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Stupid Christmas commercials like cars with bows and jewelry on the tree.

This post originally was published 2 years ago. But I figure it deserves an encore. My feelings haven’t changed.

You know those commercials where the wife goes outside on Christmas morning. It’s snowing, she’s dressed perfectly with makeup on like a Kardashian, and everything, probably wearing a pretty mohair sweater, that’s white, yeah, cuz moms always wear fuzzy, WHITE sweaters, and there sits a new SUV with a big red bow on it. Or the jewelry commercial where the guy is hanging the ring box on the tree and says so smoothly, ‘ OH, what could THIS ornament be?? Why, maybe YOU should open it’.  Gag.

If you find those commercials nauseating too, raise your hand. Thank you.

I’m not sure why those jewelry and car commercials at Christmas time drive me batnuts. Is it because that will never happen to me? Am I jealous? I shouldn’t say never. Maybe one day, James and I will hit pay dirt and he’ll buy me a Mercedes for Christmas and put it in the driveway with a big red bow. And Hugh Jackman will step out of it with a cup of espresso and whisk me away to Australia to be on his Oprah reunion special. I’ll be so happy and grateful, Oprah will ask to be my friend and then Gayle will get jealous and run off with Steadman. Then Oprah will just have to adopt me (and my family) because she’ll be alone and need a friend. We’ll move in to her Chicago mansion with all her dogs and read books and have Dr. Oz over to talk about our bowel movements. It will be so. much. fun.

Instead of ridiculous commercials that only cater to a small, and I mean, small demographic, let’s have a commercial where the husband gives his wife a carpet steam cleaner and an Ov Glove, or a Ped Egg. Her eyes will well up with tears and she’ll offer to do all kinds of ‘favors’ for him. Or maybe he gets her a Victoria’s Secret nightgown that’s see-thru, she can only wear when the kids are in bed and she feels like lounging in underwires and shiny, cold satin. That would be a very realistic commercial. Really.

To James’ credit, one Christmas he did give me diamond earrings. It was the Christmas Owen was a baby. Sort of a delayed Push Present maybe? If I remember correctly, I had a sinus infection and bronchitis that Christmas, which I did pretty much every Christmas the children were little. I didn’t have make up on, I was in some kind of fuzzy jammies with teapots on them, and had one of those heated rice pack thingys on my head to relieve the sinus pressure. I think I asked him to turn OFF the video camera as to NOT document this moment in history since we didn’t want to traumatize our children in the future should they happen to find the tape and see mommy with suitcases under her eyes, no voice, and heat pads on her head. No makeup, no white mohair sweater. nada. zip.

It’s okay. I’m not bitter or anything. Really.

There’s more to Christmas presents than jewelry and luxury automobiles. There’s gifts that can’t be bought in stores. They’re made with love and glue. Lots of glue.

When I unwrap one of those gifts that the kids make in class with their school picture hanging in a foamy wreath, or a  pipe cleaner tree, THOSE are the ones that make my eyes well up with tears.

I’ll take those over diamonds and German engineering any year.

7 Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage via Scary Mommy

This post was featured on Scary Mommy last week. I was so excited that she let me contribute to her blog since she is pretty awesome and a published author, and widely known.

I posted it on my Facebook blog page and wasn’t sure if everyone saw it. So here you have my Scary Mommy contribution.

Let’s remember folks- I’m sarcastic, I’m putting it all out there, and don’t take me too seriously. (hee hee) Oh, and mom and dad, don’t bother reading. Thanks.

My husband and I have been together almost two decades. 17 years. That is crazy. Especially since I’m only 31. Just kidding. I’m 40 and everyone knows it.

 

I believe there are some things that should be kept from one another. Basic human nature aspects that really don’t need to be shared. Sure this guy is your soul mate, the love of your life. But I try to keep him from seeing the elephant ear shaped labias in actual daylight. I think romance needs to stay somewhat alive. I try to keep a shred of dignity around him. If my efforts keep him wondering, keep him thinking, “this woman has such a mystique, even though I’ve been married to her all these years,” I’m doing something right.

 

Here goes…

 

1. Only wear those pore trip nose thingies on your nose when he’s not around. I even have ‘Frownies’ which are these stick on tabs you use to immobilize your face instead of Botox. They are like postage stamps for your forehead. He will never see me in these.

 

2. Hide your Aunt Flo stained underwear at the bottom of the hamper. Better yet- wash everything yourself and keep your husband from laundering any delicates.

 

3. Don’t go #2 in his presence. Yes, my husband thinks I, like other women, don’t poop. And honestly, I’m just going to pretend he doesn’t either. There are limits in our marriage. We can go #1 in each others’ company, but #2 is strictly off limits. What’s the worst is when we have to go to a hotel and eventually I have to have my morning poop. I make sure the fan is on and I keep a travel Febreeze in my product bag.

 

4.  Keep from seeing each other’s anuses at all costs. I don’t think my husband has seen mine. I can’t guarantee what my husband saw of me during childbirth. It happened so fast and the poor guy was forced by the nurse to hold my leg. I told them no, that I wanted my hooha to be a sacred shrine of adoration kept intact in my husband’s mind, but they insisted. I don’t care that porn stars bleach their back door, this hemorrhoid addled (yes childbirth was retched on my body) butt isn’t going to be seen by anyone (except my gyno), not even a hand mirror I hold myself. And you can guarantee I will NOT be seeing his.

 

5. Don’t vomit on your spouse. Thankfully this has never happened to us. Once I puked on the bathroom rug and he graciously took it out to the garbage while I crawled back in bed with the puke bowl. Which is also the salad bowl I take to our neighborhood block parties.

 

6. Refrain from farting during sex.  This I think I’ve done actually. We had Mexican before for dinner. I had too many margaritas. We were rolling around in the sack and I did a Carrie Bradshaw to Mr. Big for him. I think he was a little distracted about the other stuff going on and continued as usual.

 

7. If you’ve snuck his razor for lady grooming, rinse it off and put it back without him ever knowing. Pubes are kind of a mood killer. Hopefully he has done the same should he borrow yours ever. Guy pubes are pretty wiry. I’m counting on the fact that he doesn’t want my Lady Schick in that jungle of his. Not that he does any manscaping down there, but if he did shave his balls- it would so be some Mach 4 razor that is only man enough for the job.

 

So there you have it. I think I’m about 80% mysterious to my husband. I will do my darndest to keep from him my stained underwear, hemorrhoid asshole and nose strips till death do us part.  Truly, this is key to a long and healthy, happy marriage.

 

7 (LOL) Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage

 

Please and thanks – vote for me at the Circle of Moms 25 Funny Moms contest- WOO HOO! Click Here

Wife Confession: I enjoy the hubs away on business trips. Short ones, of course.

I think the further into marriage and kids you delve, the more you realize how much you like to be alone. Or is that just me?

I love my kids, I love my husband. Blah blah blah. You know this to be true. But come on. I love being alone. I’m the Greta Garbo of my peers. Leave me alone to bask in the glow of the reality TV show from my flat screen. Let me nap with the dog on the couch. Let me go poop by myself and change my maxi pad without interruption.

So when McSweetie had a business trip this week, I felt more sense of me time than just when he’s at work. Why? Maybe because after the kids go to bed, I rule the family room and the remote. Okay, I rule the remote most nights anyway. BUT. I got to sit around, pass gas, drink wine and watch all the Lifetime movies a girl could want. And they were holiday Lifetime movies. Even better.

So hubs comes home in the evening from the airport, kids are happy to see him, yada yada, and I’m moaning on the couch  before it’s time to tuck in the boy. I’ve heated up the hot pad twice and stuffed it in my pajama pants. This my friends, is a clear signal that Aunt Flo has come to town and she’s brought her suitcase. Did McSweetie notice this? Not so much. He asks what’s wrong. I mouth ‘cramps’ and give that all knowing look like, ‘poor me, I has armageddon uterus.’ What does he do? He gives me the exasperated look like, ‘didn’t you just have your period’, and says to me “that’s not what I was expecting.”

I stayed quiet, popped some Aleve and reheated my heat pad. I waited for him to fall asleep on the couch while I concocted this entire speech in my head.

Here goes:

“THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING? REALLY? Yeah, well, newsflash bucko, it’s been 25 days since the last one. I’m sorry I wasn’t greeting you at the door wearing nothing but a trench coat and had the kiddos already tucked in bed sleeping soundly so we could have wild monkey sex on the dining room table. Which if you hadn’t noticed already was cleared off of its crap from the last several months.

Yeah, and another thing. You probably thought, ‘oh bummer, looks like the wifey isn’t up for some lovin’ tonight. Whoa is me, I won’t get some.’ But did you ever think- ‘Awww, poor thing. Look at her. She’s done all the chores and even scrubbed the base boards (I did actually, can you believe it?!) and she has an achy uterus and feels poorly.’

But did you think that? Hmm, did you?? NO. Of course you didn’t.

You don’t care that the pain I feel in my baby box slightly resembles that of the first few hours of labor. Where my endometrial lining is screaming at me and I have pain spasms all the way down my butt. Yeah. So there.

Don’t mind me. I just dropped off your dry cleaning, kept the children alive, washed the sheets, scrubbed the base boards (Did I mention I scrubbed the baseboards?) and cleaned up some crap from forever ago, and am sitting here being miserable in my female-ness that I have NO CONTROL over!

So yeah. Go fall asleep on the couch. No nookie for you.

Men.

RTLF #23 – So many things!

This week is chock full of things to be grateful for. Remember, this is my list. If it doesn’t coincide with yours, just kindly move along. I’m grateful we can agree to disagree. There.

Big election week. Duh. So I’m grateful for some outcomes. But most in particular is the Washington State referendum that allows same sex couples to marry. It doesn’t redefine marriage. It allows all people to have the same civil rights when it comes to marriage.

Anyway, we need to get over the definition of marriage. Over the centuries it has meant many different things. Such as:

In the Old Testament men had many wives. Women were property. Even in the 1800s women couldn’t own property, yet they were married off like it. In the south, first cousins married each other in arranged marriages.

Inter racial marriages were illegal up until the 1960s. Slavery had been outlawed for a hundred years but folks couldn’t marry outside their race. And it’s pretty obvious, you couldn’t marry a slave either, it says so in the Bible.

Let’s include all the non religious people have weddings all the time. Nobody makes a stink about that. So to say it’s a religious, biblical sacrament, just isn’t cutting it for me.

I have many gay friends. Some don’t want to get married. Hey, I get that. But those that do, now can. I think it’s wonderful. They aren’t clamoring for rights to kill puppies people. They are fighting for rights to love openly. How can that be bad?

I’m grateful for my mommy and daddy being well. They are getting old. We all are. But this week they had more Old People tests than normal. Mom had to have a second mammogram to check things out. Dad had some heart tests to confirm a few things.

But the news at the end of the week was good and all their tests came back clear. So I can breathe a little easier. And they can too. Which makes me happy knowing they are happy.

I love that my husband works his butt off for this family. We both do. But his working butt gets a paycheck. You could say my butt spends it. Okay, that was weird. But yeah, I’m so very grateful for the two checks a month we get to pay the bills, buy the food and maybe even a little extra for some treats. Not much extra. But that’s okay.

With the holidays coming it’s always stressful stretching the paycheck out over extra extra stuff. I love the festivity, I love feeling generous and grabbing as many giving tree tags as I can. But then I need to remember to budget myself. I’m grateful for the ability to take some of those giving tree tags to help other people in what little way I can.

So there you go. My list, my gratitude. My cup runneth over not just with tea, but with so much warm fuzzy love. I know, it’s disgusting.

Namaste.

Sky rocket’s in flight….afternoon delight.

Wait a minute. This isn’t going to be a post about…..about…. sex is it? Actually, it’s a post on the fact that it’s time to clean my shower and marital relations under running water can be dangerous.

It was a Saturday just after lunch. Both kids were out of the house and me and the hubby were just home alone. <eyebrow raises> Yeah. Alone. Now I don’t know about you, but after the kids are in bed, one of us, is usually snoring on the couch. There’s drool involved and the dog curled up next to that person. We are just SO tired by the evening. If we don’t figure out a way for any interludes during daylight, there’s usually a long spell of no relations.

So I go upstairs to take a shower. I casually mentioned, “oh, what do you know- we’re alone and the kids aren’t home. Excuse me while I go take a shower.” Hint hint.  Eventually, I’m in the midst of deep conditioning my hair when the bathroom door opens.

Dialogue exchanged:

Me- “What took you so long stud? (in my best Mae West voice) Are you serious about this? (changing immediately to my own worried voice) One of the kids could be home any minute.” (Emma is far too aware of things that go on behind closed doors.)

Him- “It’s okay, I’ll lock the door. We’ll be quick.”

(yeah, that’s true actually.)

Me- “You sure? We kind of suck at shower sex. One of us could get hurt. Like me.”

Him- “Hey, might as well try, I’ve got to shower anyway.”

He walks into the shower and wraps his arms around my waist.

Me- “OH MY GOD YOUR HANDS ARE LIKE ICE!!! WARM THEM UP FIRST!!!”

Him- “Sorry, I’ll put them under the hot water.”

Me-”AAAAAH….THERE’S WATER IN MY EAR….. YOUR DRIBBLING WATER IN MY EAR WITH YOUR HANDS UP AGAINST THE SHOWER HEAD LIKE THAT!” (I hate water in my ears, just so you know.)

Him-”Sorry, I was just trying to warm them up.”

Me- “Here, let me suds you up ala Christian Grey style.”

Him- “Who’s Christian Grey?”

Me- “nevermind, I’ll just wash you down like all sexy, ‘kay?”

Me- “OH SOAP! THERE’S SOAP IN MY EYE! I THINK IT’S FROM MY CONDITIONER! Wait a minute….Okay…. that’s better.”

Him-”Let me get your back.”

Me-”Yeah, here’s a loofah, I’ve got some black heads I can’t reach back there. It’d be so great if you could scrub them for me.”

Me-”Oooh, your hands are warmer…. so is the rest of you… AAAAAHHH WATER IN MY EAR AGAIN! COULD YOU MOVE SO THIS DOESN’T KEEP HAPPENING?”

Him- “Sorry, it’s kind of cold out here not under the shower. We need a two person shower one of these days.”

Me- “We need a whole new bathroom one of these days. These gold fixtures are the worst in tackiness and the grout is coming apart.”

Him-”Yeah, tell me about it.”

Some kissing and smoochy stuff ensues. Trying to be uber sexy while my hair is piled on my head in a deep conditioning mask and not slipping on the shave foam residue, is a little tricky.

Eventually I try to take things to the next level.

Me- “Uhm, maybe you should like, squat. You’re too tall. Our privates don’t match up when we stand.”

Him- “You could bend over.”

Me- “You could fly off a bridge. What’s that smell? Ew. Do you smell that? Oh yuck! It’s this mildewey shampoo bottle. Look at the bottom of it. It’s all black and it stinks.”

Him- “Could we focus on the reason we’re in here.”

Me- “What’s that sound?”

<From the hall> – “MOM, I’m home!”

And scene.

Shower sex just isn’t what it’s cracked up to be in the movies or romance novels.

More Aloha.

By the time I post this it will be the day before my 40th birthday. I’m kinda excited. Kinda feeling a little like, WTF. Like, where in theee hell did 40 years go? BUT, I also feel pretty darn special. I have the sweetest husband, the awesomest kids, and when I’m not sunburned and cosmetic-less, I feel a little bit of a bad ass. I’ve got decent skin, shiny hair, and skinny ankles. Hey, just looking at the glass half full people.

Being on vacation is awesome. But weird. I feel so out of touch with my routine, my internets friends, real friends, my furry friends, home…I’m a homebody. I love travel, but I love home too. Also, traveling with kids is only sort of a vacation. It’s mostly a trip. Although, of all our ‘trips’ as a family, this one is the best. Kids are pretty* self sufficient (*let me qualify that later), we are relaxed and not rushing to sight-see anything like in DC two years ago, or kill ourselves in lines at Disneyland like 5 years ago. So this trip IS fabulous. But let me gripe for just a bit-

Owen is just as much of a slob here as he is at home. Wet towels are on the floor, not hung up. Wet swimsuits are left in the bathroom, goggles, sunglasses, hairbrushes… you name it, are put in some random spot where they can never find it when it’s time to go out the door.

I sit down on a pool chair and SOMEONE is bound to ask for something to drink. Or I’m rereading the same page of my book for like the eleventh time because I keep getting, “mom- watch this cannonball”, “mom- watch my handstand under water”, “mom- tell us who is the fastest to swim to the other side”, “mom- see who can stay under water longest”…..

OKAY, I GET IT!! Great. Eventually I just started making shit up and pretending to look, but my sun glasses were hiding my eyes.

The beach has been phenomenal. I can’t get enough. Okay, that is a lie. I’m aloe-d up right now sitting in an air-conditioned condo because I have a sunburned ass and back. And I did everything. the. right. way. Dammit! I wore SPF 50, I reapplied, I took shade. And I STILL got burned. Snorkeling was the culprit. My back and ass exposed in the salt water for an hour is just going to create a UVB playground.

Question- you’re a family sitting along the beach. With everyone else sitting along the beach. The shore is close but not too close. When all of a sudden a wave comes up and starts to wash out to sea someone’s towel and flip flops of the neighboring family who isn’t by their stuff, because they are all snorkeling. Do you

a) dive in to the water and grab the stuff as fast as you can

b) sit on your own beach towel and look on thinking, ‘not my shit, who cares.’

Apparently, the folks near our stuff were of choice B. I’m not sure why you wouldn’t just pick up someone’s towel and flip flops and bring them to dry ground. Luckily, Emma was coming back from snorkeling and sees her flip flop floating! James and her quickly grabbed the towels and my hat and saved them. What sucks was we had wet, sandy towels to dry off with. Or not dry off, since your choice is only a wet and sandy towel. Do you know how heavy and gross wet, sandy towels are? Ew.

Whatever the tourists lack in spirit here, the locals make up for. People are friendly, laid-back (to a fault sometimes!) and I love the island spirit.

Hawaii has been conserving well before conservation was cool. Some stores don’t provide shopping bags, there’s wind power everywhere, they love their land, they love their oceans. They support local produce and farms. I love that.

I’m amazed by the flowers. I stop and smell or pick plumeria every chance I get.

I want a plumeria lei and crown made for me every day. I would wear it in Seattle winters and feel tropical.

This is our last day in the condo before we go to the resort. I’m excited about the resort- water slides, pools, water falls, swim-up bar. But also, I’m scared. It’s hella expensive. I think when we check in they are going to have us register our first born, take one of our kidneys and make us pledge all our future earnings to paying our bill. Or something like that. We are also doing a luau. I am so freakin’ excited about the hula dancers.

Don’t be surprised if you hear someone got up on stage and started hula-ing with the best of them.

Mahalo.

Sex (or lack thereof) and the Married Couple

Or as I should call it, How 50 Shades of Grey ruined my sex life. That’s right. I said ruined. I know, I know- you’re like, ‘WTF FRUG, you were all gushing about it in your music video. Yeah, well, that was back then. Now, unless my husband reads those books, (has any guy read them?) or any other middle aged-mom-soft porn, I can forget getting hot and heavy like Ana and Christian did. My husband will never look at me with smoldering eyes, fingering one of his silk ties in his hands, while he strolls on over to me wearing ripped up jeans and carrying a riding crop, telling me to ‘hold still’.  Our idea of kinky is when one of us gets a neck cramp during ‘relations’.

Who the fuck has time for hot sex anymore?  I’m talking monogamous, happily married, tear off each other’s clothes, pretend like you haven’t been married for 15 years sex. My body isn’t a robot. I don’t have a ‘TURN ON’ switch. So if it isn’t the time of the month, fatigue, sciatic nerve spasms, gas from too much bread at dinner… it’s a miracle there’s any relations going on at all. Seriously, mom- this might be where you stop reading- or put your fingers in your ears ‘lalalalala…I can’t hear you.’

Is it nature’s job to just mess with us? And by us, I mean women. It’s not that I don’t want sex, necessarily (oh dear God, mother, I am so sorry), it’s just that the urge for it really is sporadic. Here is a typical cycle of my libido in any given week-

Monday night= staying up to catch up on DVR shows and blog. Plus, my crops in WeTopia are far overdue to be harvested. Hubs is asleep on the couch. #Sameoldstory.

Tuesday= 11 am, started reading a book/ article/ or was watching Last of the Mohicans on one of the Encore channels with Daniel Day Lewis wearing deer skin pants- the only movie he’s ever looked THAT good- and think- hmmm, if hubby was home right now I would SO tap that keg.

Tuesday night= hubby’s home- and awake, but I have gas from that new quinoa and white bean recipe I tried. Plus, I snarfed that bag of Doritos when no one was around earlier, so the MSG is bloating in my intestines. This equals unsexy for sure.

Wednesday = Hubby’s working from home but I’m feeling glum and sad over how my jeans don’t fit me after I take them out of the dryer. I wish he would give me a back rub. And by back rub, I mean, back rub. And bring me donuts.

Thursday= holy hell- was surfing the web for blog material and happened to come across a whole handful of hot guys which got me thinking how nice it would be if hubby was working from home today. But he’s not. Once again, two ships- different ports.

Friday night= fell asleep in front of my lap top at around 9:30 surfing the web for swim suits that will never fit me. Got distracted and started watching cute kitten videos on YouTube, but my eyelids were so heavy, so now I’m just snoring on the couch. Maybe hubs will carry me upstairs, undress me and put me in to bed, which will wake me just enough for me to be aroused and he’ll pleasure me luxuriously for hours. Wait. Scratch that. Hubs hasn’t picked me up EVER since I weigh as much as he does, and he sure as hell wouldn’t make it up the stairs carrying my fat ass, especially with his bum knee. Plus he’s fallen asleep on the couch while updating his roster for Fantasy Soccer.

Saturday= went out with girl friends and got all dolled up to impress other ladies and get hit on by men that don’t mean anything to me. Stumbled home around midnight and took some Advil and went to bed.

Sunday= still recovering from the night before’s outing. Hubs gives me THE LOOK while we are brushing our teeth getting ready for bed. I’m like, “What?”, He’s like, “hey there”. I’m all, “hey there yourself”. Put in my night guard, throw my hair up in a scrunchie and call it a night. 6:30 am isn’t waiting for nobody and Monday mornings are always hell trying to drag my sorry ass out of bed. So no nookie for you my dear. Sleep time.

And there you have the random week in the life of a married couple that wishes, just wishes, that Afternoon Delights, Hotel Sex, or Anniversary sex, could come during random times of the day, conveniently when there’s no time of the month, gassy stomach bloat, constipation, or children around to bother or in their case, be bothered. OR telemarketers or the Mother In Law calling, or the dog whining at the bottom of the bed.

Yep. I went there. My next blog will be- ‘Why you shouldn’t blog about your sex life and humiliate your ultra, introverted husband.’

Stay tuned.

Yoga gabba gabba

I went to yoga last week and again this week. First time in years. To a class, that is. I do yoga stretches at home all the time. Apparently, not like this instructor does though. She worked me, and worked me good. This must be how taffy feels in Atlantic City getting pulled all over the place while people watch for fun.  The best part-  I didn’t pass any gas. Whew!!

Yoga is such tricky shit. You are trying to get your body to look like Jennifer Aniston, but in the meantime, you know that you really should be there to get your heart and your mind like Ghandi. Then you feel kinda bad thinking to yourself, ‘how many of these sessions will it take to look hot in that LBD I saw at Nordstrom?” Because really, we want to feel good, but we want to look good too. Is that so wrong? Not only do I think of Little Black Dresses, or cute new sandals, my mind trails to all kinds of thinking while in Ohm pose. Like, ‘what’s for dinner, what does Rick Astley look like these days, did Joanie really love Chachi’. You know, important stuff like that.

I carry a lot of tension, pain, hormones, whatever, in my lower back. Carry it like a pack mule down to the Grand Canyon. Geeze, what is the matter down there?? Yogi Nancy really s t r e t c h e d  it out of me. I love it when I’m downward dogging and she comes over and just pulls at my hips a little more to the ceiling. Oh sure- cuz that’s so much easier now!!  I’ve been sore for a couple days, but in a good way. My back felt great the next day. I know now that stretching is probably going to be key to my quality of life even more so than running or strength training. How in the heck do I get so wound up down there? I mean, I’m not doing any heavy lifting, I wonder if it’s my posture, the way I sit when I’m driving in my pimpwagon (minivan)?  Oh wait, I know- it’s this damn couch I’m sinking into while blogging and on Facebook all the time!! Anyway- my hips are tight. Super tight. Like I need Maksim Chmerkovskiy on Dancing With the Stars to Samba the knots out – kinda tight.

At the beginning of class our Yogi said something to us that really stood out to me. She was talking about a term- I have no idea the Indian name for it- but it means ‘non grasping’. She talked about not holding our pain. Not grasping at things in life.  When we grasp, our hands are closed, and they aren’t open and ready for the next thing.

Huh.

I am always trying to grip so hard on to things to hold them dear to me. I never thought of the idea of ‘not grasping’. She says when you are grasping constantly, you don’t appreciate the ‘now’, what this moment has for you. You are grasping and it traps you in the past. Let me explain. Like a dog that is happy to go on a walk. Dog isn’t thinking on the walk how dog needs to go home and do chores, cook dinner, or write blog, dog is just happy to smell stuff and watch squirrels. Dogs don’t grasp apparently.

I thought of what I’m grasping.

Maybe I am grasping pain. We always reference something to our past. “Gosh, last year when I ran that 5k, my hips didn’t hurt the way they do now.” OR “Last time I went out late with friends and danced on the  bar, I didn’t get so tired so quickly”.

I grasp onto my parent’s aging.

I don’t want them to get older. I don’t like when I hear my mom talk about how she is slowing down, or my dad is slowing down. I’m grasping on to the time in their lives before cancers, before hip replacements, before they were too tired to get on the floor and play with the kids. Thankfully, my kids are older now- we don’t play on the floor- much. Owen likes to hang out with Oma sewing or reading. And both kids always like to sit at the table to enjoy a cup of tea and a jam butty with their Odaddy. So really, no one needs to be moving much. Right?

I grasp on the times when my children were little and sweet and innocent. When their cheeks were pudgy and their knuckles had little fat indents.

I grasp on to the early courting days of my relationship with my husband. He used to bring me flowers every month. We used to go antiquing on weekends.

People say kids today are so busy texting and on Facebook. They are grasping on to the past of when there were no cell phones, no computers, no XBOX, no Kindles, no GPS.

Yeah- that might be true. I make sure my kids ‘unplug’ from time to time.  I am NOT a strict no TV mommy. Don’t give me too much credit.  But here’s what is cool today in the here and now- kids can treasure hunt using satellites, they can text their mom that they will be late for dinner since their coach kept them late at practice, they can strategize through puzzles on Portal 2 in case they work for the CIA when they grow up (okay, I threw that last part in, but I can’t do diddly squat on Portal 2 and my 8 year old has it mastered.) I can’t even fold a map these days- so thank GOD for GPS. Right?? Our state can issue an Amber Alert that can be spread through social media outlets within minutes. Kids have the chance to be found the same day. Not to be lost forever with their picture on a milk carton.

I will try to open my hand and not grasp but think of the following:

  • my parents are here, they are wonderful people that sit and listen and make me feel important, special and loved. I don’t necessarily have to DO anything with them to enjoy them.
  • my children are humorous, independent and growing up to be pleasant people. Actual persons. Just like I intended. They will one day leave the nest, I want them ready to fly. I can’t have them stay sweet and peachy fuzzy chubby forever. Which makes me break down in sobs sometimes and want to climb in their bed when they are off at school and stick my nose in their blankets to just get their sweet smell.
  • maybe my husband doesn’t bring me flowers hardly ever. But I was living in an apartment in those days. We didn’t have our babies yet. The future seemed so vast and daunting. Now I know where I am meant to be.  I wouldn’t change today for anything and where we are now. And we don’t need any more antiques.

Hold your hands open to what is. To the now my friends. Oh SNAP! I am turning into Gandhi. Maybe my enlightened self will just accept my body as it is and go get that dress at Nordstrom anyway….

Namaste.

 

I have it really good.

But that doesn’t mean I have it easy.

Does anyone have it easy? I mean really now. Life is a struggle. There is probably a very small, hmm, can we call them the 1% of people, who have few worries. If you relate your worries to your finances I guess.

I figure, if you are a loving, warm blooded human- you have worries or problems.

Here is why I have it good. And yes, I’m an appreciative type so I will focus on the positive for now. ‘Bout damn time I stop complaining about PMS and cellulite anyway.

  • I am a stay at home mom. Yep, I said it. Proud of it too. I ADMIRE WOMAN WHO WORK AT PAYING JOBS TOO! so there. I am just happy in MY shoes. Don’t judge me for not ‘working’. That’s bullshit. I work all the time. I volunteer too. Which is working for free. So that means, I do two jobs and don’t get paid. I raise my kids and I volunteer. Bam.
  • My husband is a good man. He really is. I give him crap. He can’t load or unload the dishwasher or put his socks away. But God bless him, he works hard for his family and puts us FIRST. Which in my book, is what makes a man a man. He loves us, even if he has shitty communication skills. He trusts me. He let’s me be me. He lets me have fun with girlfriends, blog about shit, fill our home with beauty products and copious amounts of tea. I love tea. He doesn’t give me a hard time for going vegan-ish. He even secretly is trying it himself.
  • My kids are healthy. Gee whiz. I can’t say enough how this makes me feel warm fuzzy and guilty as hell all at the same time. Yeah, I know. I’m pretty effed up to feel guilty about healthy children. But between the friends I know whose children have suffered through cancer or the families I know with Asperger’s and Autism, I feel like I dodged a bullet somehow. Now, if that cannon were to fire in my direction one day, I would maybe change my tune. But I really appreciate my children and all the milestones they’ve accomplished.
  • I have great friends. I have great ‘real’ friends and great ‘virtual’ friends. I’ll explain. I have girlfriends that I have known for years, have been there for the births of my children, my wedding, my ugly shoe phase in college, my bed rest during pregnancies, my children’s baptisms, at the bus stop to be there when I couldn’t, for carpooling, for birthdays, coffee dates, dinner dates… the list goes on. I also have friends who I have never met in my life. They see me only through my blog and my Facebook blog page. They give me accolades and validation that I feel I don’t deserve sometimes. But I always appreciate it and drink it in. Because it feels so damn good to get appreciated!
  • I have complete use of my faculties. Okay, this might not last forever, and except for the slight tinkle when I laugh, sneeze or jump on a trampoline- I am so grateful to be upright and functioning!! I am not 600 pounds lying in a bed for a forklift to take me to the doctor. I do not need a wheelchair or a speak n spell device like Stephen Hawking to communicate. I can go for a run. Play with my kids. Dance a spaz dance to LMFAO. Cuz you know I do!
  • I don’t have to go to a well for water. Gosh darn if I don’t complain about chores on a daily basis. And wouldn’t it be grand if the cat would just poop in the toilet instead of the litter box? But really? I have machines that do most of the work. Water comes magically out of a faucet. The washing machine beats and spins my clothes until they are clean. All I have to do is fold them. Although, by the length of time they sit in laundry baskets in the hall way, you would think that was the hardest task in the world.
  • I have freakin’ Amazon Fresh delivering groceries to my door! Yes- people. I can sit in my $100 Lululemon yoga pants and buy organic kale at my computer and it comes the next morning. The beauty of the USA people!

Now let’s not get all mistaken by this sunshine and unicorn post. There’s shitty shit going on in the world. Even in my neighborhood. I buy supplies for needy kids at my son’s school. There’s a frickin’ SWAT team in my city today, actually because some asshole shot at someone in a home. This ain’t Beverly Hills folks!

But I’m going to smell the roses, AND the freshly ground espresso. I’m going to try and be happy that I CAN cook dinner for my family because I have the food and the appliances to do so. (although sometimes that shit gets so old…)

Yep. That’s my Mr. Rogers post for you today. Won’t you be my neighbor? Remember, he always sang- “It’s such a good feeling, to know you’re alive…” Sing it my friends!

The happiness of being a mother. No- really!

We are celebrating my daughter’s 12th birthday today. And it happens to be Easter. One of the perks of being born in April, there’s a chance your birthday falls on Easter. This is the second time we have celebrated the two together. The last was five years ago. We were at Disneyland for spring break. I don’t think a 7 year old could have had it any better!

This year, Emma is on the brink of teenagedom. She has always been mature- beyond her years. She was uber sophisticated at the young age of 2 when she said very clearly- “Aunt Edna broke her pelvis” to everyone she met on the street. This was true. Aunt Edna had, in fact, broken her pelvis. She also would lay on our family room carpet with the clear plastic toy bin over her head pretending she was Snow White in the casket the dwarfs had made her. And we would have to take turns playing the Prince. Getting on bended knee, lowering our head in sorrow, then lifting the toy bin to kiss her. She would open her eyes and play the princess off to be with her prince. Oh gosh, how I miss those days. Sort of.

Emma was never really a good sleeper. She gave me trouble even in-utero when she decided she wanted to start coming out at 25 weeks. I was hospitalized and on strict bed rest for 10 weeks. When she was born, we couldn’t get her to latch on. Breast feeding was hell. I think this is what caused her to not sleep. Her poor sleep patterns continued until she was about 5.

Now, what do you know? I can’t wake her up in the mornings. She would sleep a solid 12 hours if you let her. Which is hard when you have to get her out the door for school at 7:15 am and most activities and homework keep her up until 9pm. She probably needs as much sleep now as a toddler does, but life doesn’t allow for that.

Well, let’s get back to my original point. Happiness in motherhood. Seems like a paradox huh? Just kidding!

But truly, I wanted to be a mom so badly. I wanted Emma to be born safe and well. I willed her to be healthy. Don’t patronize me. I know that it’s not my thinking that made her. But I prayed hard, I meditated, I focused all my energies to gestating that healthy baby.

When she came out- oh lord, that was something. I had the best epidural known to modern medicine. This was after two hours of my uterus being hypertonic in a contraction that was ‘off the charts’. I thought I would die. When they finally let me have the epidural, the anesthesiologist- Dr. Fritz- performed magic. I didn’t even feel the needle (this could be because I was in such a fit of pain, you could have cut off my toes, and I wouldn’t have noticed it for the pain in my midsection) and then he said that my legs would start to feel warm like in a bathtub of warm water. Oh. He was right!! I could breathe. The pain subsided, my legs went heavenly numb and warm. My thoughts returned to the room I was in and the people around me. Like my darling husband, McSweetie, my mom, and my doula Peggy. The labor nurse, Ruth, was awesome. She got me comfortable and we let everyone go get some breakfast since it had been such a stressful morning of watching me writhe in pain.

She assured them it would be a few more hours before it was time to push.

Tick tock. A whopping 30 minutes went by (tee hee, I kid) and I sheepishly told Ruth I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. You know- I mean, number 2. She’s like, uhm, I don’t think so, let me examine you.

Sure enough- she’s in there with her whole hand. “Oh yeah, I feel the baby’s hair- you’re 10 centimeters”.

Me- “So I don’t have to poop?”

Ruth- “Nope. You’re gonna have this baby!”

In walks husband and mom with lattes and smiles on their faces thinking, la la la, this is a piece of cake. Then I say, “Hey, guess what? I’m ten centimeters so we’re going to start pushing, and by we, I mean ME.”

So up my legs go in the stirrups, Dr. Johnson, the best ob/gyn known to woman,  comes by with all the paper gowns and masks, I’m sure they put something on the floor to catch the mess. I had my Mozart CD playing in the hospital CD player, the sun was shining and I didn’t feel a thing. Anything that registered on the pain meter anyway.  I did what they told me and in about 10 minutes, I could see Emma with her eyes wide open staring at the doctor! She was covered in stuff that looks like what babies look like on TV and the movies when they pretend it’s a newborn. The doc was a little concerned. Emma had had the cord around her neck and the fetal monitor showed a morbidly low heart rate. They wanted to get her to oxygen right away. The Dr. didn’t even ask if one of us wanted to cut the cord. My mom with tears in her eyes, is holding my leg in the air, cheering, “She’s here, she’s here!”

I started to cry. But in a good, relief-happy cry sort of way.  I hadn’t heard Emma make a sound yet, but since I saw her color and saw her eyes wide open, I knew she was going to be okay. Within a few minutes they had her wiped off and on my chest. When I placed my hand on her, I thought I put my fingers in a warm bowl of butter. I had never felt anything so soft. It was literally, ‘like buttah’. I could smell her, I don’t know how to describe it, but it was HER smell. I cried and cried for my baby. The universe shifted and my heart opened up to a big giant surge of power. Infinite power that I could never imagine. This is truly what LOVE feels like. I get it. THIS is what everyone talks about.

Bliss lasted for a few hours. Once the epidural wore off and I could help myself to the toilet- that’s a winning moment for post partum moms. You DO NOT want a catheter if your bladder is ‘injured’ in any way. I remember feeling fabulous that I could breathe, my lungs weren’t squished, my pelvis didn’t have 10 pounds of baby weight pushing on it, I felt incredible. Until the next day when my hoo ha, swelled up like a grapefruit and I had to sit with frozen maxi pads. But that’s another story…

The latching on- not so good. The sleeping that night- not so good. The sleeping the next 45 nights- not so good.

Both hubs and I were bleary eyed, happy parents. But we knew we were screwed.

I remember looking at her in her bassinet. She was about 4 days old. I was still miserable. My boobs hurt like mo fo’s and I didn’t know whether to, as my dad says, ‘shit or go blind’, I was so tired. But I looked at her perfectness, and started to weep. I was so grateful she was here and safe. I had this perfect child. Of course, now, I was immersed in worrying all about the things that COULD happen. Is she going to stop breathing? Is her bassinet safe? What if there’s a fire? What if we get in a car accident on the way to a pediatrician appointment? What if she gets a fever? And the worrying never stops.

Now my worries are- who is she hanging out with after school, who is she getting a ride with to the movies, is her school campus safe, is she safe in her friend’s parent’s car on the way to a camp-out… ??? and on, and on, and on….

But today is her birthday. And even while she is right this very minute making a spoof video on her new Flip camera with her brother about murdering a cereal box- she is the apple of my eye, the sun in my day, and the peach in my fruit basket.

YOUR kids make videos about murdering cereal boxes and stuffed animals too, right?

Happy Easter. Happy Birthday Emma. The world is better with you in it.