking at my baby’s sweet, smiling face, I know she will never be capable of something this heinous. It worries me that she’ll fall into the wrong crowd or be brain-washed by a boy she thinks she loves, but I have to believe that her father and I will set her up to make the best choices in this crazy, effed up world.