Just when you think you’ve conquered the most stressful time of the year, suddenly it’s January and the pressure is on to reevaluate, assess the passing year’s damage and brace yourself to take on the overwhelming task of fixing all that’s wrong with your life. Lucky for me, my resolution making usually requires little more effort than grabbing last year’s resolution file and changing the date at the top of the page to the current year. I was reminded of this excruciating, self-loathing ritual when a dear friend said she’d just come from her daughter’s Daisy Scouts meeting where they’d had a lengthy discussion about Girl Scout Cookies.
Brilliant marketing ploy by the way, Girl Scouts - cute AND peddling the most addictive cookies in the world. When? Oh yes, in February when it’s early enough that we’re all still vulnerable to slip-ups and yet late enough that we can convince ourselves we’ve given the “getting in shape” line item a healthy shot. I know, it’s tax deductible. I’m assuming I’ll also be able to deduct the personal trainer and higher club level gym membership I’ll have to buy just to work off that box of thin mints.
Of course my big resolutions almost always include lose weight, save money, stop swearing, drink less wine, eat more vegetables and re-introduce myself to the other adult in the house. And when I use the term “adult” that’s just me trying to start the year off right for resolution number eight: “Be nicer to my husband.” But seriously – how is anyone supposed to stick to a resolution strategy when we live in a culture commodious with temptation?
Saving money becomes impossible when everyone you know has something to support– marathons for good causes, team sports, schools, dance troupes – you name it. In fact, the other day a neighborhood kid came by the house selling raffle tickets, trying to raise money for his baseball team. Having been one of those kids peddling support back in the day myself, I always feel compelled to pay up in tribute to all those nice people who found it in their hearts to do the same for me, so I reached for my wallet and asked what it was they were raffling. He proudly pulled out a brightly colored picture embellished with stars surrounding the big prize: a pump action Remington shotgun. A shotgun? Really? I think we can all agree that a shotgun is the last thing I want hanging around when I break all my resolutions.
The first public tantrum of the year Cameron brings me will take care of my “no more swearing” attempt. Of course my favorite, most cathartic expletives will find their way into the closest pillow I’ll find to scream them into or when I find the car keys, politely excuse myself and lock myself in the car until I’ve screamed so long I can’t talk, but it will still count. And let’s face it, giving up wine when you’ve been married for more than fourteen years and have two kids under the age of seven, well, that’s just cruel.
But don’t you worry Girl Scouts of America – I love what you do and I love your damn cookies so I’ll restrain my old twitch as I write the check and invite those salacious plastic towers inside my house. But for the record, your cutesy ironic little names are not lost on me. “Tagalongs” should really be “Can’t believe these Girl Scout cookies have been tagging along my thighs since February.” And Do-Si-Dos should be changed to: “I’m going to have to Do-Si-Do my buns off if I eat these.” Thin Mints: well, that’s just too easy. My favorite, however, is the company’s “Thanks-a-lots.” So that’s it: “Yo, Girl Scouts, thanks a lot for sabotaging my New Years Resolution diet in less than a month!” I think I’ll find my fat pants, waddle down to the liquor store and pick-up a pack of Slims.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
On the Twelve Days of Motherhood...
I love Christmas, but I find it disconcerting that Christmas carols start playing in October and I find myself unconsciously humming these classic little ditties so often that by the time my favorite holiday arrives I can’t stand to hear them anymore. I’ve heard the “Twelve Days of Christmas” more than a few times already and began wondering — what kind of true love gives you fowl you don’t want and an ensemble cast of characters who are too happy for their own good? And furthermore, where are on earth is this proverbial recipient going to store them all? But then it occurred to me that I have a couple of miscreant true loves who’ve given me more than a few things I don’t need from the other foul category and decided this time-honored carol needed an update. To save time and space, I’ll begin with the last verse:
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Motherhood gave to me…
12 Thousand Sleepless Hours
11 Tubs of Vomit
10 Walls with Crayon
9 Tons of Clutter
8 Million Hours a’ Washin’
7 Years a’ Dateless
6 Tee Pounds a’ Lingering
5 Per-cent Brain Loss
4 Million Days of Whining
3 Years of Chaos (Is Cameron really only three?)
2 Saggy Mammaries
And a Man-da-tory Hysterec-to-Meeeeee!
I guess I could also write it like this:
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Motherhood gave to me…
12 Thousand Hugs and Kisses
11 Tons a’ Handmade Art
10 New Ways to Love
9 Hundred Hours a’ Dancing
8 Million Times a’ Cuddling
7 Years of “Love Yous”
6 Thousand Fits a’ Laughter
5 Beams of Pride
4 Little Feet
3 Times a Bigger Heart
2 New Reasons to Live
And the Most Precious Gifts That I Have Eeever Haaaad!
I could, but then people might think I’ve gone soft…
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Motherhood gave to me…
12 Thousand Sleepless Hours
11 Tubs of Vomit
10 Walls with Crayon
9 Tons of Clutter
8 Million Hours a’ Washin’
7 Years a’ Dateless
6 Tee Pounds a’ Lingering
5 Per-cent Brain Loss
4 Million Days of Whining
3 Years of Chaos (Is Cameron really only three?)
2 Saggy Mammaries
And a Man-da-tory Hysterec-to-Meeeeee!
I guess I could also write it like this:
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Motherhood gave to me…
12 Thousand Hugs and Kisses
11 Tons a’ Handmade Art
10 New Ways to Love
9 Hundred Hours a’ Dancing
8 Million Times a’ Cuddling
7 Years of “Love Yous”
6 Thousand Fits a’ Laughter
5 Beams of Pride
4 Little Feet
3 Times a Bigger Heart
2 New Reasons to Live
And the Most Precious Gifts That I Have Eeever Haaaad!
I could, but then people might think I’ve gone soft…
Sunday, October 24, 2010
On Thanks-gaming...
I should love this time of year: the leaves embrace fall fashion, the sun is shining, the air is crisp, and everybody is gearing up for the magic of the holidays…and then there it is, the big crack in my personal paradise. Fall sports season. Almost any day of the week you can drive through a typical suburban neighborhood anywhere in America and see not-so-festive flickering lights in nearly every house on the street as someone lurks inside watching games, games and more games, while the kids exploit the lapse in supervision to put one of their Hot Wheels in the microwave. Picture-in-picture, dueling television sets, computer screens, cell phones – you name the multimedia device –they’re using it for sports numb. I’m not just complaining about the men either. I recently lost at least six ladies to a local college football game when I hosted a baby shower – and that included one of my co-hosts. I’m thankful for a lot of stuff, but the very dependable tradition of fall sports addiction is not one of them. I say, bah humbug to it all.
Last week my husband told me that I “didn’t understand.” That the fall sports season is the “perfect storm for sports fans.” Then he went into an energized rant as he rattled off all the pieces to the puzzle: pro football, college football, major league baseball playoffs, pre-season pro-basketball— even hockey season —all coming together to make him forget he has kids and a wife who is still struggling to rebuild brain cells from her two swings at pregnancy. In fact, I hadn’t seen him that animated since he rediscovered his whitewashed Guns & Roses jacket in the attic last winter.
I know I’m a girl, but I seriously don’t get it. I used to play sports so I technically get it, but assuming the couch position to watch other people making big bucks to play a game seems painful. Pretty soon it will be Thanksgiving Day, the mother of all spectator sports days, and a tradition that’s been in place since the 1920s. I know because I looked it up. I don’t even think people care what they’re watching after awhile — they’re just mesmerized by the flying pigskin and pretty lights on the big screen. And sitting in front of the TV means you won’t have to hear Aunt Ida talk about her latest colonoscopy results.
I asked my husband the other day if we could take the kids for a hike and enjoy the beautiful weather. His eyes were shifty as he so eloquently said, “uh, well…um…” to which I responded with an impatient, “What?” So he just came out with it. “Well, my game is on at 3:30.” “YOUR game?” I repeated. “I’m sorry, YOUR game? Really?? Are you getting any monetary benefit from wasting three to five hours of your life that you can NEVER get back sitting in front of the television getting an ulcer while you’re giving directives to people who can’t hear you, and furthermore don’t care? I sincerely hope so, because you’re going to need it for the marriage COUNSELORRRRRR!”
I know there was a reason I married him, but just by looking at him now, you wouldn’t think he’s the smartest member of the fan base, or for that matter anyone who could have turned my head. All his goofy hats come out, previous championship t-shirts, and we don’t have any, but if we did, no doubt all the appropriate team flags and blow up sports paraphernalia would be garnishing our lawn and car. I ask him to tape the games so he won’t miss out on life, but he insists, again, that I “don’t understand.” He has to watch it live because it’s “history in the making” and if he’s not “there” apparently he can’t claim it as part of his own history. To which I say it is NOT part of your history, because if it were, I’d have a nanny, a gourmet chef, a personal trainer and be spending my holidays beachside living the dream on our shared profits.
Listen, I’d like to spend three and a half hours watching back-to-back Oprah makeover shows while Brad Pitt gives me a foot massage and George Clooney brings me dirty martinis, but there’s laundry to do, dishes to wash and sanity to reclaim. So honey, if you want to start making an investment in your future living conditions, which will happen sooner than you think, and be decided on by your children, I suggest you choose another team. Their jerseys usually sport a culinary roadmap from snack time to their evening chow, they’re not the most coordinated bunch and will often score points for the other team, but you will have ample opportunity to shout instructions that fall on deaf ears. And if you do choose the team of tiny people who share your DNA, I promise I’ll cancel that appointment I made with the therapist.
Last week my husband told me that I “didn’t understand.” That the fall sports season is the “perfect storm for sports fans.” Then he went into an energized rant as he rattled off all the pieces to the puzzle: pro football, college football, major league baseball playoffs, pre-season pro-basketball— even hockey season —all coming together to make him forget he has kids and a wife who is still struggling to rebuild brain cells from her two swings at pregnancy. In fact, I hadn’t seen him that animated since he rediscovered his whitewashed Guns & Roses jacket in the attic last winter.
I know I’m a girl, but I seriously don’t get it. I used to play sports so I technically get it, but assuming the couch position to watch other people making big bucks to play a game seems painful. Pretty soon it will be Thanksgiving Day, the mother of all spectator sports days, and a tradition that’s been in place since the 1920s. I know because I looked it up. I don’t even think people care what they’re watching after awhile — they’re just mesmerized by the flying pigskin and pretty lights on the big screen. And sitting in front of the TV means you won’t have to hear Aunt Ida talk about her latest colonoscopy results.
I asked my husband the other day if we could take the kids for a hike and enjoy the beautiful weather. His eyes were shifty as he so eloquently said, “uh, well…um…” to which I responded with an impatient, “What?” So he just came out with it. “Well, my game is on at 3:30.” “YOUR game?” I repeated. “I’m sorry, YOUR game? Really?? Are you getting any monetary benefit from wasting three to five hours of your life that you can NEVER get back sitting in front of the television getting an ulcer while you’re giving directives to people who can’t hear you, and furthermore don’t care? I sincerely hope so, because you’re going to need it for the marriage COUNSELORRRRRR!”
I know there was a reason I married him, but just by looking at him now, you wouldn’t think he’s the smartest member of the fan base, or for that matter anyone who could have turned my head. All his goofy hats come out, previous championship t-shirts, and we don’t have any, but if we did, no doubt all the appropriate team flags and blow up sports paraphernalia would be garnishing our lawn and car. I ask him to tape the games so he won’t miss out on life, but he insists, again, that I “don’t understand.” He has to watch it live because it’s “history in the making” and if he’s not “there” apparently he can’t claim it as part of his own history. To which I say it is NOT part of your history, because if it were, I’d have a nanny, a gourmet chef, a personal trainer and be spending my holidays beachside living the dream on our shared profits.
Listen, I’d like to spend three and a half hours watching back-to-back Oprah makeover shows while Brad Pitt gives me a foot massage and George Clooney brings me dirty martinis, but there’s laundry to do, dishes to wash and sanity to reclaim. So honey, if you want to start making an investment in your future living conditions, which will happen sooner than you think, and be decided on by your children, I suggest you choose another team. Their jerseys usually sport a culinary roadmap from snack time to their evening chow, they’re not the most coordinated bunch and will often score points for the other team, but you will have ample opportunity to shout instructions that fall on deaf ears. And if you do choose the team of tiny people who share your DNA, I promise I’ll cancel that appointment I made with the therapist.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
On Potty Training and The Ugly Cry...
Whoever said “life is a marathon, not a sprint” obviously didn’t have a three-year-old who needed potty training before they’d let him into preschool. Two and a half hours three times a week alone? This is exactly the kind of deadline that a facetious Mother of the Year like myself would crawl through a cesspit of rat sludge to pull off. Unfortunately, potty training Cameron (said three-year-old) has turned out to be less of the sprint that I desperately need it to be and instead, a grueling marathon of embattled wills and soiled underwear. I mistakenly underestimated my competition and it’s clear that neither of us will make it over the finish line without permanent damage. If I ever get there, I will deserve a medal—and I just might make it into a necklace.
My first son Jack was potty trained in about a week. There were a few tears and even a little three-year-old Baby Ruth that ended up on the playroom floor, but he walked into preschool a proud big boy and ne’er an accident since. His little brother, on the other hand, is a stubbornly independent, free-spirited and notorious “poop disturber” who clearly has no interest in disturbing the poop routine he’s had going now for the last 40 months. We’ve got every book, including the modern classic Everybody Poops. We made a big deal of picking out a special potty. We’ve had big brother mentoring, reward charts, the M&M candy bribes and even Dr. Phil’s ridiculous Potty Party. My doctor said it’s a “control” issue. Yes. Now that we’ve established that infuriatingly obvious conclusion, what do I DO about it?”
Six months later, I still don’t know. But what I do know is that when potty training boys, it helps to have a little insight into their anthropological heritage and the male psyche. Boys can’t just embrace the fact that their castoffs have a place to go, they need to believe they’ve made a worthy contribution to mankind. I’m assuming this concept harkens back to their Stone Age ancestors. Man make fire. Boy make poop. For instance, potty training didn’t click for my nephew — a big Sesame Street fan at the time—until he pooped the letter of the day. Jack had his aha! poop when he managed to squeeze out a rocket ship headed for the moon. And while it’s yet to make a difference, the two times Cameron’s little Lincoln logs actually made it to the toilet bowl, he seemed genuinely pleased that they resembled a hot dog and a snake respectively.
A week and a half ago, I noticed Cameron doing his potty dance, which incidentally has a striking resemblance to the beginning steps of The Hustle. In a panic I whisked him to the potty despite his demands to the contrary. I used my sweetest voice to again explain the fundamentals of potty etiquette, but he responded like a Mel Gibson voicemail minus the expletives. At some point during his tirade, I simply sunk to the floor, covered my eyes, and the sheer duress of the last six months including, but not limited to my failed attempts at potty training unleashed like The Great Flood. That’s right – the ugly cry. The one where your face contorts and snot appears out of nowhere to join the downward stream of mucous and you just don’t care. As I sat there fully embraced in my cathartic release Jack ran in the room and yelled, “You’re making Mommy cry – just squeeze it out!” And then, as if an angel were speaking to me, I heard the littlest voice in the din say, “Don’t cwy Mommy, I do it.” To which I looked up through the tears and snot and replied, “What?” And he said, “I do it. I go poop.” And he did, which just goes to prove that every man, no matter how old they are, will do just about anything so they don’t have to hear a woman cry.
It was a small victory to say the least. As I’m writing this column my husband arrived home with the kids and news that Cameron’s new, favorite WonderPets “Ming Ming” underwear had been defaced. So we double bagged the whole mess and made Cameron take the walk of shame to the big garbage can in the garage. I’ve never seen a walk of shame taken with more pride. If I could hear his thoughts, I think they might go something like this: Boy make poop. Boy make Mom and Dad really mad. Life is good. So here we are. Just when I falsely believe I’m going to win the race, he proves me wrong and our long-winded marathon continues. I’m not sure if I have the stamina to finish this thing, but maybe the next poop that makes its way into the bowl will be a little brown medal and we’ll both win.
My first son Jack was potty trained in about a week. There were a few tears and even a little three-year-old Baby Ruth that ended up on the playroom floor, but he walked into preschool a proud big boy and ne’er an accident since. His little brother, on the other hand, is a stubbornly independent, free-spirited and notorious “poop disturber” who clearly has no interest in disturbing the poop routine he’s had going now for the last 40 months. We’ve got every book, including the modern classic Everybody Poops. We made a big deal of picking out a special potty. We’ve had big brother mentoring, reward charts, the M&M candy bribes and even Dr. Phil’s ridiculous Potty Party. My doctor said it’s a “control” issue. Yes. Now that we’ve established that infuriatingly obvious conclusion, what do I DO about it?”
Six months later, I still don’t know. But what I do know is that when potty training boys, it helps to have a little insight into their anthropological heritage and the male psyche. Boys can’t just embrace the fact that their castoffs have a place to go, they need to believe they’ve made a worthy contribution to mankind. I’m assuming this concept harkens back to their Stone Age ancestors. Man make fire. Boy make poop. For instance, potty training didn’t click for my nephew — a big Sesame Street fan at the time—until he pooped the letter of the day. Jack had his aha! poop when he managed to squeeze out a rocket ship headed for the moon. And while it’s yet to make a difference, the two times Cameron’s little Lincoln logs actually made it to the toilet bowl, he seemed genuinely pleased that they resembled a hot dog and a snake respectively.
A week and a half ago, I noticed Cameron doing his potty dance, which incidentally has a striking resemblance to the beginning steps of The Hustle. In a panic I whisked him to the potty despite his demands to the contrary. I used my sweetest voice to again explain the fundamentals of potty etiquette, but he responded like a Mel Gibson voicemail minus the expletives. At some point during his tirade, I simply sunk to the floor, covered my eyes, and the sheer duress of the last six months including, but not limited to my failed attempts at potty training unleashed like The Great Flood. That’s right – the ugly cry. The one where your face contorts and snot appears out of nowhere to join the downward stream of mucous and you just don’t care. As I sat there fully embraced in my cathartic release Jack ran in the room and yelled, “You’re making Mommy cry – just squeeze it out!” And then, as if an angel were speaking to me, I heard the littlest voice in the din say, “Don’t cwy Mommy, I do it.” To which I looked up through the tears and snot and replied, “What?” And he said, “I do it. I go poop.” And he did, which just goes to prove that every man, no matter how old they are, will do just about anything so they don’t have to hear a woman cry.
It was a small victory to say the least. As I’m writing this column my husband arrived home with the kids and news that Cameron’s new, favorite WonderPets “Ming Ming” underwear had been defaced. So we double bagged the whole mess and made Cameron take the walk of shame to the big garbage can in the garage. I’ve never seen a walk of shame taken with more pride. If I could hear his thoughts, I think they might go something like this: Boy make poop. Boy make Mom and Dad really mad. Life is good. So here we are. Just when I falsely believe I’m going to win the race, he proves me wrong and our long-winded marathon continues. I’m not sure if I have the stamina to finish this thing, but maybe the next poop that makes its way into the bowl will be a little brown medal and we’ll both win.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
On How I Spent My Summer Vacation
I have two beautiful boys so I don’t want to totally diss my uterus, but while I was pregnant with said progeny, it was a little like I was James Caan in “Misery.” And if I’m being honest, I more than kind of wanted to crush all my fellow baby bumpers who “loooved being pregnant.” You know the ones…those women upon whom the rumored pregnancy glow is based. I had no glow. Not even an atom of a molecule who was a distant cousin of one of my cells had a glow, which is why these women could populate a small village and I barely made it across the finish line with two. As author Jim Cole once said, “Love is all fun and games until someone loses an eye or gets pregnant.”
Even so, I’m eternally grateful and do not take the gift of childbirth lightly. On the other hand, the admittedly freakish miracle of being able to grow humans in ten months or less and years of painful visits from my proverbial Aunt Flo had doomed my relationship with my uterus to be rocky at best. So when my doctor told me that I needed a hysterectomy at the tender age of 41, she may as well have told me I’d be getting a full-time nanny. Of course at the time I hadn’t considered the prospect of major surgery, the possibility of having hormone replacement therapy at least nine years prior to menopause, or the fact that I’d have to go under general anesthesia to arrive at the other side of this whole mess. I was merely focused on the fact that all misadventures with my uterus were soon to be over and that I would be more than happy to part ways with the ol’ girl.
So I diligently finished up my lab tests and necessary blood work, scheduled my surgery, and what’s that? Oh yes, somehow figured out what to do with my kids for a whole month of their summer vacation. (As a side note, the extended members of our respective families are all veritable saints and in the event that we had a chance in hell of ever having anything of value in our will to bequeath, every one of them would be on the list of recipients.) But then I had to tell people. When my fellow hyster-sisters heard the news, they all said, “Oh, you’ll love it! You’ll feel like you’re 20 again!” And all I could think was, ”Shoot, I was really hoping that I’d feel more like I was 10 because that was before my excruciatingly painful monthly bill reared its ugly mug, but I’ll still take it.” What I hadn’t anticipated was getting the signature head tilt/half wince with an “Oooh, I’m so sorry,” from the people who had NOT had a hysterectomy- men included. It was only then that I realized the general populace associated my uterus with my womanhood. Of course, being the resident smart aleck I’d usually respond with a, “Oh don’t worry, it’s not as if I’ll never be able to wear a dress or shop again…” (insert awkward laughter). But then I’d think to myself, “Does it?” After that, every time I said “hysterectomy” I would reflexively whisper it like I was saying “sex” or “vagina.” I was a living paradox: ecstatic to be ridding my life of the horrible pain I’d been enduring for decades and at the same time feeling like I should be wearing a scarlet H.
Now it’s the day before my surgery and I’m freaking out about going under general anesthesia even though my doctor is a literal rock star in the field of laparoscopic hysterectomy, the kids are safely at my in-laws without a care in the world and a life without Eve’s Curse is one I’d like to lead. On this day, I feel compelled to put my legal affairs in order with a mad dash to the notary and have a teary eyed talk with my husband, insisting that he find love again and build a life for he and the kids without me if I didn’t make it. And while I’m certain I was sincere at the time, you can’t imagine my relief when I saw my surgeon walking toward me in the recovery room. There were only two things on my mind: 1. “I’m ALLLLIIIIVE!!!” and 2. Thank God some other bitch won’t be raising my kids!”
Despite the fact that the OR nurse used me as a human voodoo doll during her utterly failed attempts to insert my IV during pre-op (I could only wonder why she hated me so much despite the fact that we’d only just met), and that I was forced to decline the handiwork of a handsome respiratory therapist who mistakenly had me queued up for a post-operative inhalation tube, I emerged from the experience generally without incident and best of all without pain. I even scored a bonus appendectomy as my free gift with purchase. More good news: I get to keep my ovaries which means I also get to keep my hormones; to which I’d suddenly become dreadfully attached when faced with the prospect of an involuntary break-up.
I’m not sure that I have more energy – i.e. feel like I’m 20–but maybe the gals who did feel like that afterward didn’t have kids under the age of seven. But what I know for sure? Laparoscopic hysterectomy must be the discovery of the century. My recovery was quick, I was in and out of the hospital in a day and a half and I have only four tiny scars exactly one centimeter in length to show for it. I have loads more storage where my tampons and those unwieldy pads with wings used to be and twelve weeks a year of my life back. I think I will use them to find a medically sound reason for a boob lift and tummy tuck. Stay tuned.
Even so, I’m eternally grateful and do not take the gift of childbirth lightly. On the other hand, the admittedly freakish miracle of being able to grow humans in ten months or less and years of painful visits from my proverbial Aunt Flo had doomed my relationship with my uterus to be rocky at best. So when my doctor told me that I needed a hysterectomy at the tender age of 41, she may as well have told me I’d be getting a full-time nanny. Of course at the time I hadn’t considered the prospect of major surgery, the possibility of having hormone replacement therapy at least nine years prior to menopause, or the fact that I’d have to go under general anesthesia to arrive at the other side of this whole mess. I was merely focused on the fact that all misadventures with my uterus were soon to be over and that I would be more than happy to part ways with the ol’ girl.
So I diligently finished up my lab tests and necessary blood work, scheduled my surgery, and what’s that? Oh yes, somehow figured out what to do with my kids for a whole month of their summer vacation. (As a side note, the extended members of our respective families are all veritable saints and in the event that we had a chance in hell of ever having anything of value in our will to bequeath, every one of them would be on the list of recipients.) But then I had to tell people. When my fellow hyster-sisters heard the news, they all said, “Oh, you’ll love it! You’ll feel like you’re 20 again!” And all I could think was, ”Shoot, I was really hoping that I’d feel more like I was 10 because that was before my excruciatingly painful monthly bill reared its ugly mug, but I’ll still take it.” What I hadn’t anticipated was getting the signature head tilt/half wince with an “Oooh, I’m so sorry,” from the people who had NOT had a hysterectomy- men included. It was only then that I realized the general populace associated my uterus with my womanhood. Of course, being the resident smart aleck I’d usually respond with a, “Oh don’t worry, it’s not as if I’ll never be able to wear a dress or shop again…” (insert awkward laughter). But then I’d think to myself, “Does it?” After that, every time I said “hysterectomy” I would reflexively whisper it like I was saying “sex” or “vagina.” I was a living paradox: ecstatic to be ridding my life of the horrible pain I’d been enduring for decades and at the same time feeling like I should be wearing a scarlet H.
Now it’s the day before my surgery and I’m freaking out about going under general anesthesia even though my doctor is a literal rock star in the field of laparoscopic hysterectomy, the kids are safely at my in-laws without a care in the world and a life without Eve’s Curse is one I’d like to lead. On this day, I feel compelled to put my legal affairs in order with a mad dash to the notary and have a teary eyed talk with my husband, insisting that he find love again and build a life for he and the kids without me if I didn’t make it. And while I’m certain I was sincere at the time, you can’t imagine my relief when I saw my surgeon walking toward me in the recovery room. There were only two things on my mind: 1. “I’m ALLLLIIIIVE!!!” and 2. Thank God some other bitch won’t be raising my kids!”
Despite the fact that the OR nurse used me as a human voodoo doll during her utterly failed attempts to insert my IV during pre-op (I could only wonder why she hated me so much despite the fact that we’d only just met), and that I was forced to decline the handiwork of a handsome respiratory therapist who mistakenly had me queued up for a post-operative inhalation tube, I emerged from the experience generally without incident and best of all without pain. I even scored a bonus appendectomy as my free gift with purchase. More good news: I get to keep my ovaries which means I also get to keep my hormones; to which I’d suddenly become dreadfully attached when faced with the prospect of an involuntary break-up.
I’m not sure that I have more energy – i.e. feel like I’m 20–but maybe the gals who did feel like that afterward didn’t have kids under the age of seven. But what I know for sure? Laparoscopic hysterectomy must be the discovery of the century. My recovery was quick, I was in and out of the hospital in a day and a half and I have only four tiny scars exactly one centimeter in length to show for it. I have loads more storage where my tampons and those unwieldy pads with wings used to be and twelve weeks a year of my life back. I think I will use them to find a medically sound reason for a boob lift and tummy tuck. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
On Celebrating Father's Day...
You can’t go anywhere this time of year without bumping into a chirpy Father’s Day gift guide organized by catchy phrases like “Grill Master,” “Gadget Guru,” and “Sports Fanatic.” All this for the gentleman responsible for those pint-sized miracles who spend their most productive hours sucking the life out of yours. For once I’d like to see another kind of guide that dices up the world’s dads according to the ugly truth. Here’s a stab for Father’s Day gift-givers living in the real world…
Traditional Dad aka Slacker: This is the dad who believes that child- rearing, and anything and everything having to do with the house is woman’s work. He figures that as long as he’s pulling down a paycheck he can do whatever he chooses with his free time. Essentially he’s the Sugar Daddy without the “Daddy” and more often than not, not enough “Sugar” either. Gift Idea: Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Clearly this guy celebrates Father’s Day every single day of his life.
Sports Dud: This is the dad who is only effective as long as “his game” is not on. And thanks to ESPN and the birth of cable, that’s pretty much all the time. In fact, your two-year-old could be dangling out of the second story window, but unless the Sox are down by two to the Yankees and it’s the bottom of the ninth, it’s not a crisis. Gift Idea: How about tickets to a local sporting event of his choice as long as he takes the kids. I think it’s high time he gets a dose of what it really means to sacrifice doing stuff you love so that your children can feel the love.
The “I do a lot” Dad: This is the guy who still thinks he babysits his own kids, and the sweet spot of the modern dad population. This dad thinks he does more than he actually does, and takes every opportunity to try and convince us of that by comparing himself to the closest Slacker Dad on the block in an attempt to prop up his own image. He will also incessantly refer back to that one bath that he gave the kids last week as if he’s just carried you out of a burning building. Gift Idea: The gift of relativity. A round-trip ticket for you and a friend so he can spend a good old-fashioned bonding weekend with his spawn and experience firsthand how much their mom really does.
Super Dad: Yes, girls, this category actually exists. This is the most highly evolved of the dad pool – and this dad does it all. Sometimes he’s a full-time, stay-at-home dad, and sometimes he’s busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, but either way, he makes meals, taxis the kids all over town and never misses their games. While this dad’s numbers have increased over the years, he’s still quite rare and if found should be snatched up immediately if not already taken. Gift idea: Whatever the heck he wants.
The Executive Assistant Dad: This dad stands just a tick or two below Super Dad and definitely where my own husband falls – which is lucky for me – but to be fair, I did study his resume before bringing him on board. This is the dad who totally understands that he was a willing participant in the initial decision to bring the little rug rats into the world, and as such has equal responsibility in raising them. He’s ready, willing and able; he just requires a painstakingly specific road map. This is the guy who agrees to put the kids to bed, but unless you head up traffic control they won’t get there until midnight. He’s also the guy who, on his watch, won’t feed them unless their hunger pains can be heard above his own thoughts. Gift Idea: This guy deserves a big giant “A” for effort and really a day to do exactly as he pleases. That being said you may actually need to schedule it, otherwise he’ll likely spend the afternoon on the couch.
This list, of course, barely scratches the surface of what we moms are working with out there. There’s still the “I Gave At the Office” dad, the “Up in the Air” dad and “The What Have You Done for Me Lately” dad. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the “I’m not even sure if he’s my kid” dad. On top of all that, your Baby Daddy is more likely a combo of some or all of the above. I realize that I’m having a little fun at their expense. I’m not saying they don’t deserve their own day. Without them, we moms would have a lot less to talk about, marriage counseling wouldn’t be a thriving industry, and Moms Night Out wouldn’t feel so darn cathartic. So a sincere thanks to all you Dads for bringing us the little people who guzzle up all that annoying extra time we used to have for self-improvement and a full nights sleep— your homemade ashtray is on its way.
Traditional Dad aka Slacker: This is the dad who believes that child- rearing, and anything and everything having to do with the house is woman’s work. He figures that as long as he’s pulling down a paycheck he can do whatever he chooses with his free time. Essentially he’s the Sugar Daddy without the “Daddy” and more often than not, not enough “Sugar” either. Gift Idea: Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Clearly this guy celebrates Father’s Day every single day of his life.
Sports Dud: This is the dad who is only effective as long as “his game” is not on. And thanks to ESPN and the birth of cable, that’s pretty much all the time. In fact, your two-year-old could be dangling out of the second story window, but unless the Sox are down by two to the Yankees and it’s the bottom of the ninth, it’s not a crisis. Gift Idea: How about tickets to a local sporting event of his choice as long as he takes the kids. I think it’s high time he gets a dose of what it really means to sacrifice doing stuff you love so that your children can feel the love.
The “I do a lot” Dad: This is the guy who still thinks he babysits his own kids, and the sweet spot of the modern dad population. This dad thinks he does more than he actually does, and takes every opportunity to try and convince us of that by comparing himself to the closest Slacker Dad on the block in an attempt to prop up his own image. He will also incessantly refer back to that one bath that he gave the kids last week as if he’s just carried you out of a burning building. Gift Idea: The gift of relativity. A round-trip ticket for you and a friend so he can spend a good old-fashioned bonding weekend with his spawn and experience firsthand how much their mom really does.
Super Dad: Yes, girls, this category actually exists. This is the most highly evolved of the dad pool – and this dad does it all. Sometimes he’s a full-time, stay-at-home dad, and sometimes he’s busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, but either way, he makes meals, taxis the kids all over town and never misses their games. While this dad’s numbers have increased over the years, he’s still quite rare and if found should be snatched up immediately if not already taken. Gift idea: Whatever the heck he wants.
The Executive Assistant Dad: This dad stands just a tick or two below Super Dad and definitely where my own husband falls – which is lucky for me – but to be fair, I did study his resume before bringing him on board. This is the dad who totally understands that he was a willing participant in the initial decision to bring the little rug rats into the world, and as such has equal responsibility in raising them. He’s ready, willing and able; he just requires a painstakingly specific road map. This is the guy who agrees to put the kids to bed, but unless you head up traffic control they won’t get there until midnight. He’s also the guy who, on his watch, won’t feed them unless their hunger pains can be heard above his own thoughts. Gift Idea: This guy deserves a big giant “A” for effort and really a day to do exactly as he pleases. That being said you may actually need to schedule it, otherwise he’ll likely spend the afternoon on the couch.
This list, of course, barely scratches the surface of what we moms are working with out there. There’s still the “I Gave At the Office” dad, the “Up in the Air” dad and “The What Have You Done for Me Lately” dad. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the “I’m not even sure if he’s my kid” dad. On top of all that, your Baby Daddy is more likely a combo of some or all of the above. I realize that I’m having a little fun at their expense. I’m not saying they don’t deserve their own day. Without them, we moms would have a lot less to talk about, marriage counseling wouldn’t be a thriving industry, and Moms Night Out wouldn’t feel so darn cathartic. So a sincere thanks to all you Dads for bringing us the little people who guzzle up all that annoying extra time we used to have for self-improvement and a full nights sleep— your homemade ashtray is on its way.
Friday, April 30, 2010
On Understanding my Mother
One of my most vivid memories from childhood happened when I was about seven. That fateful Saturday morning, my siblings and I found ourselves crisscross applesauce on our lovely green linoleum floor, sitting too close to the television and spellbound by the misadventures of “Tom and Jerry,” despite the fact that none of our chores had been done. I say spellbound because somehow we missed the urgent warning of the most reliable look-out we ever had — a squeaky floorboard conveniently located just to the left of our Mom’s side of the bed. Faster than we could hit the “off” button and dash to our respective stations pre-equipped with cleaning props so we could feign being perfect children at a moment’s notice, Mom appeared in the family room. She took a split-second look around at the disheveled house and back at all three of us – the seemingly carefree perpetrators of the chaos— and began a ten minute tirade about how much she hated the television, how dare we watch it before our chores were done, and why weren’t we bothered by the fact that we had to clear a spot to sit down in the mess, and so on. In short, the woman lost it— but no one could have predicted what came next.
Because it was then that she stopped yelling, and her face changed from a frustrated, angry woman on the edge to that of an inspired artist just before she stops staring at her canvas and creates a masterpiece. With an eerie calm and purposeful determination she walked to the sliding glass door leading to our backyard and slid it open. Then she danced through the minefield of toys with the agility of an Olympic athlete to get to the old-school television we owned at the time, complete with side consoled speakers and heavy green picture tube. And with what I can only conclude to be the super human, adrenaline surge of urban legends describing mothers lifting automobiles off of their children, my petite mother picked up our huge television, limped with it over to the door and handily threw it out onto our concrete patio while we watched it smash into a million pieces. At the time I remember thinking, “My mom’s a nutjob.”
Now that I’ve been married for nearly 14 years and have two boys under the age of seven, I finally understand. The poor woman was experiencing the only time in her life when the “temporary insanity” defense would hold up in court. I am that woman. Okay – so I haven’t totaled any household appliances, (although somehow I think hucking the flat panel would be a little less cathartic) but I’ve had my share of retreats to the car for a scream that would put most Freddy Krueger films to shame. I’ve slammed doors, I’ve yelled, and I’ve definitely cried. And then there are those days when the man I blame for my suffering walks through the door and finds me with my keys and purse already in hand and I have little more strength than it takes to squeeze his shoulder and whisper, “movie,” before I screech down the driveway.
The other day that same man and I caught the tail end of a sitcom called “In the Middle.” As the husband is putting his arm around his wife he says, “Honey, for such a small woman, you pack a lot of crazy.” I’ll just ignore the fact that my husband stopped laughing long after I did. Because when I’ve spent a day listening to my six and a half year old speak only in the third person, or hours putting tiny chewed-up Operation board game organs back into their respective slots, or being forced to walk into a grocery store with a Cameron-induced yogurt stain the size of a scaled down map of Europe, I think of that day when I was seven and it makes me feel a little less crazy. And while I know I’m doomed to listen to my children regaling stories of my temporary trips to the “left of center” at family reunions for the rest of my life, I’m finally ready to give my mother the gift she’s surely been waiting for since I had my firstborn.
So Mom, here it is: I get it. I’m sorry. I take back all the under-my-breath curses I uttered when I found that you’d stacked dirty cereal bowls on my dresser after repeatedly asking me to wash them. I’m no longer mad that you didn’t replace that poor TV of ours for three years. And I’m sorry I cut the hair and ripped off the head of the original Barbie you’d had since your childhood – you know, the one that would have had you and Dad living “la vida loca” somewhere tropical and fabulous right about now.
Thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to lose it once in awhile as long as you fill in the rest of the blanks with big love, unending cuddles and “president of the fan club” levels of cheerleading. Thank you for allowing me to survive my childhood. And most of all, thanks for taking it out on the major appliances. (Fist bump) Respect.
Because it was then that she stopped yelling, and her face changed from a frustrated, angry woman on the edge to that of an inspired artist just before she stops staring at her canvas and creates a masterpiece. With an eerie calm and purposeful determination she walked to the sliding glass door leading to our backyard and slid it open. Then she danced through the minefield of toys with the agility of an Olympic athlete to get to the old-school television we owned at the time, complete with side consoled speakers and heavy green picture tube. And with what I can only conclude to be the super human, adrenaline surge of urban legends describing mothers lifting automobiles off of their children, my petite mother picked up our huge television, limped with it over to the door and handily threw it out onto our concrete patio while we watched it smash into a million pieces. At the time I remember thinking, “My mom’s a nutjob.”
Now that I’ve been married for nearly 14 years and have two boys under the age of seven, I finally understand. The poor woman was experiencing the only time in her life when the “temporary insanity” defense would hold up in court. I am that woman. Okay – so I haven’t totaled any household appliances, (although somehow I think hucking the flat panel would be a little less cathartic) but I’ve had my share of retreats to the car for a scream that would put most Freddy Krueger films to shame. I’ve slammed doors, I’ve yelled, and I’ve definitely cried. And then there are those days when the man I blame for my suffering walks through the door and finds me with my keys and purse already in hand and I have little more strength than it takes to squeeze his shoulder and whisper, “movie,” before I screech down the driveway.
The other day that same man and I caught the tail end of a sitcom called “In the Middle.” As the husband is putting his arm around his wife he says, “Honey, for such a small woman, you pack a lot of crazy.” I’ll just ignore the fact that my husband stopped laughing long after I did. Because when I’ve spent a day listening to my six and a half year old speak only in the third person, or hours putting tiny chewed-up Operation board game organs back into their respective slots, or being forced to walk into a grocery store with a Cameron-induced yogurt stain the size of a scaled down map of Europe, I think of that day when I was seven and it makes me feel a little less crazy. And while I know I’m doomed to listen to my children regaling stories of my temporary trips to the “left of center” at family reunions for the rest of my life, I’m finally ready to give my mother the gift she’s surely been waiting for since I had my firstborn.
So Mom, here it is: I get it. I’m sorry. I take back all the under-my-breath curses I uttered when I found that you’d stacked dirty cereal bowls on my dresser after repeatedly asking me to wash them. I’m no longer mad that you didn’t replace that poor TV of ours for three years. And I’m sorry I cut the hair and ripped off the head of the original Barbie you’d had since your childhood – you know, the one that would have had you and Dad living “la vida loca” somewhere tropical and fabulous right about now.
Thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to lose it once in awhile as long as you fill in the rest of the blanks with big love, unending cuddles and “president of the fan club” levels of cheerleading. Thank you for allowing me to survive my childhood. And most of all, thanks for taking it out on the major appliances. (Fist bump) Respect.
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