Resolutions for the New Year

Mommyhood: Year two. That’s right, naysayers (mom and dad), my child has turned two. I’ve made it to the second go round and it’s been entertaining to say the least. Having said that, there are a few items I’ll try to improve in the New Year.

1.     I will try to accept that art and music classes are not for everyone. I realized this when I was patiently finger painting eggs to go into a self-created birds nest (wtf…) and looked up to see my son on the outside of the sliding doors, nose pressed up against the glass, making faces at all of us suckers on the inside as he enjoyed the sunshine. And with that, I picked up my eggs and birds nest and we haven’t looked back. I’m not knocking those parents who can get their kids to sit, relax, calmly paint or sing while politely using one instrument at a time. I’m just saying that that is not the path my son and I are on- ours is a bit less structured, more free spirited… For a second I thought he might’ve flipped us his own version of the bird the children were painting on the table, but I can’t be sure.

2.     I will be more together in times of crisis. As my son and I were relaxing with our bottles one evening, he leisurely leaned back in his plush kids’ chair falling directly onto a floor lamp resulting in a gnarly head wound. To help the situation, I proceeded to run up and down the stairs for no apparent reason while screaming and packing an overnight bag with snacks and toys; estimating that we would possibly be gone for weeks. I did all this while my husband patiently sat waiting with our son in the car. As we arrived at the emergency room (me trying to mask the scent of wine on my breath as I reiterated what happened to six different doctors and nurses…) they told us that our son would not need stitches, painted some glue on his wound (I now have a bill for what I could’ve done with Elmer’s…), and said that he would be fine (while my son proceeded to dance for and high five all of the sick people waiting to be seen).

3.     Despite children’s birthday parties being the outer most ring of hell Dante omitted, I will continue to throw these because I love my child. For my son’s second birthday, (one he will most likely not remember), I rented a pony; a living, breathing, neighing pony that shit all over my parents’ backyard, all in an effort to make Toy Story’s Woody and Bullseye come to life. Similar to Puff Daddy’s (or whatever the hell he’s going by now) White Parties, I told those who didn’t come in cowboy attire that they could just see their non-themed asses right on out the door (remember that for next year’s pirate party, mateys). Although I still feel much more comfortable drinking at adult parties, I hoisted my moonshine up to my lips while wearing a cowboy hat and boots and took one for the team that day.

4.     I will learn to accept and find the humor in the fact that I am turning into my parents. Mufasa was right Simba, there is a circle of life, and in my own family it means that I will inevitably end up saying things to my son that sound eerily familiar to what I was told. “You’ve got to be smarter than what you’re working with”, “If you want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about”, “The only people on the road at 2am are drunkards or criminals, and since you are neither of those things, yet, you are not allowed out past 10”, and my favorite, “Do you need to potty?” (this last one will be said loudly at restaurants for the rest of his life). I’m starting to become more and more okay with this. Recently on a weekend trip away, one of my mother’s friends took me aside and told me that he loves my mother because she always seems to make him feel better about himself, my reply: “I know, she’s the best.” I hope at one point or another, my son will say the same about me.

5.     I will make a concerted effort to grade my parenting based on a curve. I’ve mentioned how honest my family is- there’s never been time to “beat around the bush” with us. I’ve written how my dad told me his concerns about me ‘making it out of the woods okay’ during my ‘awkward stage’ from 8-24 years. The other night I went into my mother’s garage and noticed several trophies from my siblings’ and my athletic achievements. I asked my mom why these weren’t up around the house in places of honor and her loving response? “Who gives a shit? You were all good. We get it.” You’ve got to appreciate how this woman keeps things in perspective. I’d like to remind myself that we’re all in this together, it does take a village (thanks, Hillary), and all I can do is (like my mother does) remember to not sweat the small stuff.

Here’s hoping you and yours have an adventure filled New Year. As my father sarcastically told me this past evening while watching me nurse my Syrah, and my son’s fallen train set he's,  “continually growing prouder of me and my multi-tasking-parenting skills”. Cheers, Dad, thanks for noticing.

Buon Anno!

All Hallow's Eve

October 31^st is by far the greatest day of the year- better than Christmas where you might feel obligated to buy people you barely know gifts, better than birthdays which inevitably are a let down; Halloween is a day dedicated to eating, drinking, being merry, and dressing up as the person you wish you could’ve been sans credentials/ money/ real life interfering. It’s awesome.

Over the years I’ve been everything from Marilyn Monroe (ended up looking like the Joker at the end of that evening), a Playboy bunny (lost more than my bunny ears that night), a “Trophy Wife” (came complete with crown and sash- pipe dream if there ever was one) and my all time personal favorite: when I was nine, I was a “harem girl” and my little sister was a unicorn and had to push me in my wheelbarrow (magic carpet) through the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, and she hasn’t let me forget it.

When I was pregnant with my son, he was a baseball- my shirt was tucked up under my super plus size utility sports bra, pregnant belly painted white with red stripes, and I worked it. When he was one, he was a lion, and I was Dorothy Gale (the one with the inappropriate skirt length and red, sequined stilettos that would’ve made the Wicked Witch of the West blush). This year, as an homage to spending Saturday mornings of my youth lying in bed watching the old black and white show with my dad, my son will be Zorro.

Now, my concern is, as a mom am I allowed to dress up as the sexier, female version of this action hero? When is my expiration date for being able to dress like a hooker on this holiday?

There are countless articles online about young girls being convinced by the media, and their friends that they need to dress far beyond their years in a sad, pathetic attempt to seek out negative attention from their peers.  Well, what about the moms? Where’s our chance to seek out this unnecessary attention from those around us? And, if we get it, is that really a bad thing?

We are in a profession (mommyhood) that requires us to be role models for our kids 24/7. We are obligated, out of love and a hope that our kids turn out halfway normal, to act, dress, and speak demurely. We need to show our kids how to get attention from those around them in the right way. Well, I’m cashing my vacation time in, and I’d like one day off. I’m not saying I’m about to walk into my classroom and teach donning a “sexy witch” costume. But I am saying that although this holiday is in celebration of the dead, I’m not.

When I met my husband, I was at my family’s annual Halloween party (mom and dad were dressed as Carmen Miranda and Fidel Castro, sister was Joan Jett, Brother #1 was a matador, Brother #2 was Go Go Speed Racer) I was dressed as Eve who was happy to be without her Adam. No one batted an eye since I was a young, naïve 23 year old.  Can I get away with this now?

This year, I will be taking my son trick-or-treating for the first time. And, confidence allowing, you’ll see the two of us walking around our neighborhood dressed up like a Latin, crime-fighting duo.

Olé!

Are We Being Too Hard On Ourselves?

 

Society has it ingrained in women that we need to look like Stepford wives after popping out our kids: big boobs, small waist, perfect clothes, spotless house, hot mate.

Immediately after we have our children, we should be back in pre-maternity clothes, looking well rested, instantly ready to hop back into bed with our partner, and in a constant state of euphoria because of our “perfect” family and the never-ending bliss we receive from them. The obsession we have in the parenting world with perfection is absurd.

When I first met my husband my friend Toni asked me if I was going to tell him the truth about me- that truth being that I swear like a truck driver, I have an unhealthy relationship with reality t.v., I get my news from The Onion, my eating habits haven’t changed since I was five, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why college day parties didn’t catch on in the “adult world”. I told her that he’d just have to find these things out on his own time, at his own pace.  And, for better or worse, he did.

This idea is also true of parenting. No one tells you the cold-hearted truth about this endeavor, just like no one tells you the real story about being married. If they did, the population of the world would dwindle, and very few would be getting those tax breaks for checking the “married” box every April 15^th.  

Likewise, women have to come to grips with the fact that post-babies, things change. Body parts move. Hair becomes less kinky or kinkier (whatever the opposite effect desired is). Suddenly, you’ll tear up at Hallmark cards in the drug store aisle (don’t even get me started on the commercials for Mother’s/ Father’s Day or Christmas). Drinking habits improve- you’ll do this more. And, you realize that you’re in a marathon not a sprint, you’re constantly trying to keep your head above water, and about a million other horrid clichés people tell you to get you through.

I remember weeks after having my son, trying to squeeze my post-baby ass back into my jeans, by lying down on my bed, or the floor, or the kitchen and forcing the zipper to go at least half way up with all my strength. Then I would pull myself up without the ability to bend my legs in the process, throw on an oversized t-shirt triumphantly, and head out the door feeling victorious.

 Why was I so obsessed with trying to look perfect? Because society was telling me that I had to be.

And that is total B.S.

Even while I was pregnant my helpful mother tried to warn me that I would look a little different after having my son, “You really should buy those maternity shorts in a Large, I don’t even know why they make those in any other sizes. No pregnant woman is a Small or Medium anymore. And they never will be again. Let’s go drink margaritas - they’re good for you.” And, dammit, she was right, about everything.

I hope that the new, young moms out there everywhere realize that your kids will love you no matter what. Then, they’ll become teens and be incredibly embarrassed by you, and years later, love you again- for being exactly the way you are.

It's A Wonderful Life

 

 

I’m not a “Christmas person” for several reasons. But, growing up, I’ve always been a sucker for Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life.  I love the idea of how someone’s life could change completely based on one different choice made.

This past weekend, I went to a bachelorette party where, at one point during our dinner, the entire table drank to the maxim, “No kids forever! Yes!” As awkward as this was for me, I was once in these ladies’ stilettos. I get it. But, as I sat there nursing my wounds and my lemon drop, I thought about what these girls would be missing out on with a life sans children…

They will never fully experience the 2 am wake up call. Is this for the best? Probably. And their 2 am wake up call still happens, but is known as a different moniker- the “booty call”. But, there’s something pretty amazing about being totally responsible for another person’s happiness (no, not that.. get your head out of the gutter…I’m talking about parenting again). And at 2 am, being able to fulfill my son’s needs by bringing him a bottle or a hug feels good.

They won’t be walking their child up to his first day of preschool or kindergarten. There won’t be pictures or tears, or Nonni and Papa waiting in the wings, or driving back three or four times to look in the window to make sure he’s not the “weird kid” in the corner. What a terrible day to miss out on.

They most likely won’t be sipping on a cup of coffee at their child’s weekend soccer/ baseball/ basketball/ etc. games. They won’t be shouting nonsensical things from the sidelines in between plays like my mother did at my softball games, “Touchdown! Come on, you can do it! Field goal!” They won’t be there to help heal sore muscles, or provide needed encouragement.

They’ll miss bedtime stories. They won’t get to do the voices for each character, fully committing to whoever it is, and waiting to see how well it’s received.

Who is going to play the part of the train in The Little Engine that Could? Who’s going to be Eeyore? What about Goodnight Moon? Tragic.

They won’t see him off to his first junior high dance. They won’t help him pick out his dress shirt, slacks, tie, and help him with his hair. Remind him to have a good time, be respectful, and pray that no one breaks his heart.

What about 8^th grade graduation? First day of high school? First love? First break up? Who is going to be there like my parents were, when he makes a poor decision, goes to a party, and comes home after trying his first alcoholic beverages. And, like my parents did, I’ll get to fill him up on as much breakfast food as I can until the point of sickness to teach him a much needed lesson about peer pressure, drinking, and the effects of scrambled eggs on a full Jack Daniels stomach.

And college acceptance letters? What about those? They’ll never get to experience sending this person out into the world to make his own way, hoping and praying they’ve done enough to ensure he turns out halfway decent, kind, and able to find humour in all things.

There are times when I try to remember my life prior to my son. Some days feel like an eternity, and we are still dealing with temper tantrums, and mothers looking at me accusingly when my kid is the one at music class running around crazily while they are singing lullabies peacefully. Moments when I think about the freedoms I once had, but like George Bailey realized eventually, I’ll take this life any day.

Cheers to that, ladies.

Top Ten Ways Motherhood Changes Life

1.    Personal hygiene takes a beating.

The other day my husband left early, and it was just my son and myself. I honestly hadn’t showered in a good two days. I had tried the “camping technique” of ‘bathing’ with a wet rag, but that really only gets you so far, and since I was in the comfort of my own home, I felt ridiculous even attempting the wash rag shower. So, since my son and I had to be somewhere within an hour looking presentable, I did what I had to do. I stripped my son down to his diaper, hopped in an ice cold shower leaving the door wide open, lathered up for 1 minute, and rinsed for the second minute, all the while singing songs and dancing (neither of those a pretty sight) in hopes of keeping him entertained. This is a daily battle.

2.    Peace and quiet can be dangerous.

My son is, shall we say, an ‘adventurer.’ He enjoys taking things apart, checking to see if they are edible, and rearranging parts with other toys or household appliances. He is also, (shocker since he’s my son) incredibly vocal. He jabbers away, talking to himself, our dog, etc. Some parents find they can leave their children to play with a puzzle or coloring book for hours and they will quietly sit. With my son, quiet is not a good thing. Quiet means that he has quite possibly tied our dog up, called China with our cell phones, and/ or stuck an entire box of crayons down our printer. All true.

3.    Eating is done while standing up, quickly.

I have never eaten so much so fast in my life. Growing up I always found it strange that I never saw my mother sit while eating. Never. Now I know it’s because if you sit, your children feel you are ‘off duty’ and the shit show begins…

4.    Work is a vacation

I had a coworker tell me when I went back to work part time that this would be true. He mentioned that driving home post having kids, he didn’t necessarily hustle through those yellows anymore. He reasoned that his wife and children needed him, so he should drive more cautiously, but I reasoned that he’s incredibly intelligent and soaking up the final seconds sans children. Since I am a teacher, I get “summers off”, that being said, when you have a kid, going home over the summer is like coming home on break from college for the first time. You still want to live by your own college rules, but your parents are telling you that you have curfew again and you now have to pay rent since you’re over 18. It’s rough…

5.    You are guilted into going to children’s classes, the park, play dates, etc.

My least favorite question women with children ask one another is, “What new tricks does ‘so and so’ have these days?” What the hell are you talking about?! My son is 22 months old, he’s reading Hawthorne and currently into an Impressionist phase with his painting. What am I supposed to say here?!? If he is enrolled in gym class or music, and I reiterate this to said woman, I at least get a smiling nod of approval, whether or not I feel like I’m dying inside when I'm at my son's music class dancing around a circle with other adults and their children while flying scarves over our heads.

6.    Injuries have changed; they used to be bruises from going out, now they are bruises from toys.

I remember when I used to wake up on a Saturday morning, stumble out of bed, make it to the shower and notice awkwardly placed bruises on my legs. Then, smiling to myself, I’d remember the shenanigans of the previous night out with friends and have a good laugh. The other day I went to work with a black eye because my son felt the need to try out his throwing arm by hurling my iPhone at my face. A month ago, he tried out a new bat his Nonni got him and put a welt on my forehead that was so grotesque, I got bangs.

7.    Surprises used to be roses and cards, now it’s poop in a bathtub.

When my husband and I started dating, I would find flowers in my car in the morning, or love notes left in my lunch. Now, I get surprises of a different kind. The other day, after an outing to the park near our home, my son was due for a bath. His favorite thing to do at this park is play in their giant sandbox. As I’m bathing him, I realize he must’ve taken more sand home in his diaper than we’re used to as I pulled a clump out of the tub and into the trash. As I did this, my son silently watched me until I realized as he had already, that he had pooped in the tub. And color me surprised…

8.    You go into hiding.

Time to yourself happens while your kids are sleeping. However, if my husband is home, we have taken to “hiding” where we can while the other is on duty; this includes but is not limited to: the bathroom, our patio, our bedroom, the gym- and I don’t even like working out, our puppy’s crate- and nobody’s proud of that folks. You do what you have to do for a moment to yourself. It’s survival.

9.     Friendships change.

People who do not have kids (most of my friends) cannot totally appreciate what this journey entails. It is difficult to fully describe how insane life is after you have children until you’ve been there. I have several friends who will call me on the weekend and tell me where they will be going out that evening to revel. Then, when I remind them that I have a child and how critical people get about babies in bars, they seem miffed. However, these friends also came to my baby shower with wine in hand, which was so much more inviting than the 1000s of ‘burpee cloths’ I’d been given, so I keep these people close.

And the 10^th way motherhood has changed my life…

10. Life finally has some semblance of meaning.

When I wake up in the morning I have a selfless purpose to fulfill. It is daunting, but everything rewarding is in some way. Yesterday, my son came into my room around 6am, hopped up on my bed, and gave me a kiss to wake me up a la Sleeping Beauty. And, I realized that I wouldn’t trade this life for my old one for anything.

How has your life changed since having kids?

How Honest is Too Honest?

 

When I was in the fifth grade I decided to try out for the talent show at my middle school as part of a dance act. Would this inevitably be a failure? Absolutely. Did my mother sugarcoat that for me? Not at all.

While “perfecting” my routine in our living room, my mother came in and innocently asked if I was okay. When I told her my plan to be a part of the talent show, she shuddered (and rightly so) and then told me that I had not passed her try-out, so I would not be allowed to go on to the ‘big one,’ the audition at my school. At the time, I felt she was being hypercritical and overprotective, but looking back on this brief episode I am grateful to her for saving me from unneeded embarrassment (which would rule my life for years to come).

And now I’m wondering, as a parent, when is tough love too tough? When do you need to stop being honest with your kids and just hope for the best? My son is almost two. When I look at the young boys in the world, I cringe at the thought of watching my child run the opposite way during AYSO soccer games in a complete cluster bomb, enduring watching him play hours of games like dungeons and dragons, and overall, doing things I might consider ridiculous. I understand that as a mother, part of my job description is to be loving and supportive, but I am also human - how much of this am I going to have to take?

A while back there was a hilarious Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David were discussing hurt feelings.  They agreed that you could speak the utter truth and get away with it – no matter how hurtful – if you use the phrase “having said that” immediately after.  For example, you could say, “Parents who let their kids go batshit crazy in nice restaurants should be jailed. Having said that, I think it’s nice that kids are able to experience the finer things in life.” No harm no foul. Will I be able to use this same approach with my son?

When I tried out for the basketball team my freshman year of high school, I was 5’4” 190 lbs, unable to dribble or run without coming up with an excuse. “Err, my doctor says I should take it easy, err no running…ever” I didn’t make the team. When I relayed the news to my dad, he simply looked me up and down and nodded in agreement. There was no “softening the blow.”

My parents are famous for “one-upping” my siblings and my complaints:

 “Hey mom, gosh, long day today… I’ve really got a lot on my plate right now, what with working full time and raising a son, it’s been a bit rough.”

My loving mother: “Yeah, I did it with four of you, while working full time, rarely sleeping, cooking everything from scratch, taking you on vacations, and helping all of you with your homework and personal needs. But, I can see how it would be difficult, what with your frozen meals and one child.” Gotta' love her realistic approach to life.

I hope I am able to find a balance with my own kids. Somehow, my parents were able to prepare their children for life’s more challenging moments without annihilating our self-esteem in the process. I abhor the thought of more “Mommy and Me” music, gym, art, etc. classes where my child is the one running around crazily while other parents are wondering whose kid that is and I’m right there with them…

Having said that, it could quite possibly be as entertaining as it was for my parents who look back on those times with only the fondest memories.

                                                                                                                   

5 Lessons I’d Like to Teach My Son…

Tonight, I taught my son how to “cheers”.

It’s been a long weekend for the both of us, and we had just settled in for a nightcap- my son with his bottle of milk, and me with my bottle of Chianti…I thought, there’s no time like the present, so I lectured my 2-year old on how one should always “salute” when having drinks and toast to something for luck. So, I offered up a drink to health and happiness, while he offered up his own toast to his new Elmo cell phone.

It got me to thinking about the lessons I’d like to instill in my son one day… I’m new at this, so I condensed that to five- lazy parenting? Maybe.

1.     I’d like him to learn to have a sense of humor. Princess Leia (Carrie Fisher) said it best, “If my life wasn’t funny, it would just be true and that is unacceptable.” I fully believe that any humorous or interesting person has had a ridiculously embarrassing past. Growing up, I was ugly. I’d like to think I’m a solid 6 on a good day now, but I hit a rough patch for about 25 years. My father mentioned that he was actually a bit concerned for me for the better part of my youth (love that honesty, Dad). But, that awkward ‘phase’ (still ongoing…) made me who I am- it gave me a personality.

2.    I hope he finds what he is passionate about in life, and is able to make a living doing it. The worst thing that could happen to him is that he finds himself in a profession he doesn’t love doing. My job is tough and by no means would I consider myself proficient. But, I work hard at it. And, at the end of most days, I’m fulfilled. It’ll never be lucrative, but I like what I do, and I like the people I work with. It’s not the easiest thing I could’ve done (the trophy wife gig didn’t work out…) but I can’t imagine doing something else.

3.    I want him to know how to fight his own battles. When I was in high school I came home after practice one day and was upset that another girl was getting more playing time than I was. So, I told my dad he’d have to call my coach to “fix” this situation. My father calmly told me that if I were the best, I’d be playing, and to never expect him to call someone on my behalf. I think more parents need to tell their kids that. You need to work hard. I’m not going to call your teacher/ coach/ boss/ etc. If you want this, go do it. My dad came home exhausted from work, and when I finished my school practice he stayed an extra hour every day with me at the field because I asked him to. He instructed me that I had to work hard, but also showed me he believed that I could.

4.    That this too shall pass. I hope he is able to take failure and defeat with a sense of grace and humility. I hope he realizes that he may not be good at everything- he may not even be good at most things, but that he needs to try and to take risks. I want him to be able to accept blame, not pass the buck, and grow from his experiences. I hope he never stops trying, and doesn’t listen to the naysayers. I had two very realistic parents (more on that to come), but it was refreshing hearing that I wasn’t the best at everything, and it’s helped me in my job in the long run.

5.    That no one will ever love him as much as  I do. I don’t care who my son ends up loving as long as they are good to him. If he is gay, I secretly hope that I will never have to pay for a designer/ interior decorator/ stylist, and if he is straight I hope that his wife knows she will never replace me. While my son learns how to sleep in his toddler bed, some of the most frustrating/ amusing moments are when he sneaks out to run and hug me. I know I should be reprimanding him, but I also know that these moments are fleeting, and I am thankful for every one of them.

What lessons do you think  parents should teach their kids?

You've Gotta' Fake it to Make it

 

When I was growing up, my younger sister and I did a stint in musical theater. For those of you who know me, this might surprise you. We danced (truthfully, I was always told to hold up a prop that encompassed my large, awkward frame during a dance number), sang, and ‘acted’ our 6 and 10-year-old hearts away.

As embarrassing as these productions were, I learned one incredibly helpful lesson from a voice teacher that resonated with me, “You’ve got to fake it to make it.”

This piece of advice has applied to almost every area of my life-relationships, work, and none more readily than being a mother.

I am in a profession where I am supposed to be an expert in my field; rarely is that the case. But, I’ve learned over the years, that if you say something with enough confidence, and sell it in such a way, people will be reluctant to call you on it.

I can only compare it to trying out my fake ID in college for the first time at a seedy, Western bar with my roommate, Gina.

Scary bouncer: “It says here you ladies are from New York, and that you’re thirty-five, but you appear to be wearing Santa Clara University sweatshirts in your ID photos and look about 18.”

Me: terrible New York accent “Ya’ mac, that’s right, ya gonna’ let us in, or ah we gonnah’ needah’ bring dah cah ahround?”

Bouncer: “Alright, look there’s only 6 girls in there, so come on in and try not to throw up in the hay…”

Us: “Okay sir, thank you ever so much.”

In relationships, many of us have sold a possibly “shinier” model of ourselves to our prospective significant others. “I love that obscure sport. I am also a fill-in-the-blank-vegetarian-vegan-religion-ologist-and no, I do not swear-watch trashy t.v.-consider wine healthy since it includes grapes-drink before 12-and yes, that was also good for me” all the while batting my eyes and saving half of my food from our dinner date for when I will devour it on the ride home sans silverware…

Parenting is based on this mantra- just fake it. No one has the slightest idea what they’re doing, and those that pretend to are lying.

Growing up, I remember hearing several “pearls of wisdom” from both of my parents, feeling slight confusion, but refusing to call them on it because they said them with such conviction.

In particular, I remember my mother’s sex talk with me. A lot of people have cringe-worthy memories of their parents coming in, sitting them down, possibly providing pamphlets, and then having a chat about bees pollinating. My mother came into my room when I was a freshman in high school, and without skipping a beat said, “If you’re having sex, I’ll find out about it. I’ll know the exact moment it occurs.” And I was scared into virginity for several years after that. Would she know and did she when it happened? Debatable. But, her method worked.

When I asked my dad a question, ever the philosopher, he would relay a “do as I say not as I do” tale. “Look, hun, I may have had a party or two, not tried as hard as I could have in high school, and dated around a lot, but if you do those things you will end up unhappy and alone for the rest of your life.” Again, scared into submission.

There is no rule book, and no guarantee that the things I tell my son today will ensure he ends up a good person. But, I’m giving it my best shot. I’ve played a lot of roles in my life, some noteworthy, some embarrassing, and some I’d sooner forget…but I’m up here, and just like 20 years ago, I feel like I’m holding a large cityscape of New York in front of me singing and awkwardly moving left and right while shouting off beat, “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya’ tomorrow” hoping for the best with this gig.

Break a leg parents…

Are Moms Allowed to Get it Crunk?

 

This time last year I woke up in the morning and could have sworn I was back in my college dorm room; this was for several reasons.

I woke up in my bed with the room spinning. As I went to pull a rubber band out of my hair, I was disgusted to find bits and pieces of the previous night’s meal. Before you judge, remember that you were once young and in high school or college too, and are lying to yourself if you have not had a similar experience. But if you haven’t, you are a better man/ woman than me - and hats off to you.

As I mustered the strength to get up, I walked into my living room (that’s odd that this dorm has one…) and saw my clothes lying in a pile outside on my balcony. I saw a familiar-looking, attractive man (score!) asleep peacefully on my couch. I walked into the adjoining room and was shocked to find a neatly decorated nursery, with crib, but no child.

And then it suddenly hit me. Holy shit. I’m hung over, and I’m 28, not 18.

I picked up the receiver and called my dad, who along with my mom had been gracious enough to care for my son the night before, and even offered to allow my son to do his first “Papa and Nonni” overnight, but I assured him I couldn’t possibly spend a night without my son, promising to be home around 11pm. Obviously, that was not how the night panned out. As I relayed the escapades of the previous night to my father, he erupted in laughter. “Hun, you’re a mom now. I’m glad you had this evening but…”

Wait a sec. Am I no longer allowed to get the party started just because I’m a mom? Will I no longer be able to take some “liquid courage”, clear the dance floor (others normally do this for fear of me hurting myself), and show these people how it’s done?! This seemed to be what my father was saying.

Going out as a mother is a different beast these days. No longer am I the carefree early 20-something going out on a Friday (and possibly Saturday) night with friends to a bar where the bouncer knows my name and the bartender knows my drink…

Yes, I’ve traded that life in for this one, which includes a loving husband, child, and rewarding career. But, I’m not dead.

Currently, my Friday nights consist of time spent with my child and his father, maybe an hour or two at the park, child in bed by around 9pm (this is a dream, obviously), mommy and daddy share a small glass of wine, and we’re in bed by 10pm. This is not a bad thing.

Last night, just like last year, my company held their “beginning of the year kickoff party” complete with dinner and open bar. As I sipped on my Crown and 7-Up, (Mommy didn’t come to play…) I felt people watching my alcohol consumption. Several asked me if we’d hopefully have a repeat performance from last year (I omitted the part of the story where my husband had to carry me up the stairs to our apartment, me kicking and screaming, neighbors not at all concerned that this man may be taking advantage of me, rather mortified and apologetic for him after viewing the state I was in). And this year, I had even scaled it back; I was vomit-free, my child was safely being taken care of by Grandma in the comfort of my home, we were back by 11 pm, and I woke up this morning to only minor confusion with hearing a child call, “Maaaa-ma!”  Whose kid is that?

So my question is, are we too hard on moms who go out for a good time every once in a while? These women deserve to go out sans child every now and again.

As I floated this thought by my own mother at her home last weekend (who happened to be imbibing a screwdriver at 11am because, “they’re healthy for you, what with the OJ and all, and this goddamned heat”) she agreed.

There’s nothing wrong with a mom going out once in a while for a release.  Does that always have to be to a bar or nightclub?  Of course not.  But this world was made possible because of mothers, so ladies I say “Cheers!”

If Rosie Did It, So Can I...

 

This may come as a real shock to you, but I have a functional vagina. For those of you who know me and may have thought it was just a frigid, barren land where things go to die, I’ve had you fooled. And thanks, by the way.

I’ve had a kid come out of there (quickly -- much appreciated, birthing hips!). However, there is a curse to the functional vagina:  It completely changes how I am viewed in the working world.

If you are a pregnant woman in the workplace, life is awesome. Women constantly look at you with their heads soothingly cocked to the side and say things like, “How you holdin’ up sweetheart?” To which you should only respond (even if you are feeling 100%), Sigh… “Oh, I’m hangin’ in there” and then gingerly slouch away. They’ll look after you with solemn admiration—another brave soldier doing it all. With men, it’s even better.  Hopelessly devoid of uteri, none of them fully understand what is happening with your body, even if they’ve had preggo wives or partners, so they think that you may give birth at any second. To remedy this, they do things for you: carry things, pick things up, give you their chair to sit in. This will never happen again.  Enjoy it.

After you have your child and you’re back to work, things change. You’re back, baby weight in tow, and without the sympathy vote.  And, if you’ve chosen to breastfeed you still can’t even drink.

My husband came home from work the other day to relay a story he shared with several female coworkers.  He was telling them about something cute our son had done. What that cute thing was, I can’t remember. Regardless, you could tell that they thoroughly enjoyed the tale.

Now, here’s the thing. Men and women telling stories about their children while at work are received very differently.

When a man tells a story to his female coworkers, they ooh and ah and look at him as though he is the greatest man to walk the face of the earth. He works hard but he’s also a family man. Gee, how does he do it? His wife is so lucky. (My husband is an incredible dad, don’t get me wrong, but when he goes in and offers up a story about our son, unsolicited, to his female friends, it is always received well.) These stories might actually make him more attractive to his superiors. 

When a woman walks into her workplace, men don’t care to hear about her children (I don’t blame them. I don’t care to hear about them either). The women who share stories openly about their kids for all to hear are turned into walking vaginas, and not the young, hip 20-somethings with their snooty Brazilian waxes…

When a woman opens her mouth and shares a tidbit about her child’s stool, people see her as a mother and not a professional. Plus, that’s just gross, and no one cares, so keep that one to your selves, ladies.

There is still a “glass ceiling” of sorts made up of ovaries, stretch marks, and diapers, and unfortunately none of those things are attractive.

But what do you think? Please feel free to leave any thoughts in the comment section, and thank you for reading.

Am I Cool Enough for Mom Jeans?

 

My freshman year of high school, my mom drove me to school while beating out her favorite song at the time by Chumbawamba, which had a chorus that went something like “Pissin’ the night away, I’m pissin’ the night away.” If you’ve never heard it, check it out and you will instantly feel my pain. There was my sweet, Italian mother, singing loudly and cheerfully out the window as we pulled up to the drop off area of my Private Catholic high school. It was humiliating.

My dad, due to the hours he worked, sometimes had to pick us up from school in his giant blue PG&E work truck. This was not cool. If we were whining, he would loudly say, “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?” Well, I’m already crying, so… If I couldn’t fix something he would tell me I needed to be “smarter than what I was working with” and when he took me to the father-daughter dance my senior year of high school, he was a better dancer than me. People actually cleared the floor and tried to see who his daughter was. They couldn’t figure out why he was dancing with me all evening (I do a dance that can only be likened to Elaine from Seinfeld, it appears as though I may be having a mild seizure). Again, mildly embarrassing.

In my eyes my parents were not cool, nor had they ever been.

The other day while trying on a new pair of jeans at a local department store, my friend turned to me, color draining from her face, and gasped “God no! Why is your ass crack that long?!? Are those mom jeans???” You know the kind; they are pulled up to just under your boobs, and make your hips look like you’ve just shoplifted a small country down to your crotch.

I couldn’t believe it. My son is not even two, and I’m in mom jeans already? This can’t be. I’m cool. As I checked my jeans out in the mirror, hands down the most unflattering thing I’ve seen on my body since a neon pink and green track suit I owned in the 80s covered with different members of New Kids on the Block, I came to a startling realization maybe my kids will think I’m not cool.

As I drove home with my son in the car seat, me singing ‘Bust a Move’ to my heart’s content, both of us bobbing to the beat, I tried to remember when I first thought my parents had lost their own version of cool. In all respects they are attractive, intelligent, fun individuals who apparently had a real good time in both high school and college, but I never thought of them with that adjective in mind: cool.

My parents spent every waking minute with us (my 3 siblings and myself) growing up. Something that is difficult to do, but one of the only ways you can ensure your kids are not up to anything. I never saw them drink, they never went out without us, and all vacations were taken together.

I was 13 when I started having them drop me off a block away from my destination. I couldn’t bear the thought of being seen with them. These people clothed me, loved me, helped me with my homework and were a hell of a lot of fun, but I was at the age where I couldn’t allow people to know we were related. They were just not cool. Thankfully, I grew out of that, but it took me having a son to see it for myself.

Because, you know what? Parents aren’t cool. They shouldn’t be; they don’t have to. I don’t want to be the “cool mom” from Mean Girls - “You kids need any condoms? Alcohol?” I want my kids to only know the version of myself that I create for them. “I got straight A’s and never went to one party, always came home by curfew, never dated…”

So, I’m zipping my mom jeans up to my chest, rolling the windows down, and “now you know what to do go bust a move.”

New Addition

In the first picture of me holding my child, I’m wincing. I’m not making a face that most women would show off to friends. I am in utter shock-maybe because I was hoping the weight would leave with him (it did not) or maybe because my mother was holding my hand while snapping away shots of my son crowning because “You’ll want these pictures as memories to look back on.” No, no one wants these pictures to look back on…

When my son entered the world, and the nurses asked if I would like him placed on my chest, I hesitated. My mom was in the room. My husband. I panicked and then I said yes. I had told my husband prior to delivery, half jokingly, half serious (alright, more serious than joking) that I would prefer seeing our child cleansed and swaddled prior to holding him-maybe in a cute outfit, maybe in something matchy or designer, cute shades?

That changed.   

I remember my friend telling me that as soon as I saw my child, it would be like looking into a mirror- I would be seeing myself. I would be lost in a sea of overwhelming love. That wasn’t how I felt. I was looking at a child 10 shades lighter than me (thank you, Irish husband). I had also toyed with the notion of doing what the celebs do and leaving with some lipo, a boob job, and a new ass- I hadn’t fully clinched that deal at that point and was nervous about that too (never did pan out).

When we left the hospital days later, my husband dutifully wheeling me out, child in arms, balloons and flowers in the car, it hit me, “They’re letting us leave with him? What the hell will we do now? Which nurse comes home with us?!” Terror seized me.

I had read every baby book in preparation for having my son. I had interviewed trusted women in my life- several of whom expressed genuine concern with the idea of me rearing a child (appreciated). The nursery was ready. I had prepared our dog by having daily chats with him about the upcoming addition to our household and what would be expected of him. This seemed to me to be sufficient.

But…

How do you measure being a good mother? How would I know if what I was doing now would somehow make my child a better person? Or, at least not screw him up royally for the rest of his life, resulting in thousands in therapy.

I have learned since having my son to have a sense of humor. Apparently most toys when thrown in the toilet can be rescued if reached quickly, dog bones aren’t really that bad for kids, going to work with vomit down your back that is not yours from the night before is not that bad, working in a daily shower for yourself is a win.

Am I a good mother and do I have this figured out? No. I hate kids’ shows, I can’t stand children’s music. I can’t even watch Kids Week on Jeopardy. But, I’m happy he’s here. He’s got a great sense of humor and he dances just like me. Which we’re working on.

So, to vent my frustrations and buy some time in between spying on him while he learns to sleep in his toddler bed, rather than get up and rearrange the place, I thought I’d blog, not just about parenting, but daily things most people deal with. Enjoy my humble thoughts and opinions.