Let me rub your belly

Imagine this...a woman in her thirties walking through the grocery store sees a mighty fine piece of eye candy.  She quickly walks up to him and rubs his washboard abs and exclaims "Oh my!  How many crunches do you do a day?!" This, my friends, would be considered highly inappropriate.

Second scenario...a man in his thirties is walking through the grocery store when he sees a lady with a big ol' belly.  He walks up to her and asks when she is due and touches her tummy. Creepy...yet somewhat acceptable (unless of course she is not expecting at all, but that is another matter altogether).
What is this about?  There is something about pregnancy (and babies for that matter) that gives people a pass to ask inappropriate questions and invade personal space.  I really don't get it.  With my first child I came home from work everyday feeling a tad bit dirty.  Clients felt the need to touch my protruding stomach every time they saw me.  Was I wearing a sign broadcasting "Yes!  I am still knocked up!  Please please put your hands on me!"?

Granted I am pretty stingy about my personal space.  It sceeves me out when people I don't know touch me.  Heck! As a nursing mother, I am all done being touched by anyone  around 8pm.  I don't even care to have Doug in my personal space. I have been known to tell him "the Dairy Queen is now closed....please stop in again later."  All that aside, I can't imagine there are many women who actually enjoy being handled during what can be a very uncomfortable time in her life.

What surprises me even more than the poor boundaries, are the completely inappropriate questions people ask.  I am utterly (hee hee) shocked at the number of people who ask if Doug is disappointed that Sage is a girl.  Really?!  Are there people out there who would say that they wished their beautiful (or even funny looking) child were a different gender?  If so, I hope they have a fund started for the therapy bills.  Another question I get a lot is whether we were trying for a fourth.  I am tempted to respond "Why yes!  While having intercourse with my husband, we chose not to wrap his manly parts.  This allowed one to slip past the goalie.  Boo-ya!"  Equally shocking is how disapproving some are when they find out that yes, we did indeed have another child on purpose!  If we had a protection malfunction they would have understood, but to actually plan a fourth (insert gasp here)!

I have actually started turning the tables on people.  When they ask if we plan on having another, I tell them that Doug needs to get in for surgery.  This really makes a lot of folks squirm.  The idea that my husband is having a small procedure done on his penis is far more delicate an issue than whether my child were conceived intentionally or if I pushed my ten pound baby out my hoo-ha or via c-section.  I give up.  I think I will just special order a onesie for Sage.  It will say "Yes! My mommy and daddy made me on purpose!  Yes! They really did want a fourth GIRL!  Yes! Four babies completes our family! Yes! My daddy goes in for the snip snip as soon as his soccer team has a bye week! Yes! I am REAL...please don't touch me!"

The Crack Epidemic

Crack is bad anyway you look at it.  When discussing the crack epidemic most are referring to the drug.  Me? I'm concerned about the crack that peeks out of the back of nearly every woman's jeans today.

I remember the first time I saw a girl's thong peering out over the rim of her jeans when I was sitting at the bus stop on my way to class in college.  I was slightly disturbed, as this made it all too obvious that beneath that pair of jeans there were two bare butt cheeks.  At that time, I thought the only folks that had cracks hanging out of their pants were fixing sinks and toilets.  As that young thong-wearing girl grew up (and the rise in her jeans did not) a new and more horrific trend emerged.

Nowadays, it seems I see at least five butt cracks a day...and I don't happen to know any plumbers.  The new group of people flashing crack, I am em-bare-assed (heh heh heh) to say, is comprised of mothers.  

I don't pretend to be above all of this indecent exposure.  Four kids and over a decade later, I have added a good twenty pound cushion.  Furthermore, I have always carried most of my excess baggage in my trunk.  In an attempt to avoid becoming my mother, I have always tried to buy jeans that do not creep up over my belly button.  I am starting to question my logic.  I was never exposed to my mothers crack when out and about with my friends.  Had I been, I cannot begin to imagine the mortification that would have followed.  My nephew actually exclaims "I see a butt-ler" anytime he catches a glimpse of his mom's bum cleavage.  This would suggest that he sees it enough to have a term for it.  As much as I hate to admit it, my children have picked up on the term and have used it from time to time as well.

I have two pairs of comfy jeans.  Both require long shirts and a good belt (and even then there are times that I cannot hide my vertical smile).  I am so accustomed to wearing jeans with a low-rise, that the granny-up-to-your-belly-button jeans feel awful!  I'd like to think that with diet and exercise my comfy jeans would once again become G-rated.  All the same, I fear this is just good ol' wishful thinking. I'm going to try to ease my way into full coverage jeans. I bought a pair of those old lady jeans about a month ago.  I still wear them much less frequently than the others, as I am holding on to the glory years (without a muffin top or love handles).  Oddly enough, I have gotten quite a few compliments on my "Urkel" jeans.  I've been told I look thinner when wearing those jeans.  Could it be that it isn't so flattering when my spare tire is bared for the world to see? 

As I become a little more embarrassing to Violet, I am more aware of the things that I do that are incredibly uncool.  It is not my goal to be my kids' friend.  I will always provide structure, stability and boundaries...none of which are cool in the mind of a kid.  All the same, it isn't my intention to be that parent.  We all remember at least one completely inappropriate parent growing up.  I don't plan to be remembered by my childrens' acquaintances due to my very classy butt-baring attire. I still remember the mom that showed up to swim meets to cheer on her kids wearing pink hoop earrings with a matching bikini top, hair bows and high heels.  I would rather be a vague recollection to my children's friends than a vivid memory.

A good mom would sacrifice comfy jeans for the emotional well-being of her child.  A mediocre mom would do her best to hide the offending skin while in her comfy pants to the best of her abilities (knowing that it is quite likely going  to be unsuccessful from time to time).  Said mediocre mom would then pat herself on the back for not being the horrific mother who jiggles that sideways grin with no remorse.  She might even continue to wear the grandma jeans from time to time...

Jennifer Garner with daughter (may be subject to copyright)

Ain't Nothin' but Mammals

Breastfeeding was always something that kind of wigged me out in my pre-mommmy years.  I mean, lets face it...I grew up with MTV. The function of the breasts seen in music videos is not to provide nourishment to infants.  Attaching a baby to a body part so sexualized by the media just seemed unnatural.

Fast forward nine years, my decision to breastfeed my fourth child was the most natural thing in the world.  While I don't dread the day my children are done nursing, I nursed my three older children just the same.  Nursing Baby Sage seemed to be a no-brainer.  What I didn't really think through were the new dynamics of our ever changing family.

Our first three children are less than four years apart.  Violet and Sage are nearly 9 years different in age.  Breastfeeding a new baby with a 5, 7, and 9-year-old in the house is a much different experience than breastfeeding with a toddler and a preschooler in the home.  In Violet's first five years of life, I was either pregnant or breastfeeding.  She knew nothing different.  With my 4 year breather, the idea of nursing was not even on the radar until Baby Sage entered this world.

Nursing a newborn is not particularly discreet.  When Sage was two weeks old Doug declared that when I am through nursing this child, our children have seen enough of me to last a lifetime.  Violet was rather disturbed by my need to bare my breasts every other minute.  Lily found breastfeeding to be absolutely hilarious and would laugh hysterically every time it was time for Sage to eat (she also managed to prolong the giggling by saying the word "breast" every few minutes). As for Ivy, she had about 500 new questions about how things worked every single time Sage latched on for a meal.  In private, these things are par for the course.  In public, this can be more of a sticky situation.

For example, I should be able to order food without a problem at Der Dutchman.  I've been doing so for years.  Typically, my children are well mannered.  Now...I can't order a chicken breast without Lily saying "BREAST?!  Your eating a chicken BREAST?!!!"  Really?!  I think the Amish chick that took our order just passed out.  Example number two...shopping at Target is typically a joyous time in my life. Now, I am bracing myself for Ivy to yell "if you would just shove that baby on your boob, she'd be quiet already." Of course, none of that compares to having friends of Violet's over to the house.

I am always pretty discreet about feeding the baby.  I use a blanket or go to another room anytime I am around non-family members.  It's just more comfortable for me.  All the same, there are still often questions about what's going on under that blanket. Recently, we had a good friend of Violet's spend the night.  Mia always fits right into the household anytime she comes over.  She plays well with all of the kids, and she's just a fun kid to be around.  Somehow for the first two months of Sage's life, Mia never noticed the blanket or my sudden need to leave the room.  When Violet told her I was in my room feeding the baby, so she was going to give me privacy, Mia was confused.

Of course, I know nothing of this confusion, as I am in another room which means my nine-year-old decides to school her friend.  The next day she tells me that Mia had never heard of breastfeeding before and was somewhat horrified when Violet "explained" how things work.  Mia told Violet that her aunt had a baby and she sure as heck never "let her baby suck on her boob!"  Great!  I cannot wait to talk to her parents about this one.  Of course, this is the same little girl that Lily decided to educate about a baby's entrance into the world.  [Dr. Daddy decided that the appropriate explanation for a 4, 6, and 8 year old curious about how Mommy was going to get the baby out of her belly was that a "baby comes head first out of the vulva."  I don't even know where to begin there. I did ask that he direct the kids to me if ever they ask how babies are made.]

All the same, Mia's dad is a nurse, so I figured they might still let their child hang with ours if I just make a quick call to inform them of Mia's recent lesson on breastfeeding.  Unfortunately, Mia's parents were already well aware of the situation by the time I talked to them.  Nurse Daddy had already explained that humans are mammals, which means their bodies are equipped to feed their babies just as any other mammal.  To clear up further questions, there was discussion about hormones and the changes in nipples, and Heaven knows what else.  Needless to say, the idea that getting pregnant means that a big old baby is going to exit the body head first out the vulva and your nipples are going to change to allow babies to get milk by sucking on your breast has convinced at least one of the children in that family that there is no way on this Earth she is ever going to get pregnant.

Nothing like being the weird hippie mom that scares the children into abstinence.  I think I need to go snack on some fruits and nuts (it's the Mammalian way of motherhood).

                                                        Photo:   Some rights reservedby rkimpeljr 

                                                      

Vocabulary

When a woman first finds out she is pregnant, a lot of things swim through her head.  I remember my first reaction quite clearly.  Number one, I am having a baby (mush mush).  Number two, what the hell have I gotten myself into (push push).  Number three, how in the f*** am I going to stop cursing in nine short months?!?!  

With a bit of work, I was able to limit my four letter words to adult time only by the time Violet was three months old.  Of course I substituted PG phrases, but what's the harm really?  I first caught glimpse of the harm when my friend and I were hanging out a few years back.  Her two year old at the time shouted out "Oh Crap!"  I actually gasped at the expression as if I had never heard such offensive language in my life.  Who'da thunk crap would sound so bad.  

Trying to learn from my excellent friend's experience, I watched my every word around the kids.  "Crap" was nowhere to be found in my vocabulary.    S***, f*** and d*** were way off limits.  

Earlier this week, Lily asked me if we were "flippin' late again?!"  Deep sigh.  Looking back at all of the things Violet has spewed since the word "dada" first emerged, I can't imagine what kind of landslide I have in store for me with Lily.  Let see, with Violet we had "hey mom, this water is freakin' hot," "are you just going to let that freakin' baby cry," "I'm not going into the bathtub with that fool," and to our new neighbors..."our dog is freakin' crazy."  

I was so proud of myself for eliminating the word "freakin'," not even realizing that I had replaced it with "flippin'."  Should I try to redeem myself with baby Ivy, or just hand-pick her offensive term?  I could try "friggin'“or give her a bit of a British flair with "blasted."  At least then I won't be so surprised when my beautiful baby girl's mouth matches her cute little sailor dress.

I can see it now...Matt Lauer asks my kids what they think about their mommy being named MOTHER OF THE YEAR!  Violet says, "There is no mom out there freakin' better than my mom!"  Lily says, "Yeah, she's the flippin' best!"  Ivy wraps it up with one word..."fool!"  I guess I ought to find myself a new goal in life.

The Golden Baby (2008)

I sit here, slightly roasted due to a lack of sunscreen on my shoulders, wondering how it is possible that I can successfully lather up all three children (four including my nephew), but manage to miss at least one spot on myself.  Could it be karma? 


Yesterday, I found myself quite distracted by Ivy's perpetual path of destruction.  I seemed to be one step behind her all day.  I was rolling with it.  Hell, I didn't even notice that I was cleaning up mess after mess.  Then came 4:32 pm (I don't really know the exact time, but it does make me sound a little more attentive doesn't it)?  I was vacuuming up the dirt from Doug's orange tree that Ivy found to be great decoration the kitchen floor.  It was really no big deal.  I was smiling to myself because I know that Doug truly believes that this twig will eventually bear fruit for us to enjoy.  Then Violet yells "Mommy!  Ivy has your lotion!" 


Now in most cases it is not a huge crisis to find your child sitting at the kitchen table, covered in half a bottle of lotion.  But your heart really starts to race when that lotion is a lotion with a hint of self-tanner.  Visions of my baby's skin streaked in bright carrot orange raced through my head.  I scrub her body with baby wipes, consider calling poison control, then come to my senses.  My husband, who happens to be a family doctor, had warned me to keep my lotion up and out of the way just the day before--clearly the kitchen table is now within her reach.  I didn't want to call him, but figured the kids would tell him as soon as he walked in, so I figured I'd rather tell him via telephone.  After the dial of shame, I threw her in the shower and scrubbed her down some more.
Luckily the crisis was averted.  There is no evidence of any artificial tan on the child.  Funny enough, I think Ivy's encounter with my lotion is the closest thing to a homegrown orange we will find in this house!

P as in Poop (2008)

I must admit I have used the "mommy brain" excuse more than once in the past five years.  There are times that it truly feels as though my IQ has been halved.  So why does some research suggest that motherhood actually makes you smarter?  How could that be?  Do I just have a warped view of my former life or is it something altogether different?

My theory is that I have temporarily shut off the part of my brain that allows me to say intelligent things.   The capacity to think is still there.  I just have to use my brain for other purposes at this point.  One day, I will flip the switch and blossom into a GENIUS! 

This temporary shutdown became abundantly clear when I made a complete ass of myself on the telephone.  We are looking into refinancing our home and the gentleman helping us out was attempting to give me his e-mail address.  I wasn't sure if I heard him right, so naturally I read the address back to him..."m as in mom, p as in poop..."  I kid you not, I said "p as in poop" as if that was the association any normal human being would make.  Then I start laughing so hard I thought I was going to p as in pee. 

I don't know which is worse; the notion that this man believes that I am a moron or that he believes I am a complete nut job.  If only I could shut off the part of the brain that cares about what other people think. 

O Tannenbaum (published in Tickled Pink)

The day we caught glimpse of our home's great room, my husband immediately began to dream about the Christmas trees we would set there in the future.  I knew at that moment, there was no way for me to truly imagine what I had in store for myself.  As usual, I was right.

Christmas 2006 was our first in the house.   Doug was almost as pumped about the tree in our future as he was about the birth of our third child.  He actually went out to buy the tree a week before Ivy was born.  Of course he decided it was too early to drag the honkin' tree in our house, so it sat next to our house.  Two days after the purchase, the wind really picked up and the tree ripped the drainpipe off of the side of our house when it fell.  My friend Jolie, who is all of 4'11'' showed up and attempted to prop it back up.  Well, the tree was twice her size, so she came in to the house to ask for my assistance.  Ha!  I was lucky to walk without grunting.  There was no way that we would be getting that tree up.  Without the help of my neighbor that thing would have stayed on the ground...with our drainpipe until Doug made his way home.

Ivy was born on the night of December 7th.  Twenty-four hours, and very few minutes later, Doug, Ivy and I were headed home.  Little did I know what Doug's plans were for our first day home.  Forty-eight hours after the birth of sweet baby Ivy, I was sitting on the couch (no doubt wincing as my infant was gnawing on me in an attempt to get nourishment) watching our ten foot tall decorated Christmas tree.  I thought to myself..."is this bizarre or am I just hormonal?"  After Christmas 2007, I can answer that with no hesitation.

When buzz about the new Sams tree began, I figured we would undoubtedly be seeing another 10 footer.  Next thing I knew, Doug had his nurses calling around town for an 18 foot Christmas tree.  It only took Doug a day to decide that would be too big.  He said that he would need to find something smaller, as our ceilings were only 18 feet high.  I, however, believe that he got a good old fashioned case of sticker shock and decided that $350 delievered was too much.  A couple days later, his nurse had found him a $75, 14 foot Christmas tree out in Sunbury...just a short 45 minute trip.

At this point I just kept my mouth shut.  I am not going to be the one to ruin his fun.  I figure, I will just let him deal with this monster tree.  It wasn't until the tree farm called to ask if we still wanted the tree (as it was originally the a nearby city’s tree), that I began to sweat this whole idea.  Doug immediately became manic.  He gets to have the city’s town square tree in his home?!?  It was apparent that he was not going to be calm until he had the tree in our house.  He looked at me with his puppy dog eyes and asked if he could go get it.  Of course I tell him to go ahead, but I wasn't going to be tagging along.

Images of Clark Griswold were dancing in my head as he headed out with Violet and Lily.  He had to assure me about 3000 times that the kids would be safe with the 14-foot tree tied to the top of the mini-van despite the torrential downpour.  Sure enough 2 hours later, I still had a family of five with the addition of one ridiculously large Christmas tree. 

It took my dad and Doug to get the tied up tree through the front door.  It took my dad, Doug, 4-year-old Violet and I to get the soaking wet tree into the great room without permanently damaging my carpet (Violet assisted by holding a blanket beneath Godzilla, as we drug it).  The kids were higher than three kids after a birthday party.  In addition to that my mom was being a complete Grinch, so I sent my mom to give them a bath so we could attempt to get the tree in the stand.  Luckily the three of us were able to raise the tree fairly easily and the kids survived the bath despite the fact that I had to ask my mother to stop leaving them unattended.  She was just so impressed by my one-year-old's ability to go under the water without crying and she was really curious about the tree...she couldn't help herself.

Later that night, Doug came to me a said he was surprised that I wasn't more upset about the tree.  Upset?  Where would that get me?  He then went on to admit that the tree was a bit ridiculous.  All I could do was laugh, pop some popcorn, sit on the couch, and wait for Doug to start decorating.  My, was that entertainment!  After two nights of Doug throwing lights, Doug standing on the second to last rung of the ladder holding a 3 foot long stick to hang ornaments,  Violet, Lily, and Ivy all trying to help during waking hours, we had a fully decorated Christmas tree.  Of course our puny star was a bit crooked, but I wasn't going to say anything. It added character.

At this point, my only rule was that Doug use the shop vac to clean up needles.  2006’s 10 foot tree broke the vacuum cleaner and permanently marked our white carpet, so I thought that it would only be reasonable to give the new vacuum cleaner a month-long vacation from the great room.  Doug agreed, so the month of December went rather smoothly.

 

I must admit, the tree was beautiful and it was amusing to witness the expressions of children and adults alike that came to visit our tree.  Even the pizza man said it was the biggest tree he had ever seen inside a house.  Little kids were awed by the sight of the tree.  Violet was excited to know that she would be able to see the top of the tree if she just climbed to the top of the stairs.  It wasn't even difficult for Doug to get the tree out of the house.  He and a friend cut off the branches until about 7 feet from the ground, and then they easily walked it out the front door.  The mess of needles wasn't so bad.  It only took an hour or so with the shop vac (no stains this time).  I am not sure that is a good thing.  Secretly, I was hoping that the tree would be such a pain in the rear to haul out that Doug would never want to do it again.  As Christmas season approaches, I can’t help but wonder what to expect of 2008’s treescapades.