Back to Blogging - Day 2

The Ladies of SITS are encouraging their members to get back to the basics of blogging by asking us to remember what got us interested in the first place. Below is a post I wish more people had seen. Too often, moms stress themselves out trying to be perfect, when we should just be proud of the job we're doing.

As an added incentive, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances, are sponsoring a washer and dryer (affectionately called Thelma and Louise) giveaway. Enjoy!

WEDNESDAY, JULY 05, 2006

It's 2 a.m., and I've lost my principles

When I was pregnant, the slew of unsolicited advice that came my way was relentless. People had cure-alls for pregnancy ailments, gassy babies, fussy sleepers, and picky eaters.

"If you have a happy pregnancy, then you will have a happy baby." (That advice, by the way, is crap. If you have a happy pregnancy, then count your lucky stars and get ready for the fireworks. A happy baby is not guaranteed.)

"If your baby is full before she goes to bed, then she will sleep all night." (For me, this too was a load of hooey. E ate to her belly puffed up like a balloon, and she still woke up every two hours.

These are just examples, and I can't remember half of what I was told. Besides, I had my own ideas. There were some things that I was certain that I would do no matter what.

I would change E on the changing table. I didn't like the idea of dirty diapers all over the house.

I would not let my child get addicted to a pacifier. I was once with a friend, who, at midnight, was driving around the city looking for an open drugstore because her son couldn't sleep without his binky. And of course, this was a one-of-a-kind pacifier that was found only at select locations. I did not need that sort of hassle.

I would be Mrs. Clean, wiping mouths and noses faster than they could get dirty. And my kid's clothes would be sparkling. Hair would be neat, etc.

I would never, never, ever, let her sleep in my bed. My two-year-old cousin spent the night with me a couple of years ago, and she kicked me in the back all night.

Based on this list, some would say that I had never seen a child before. Some would say that I was setting the bar too high. And others would say that I was just plain old nuts. I think I was a little of all three.

What I didn't account for when I came up with these ideals is the sleep deprivation factor. At 2 a.m. when you are tired and confused, you will let just about anything slide.

I have changed diapers right in the middle of the bed, and woke up the next morning to see it on the floor. And of course, the baby was still in my arms, wearing a milk-stained T-shirt.

E isn't addicted to a pacifier; she sucks her thumb instead. That,as far as I am concerned, is worse. Her pediatrician says that she will stop on her own, but I'm not convinced. Everyone I know who sucked their thumb did so right up to their driver's license exam.

Oh, and the hair? Well that's a story in itself. I braid it once a week in the hopes that it will stay nice for seven days. E's babysitter generally has pity on me mid-week and recombs it. I still can't figure out how her braids last so much longer.

I realized how far that I had fallen from grace a couple of days ago when I gave E a little bowl of Cheerios. She spilled half of them on the floor, and I watched her pick them up one by one and pop them in her mouth. And when she offered me one, I ate it.

Most days, though, I think I do pretty well. E is a healthy, happy 18-month-old who carries a purse. I've got to be doing something right.

Back to Blogging - My First Post

The Ladies of SITS are encouraging their members to get back to the basics of blogging by asking us to remember what got us interested in the first place. Below is my first legitimate post. There was a short introductory paragraph I posted the same day, but I don't think that counts! If I had to write it again, I think I'd make it shorter, but I still love it!

As an added incentive, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances, are sponsoring a washer and dryer (affectionately called Thelma and Louise) giveaway. Enjoy!

My Mother, Myself

Originally Published April 7, 2005

When I came home from work today, I put on a pair of hot-pink satin pajama pants and an old Delta T-shirt. Anyone who has heard of my sorority knows that I look a mess - Delta's colors are crimson and cream. I tied an orange scarf on my head and slipped into a pair of worn Daniel Green house shoes; they're a low mule with a thick band across the top. I made a funny face for my four-month-old, E, and she laughed. When I saw myself in the full-length mirror, I had to laugh along with my daughter. I had turned into my mother.

Momma wears equally embarrassing ensembles around her house. Cheetah-print robes and stripped socks. Flowered housecoats over old plaid skirts. Faded green sweatshirts and purple pants, all while wearing her infamous Daniel Greens. When I was a kid, I swore that I would not wear such get-ups. But years later, here I was.

When this transformation occurred, I cannot say. It seems as though just yesterday I was a hip and happening single girl, ready to take on the world. But that must have been a long time ago, because I doubt that anyone uses the term “hip and happening” anymore. A friend of mine once said that she believes we resist our mothers' influence until we are about 27, and then we just give in. Why is that? What do we learn at that point that allows us to accept our fate?

As a little girl, I did everything I could to be like my mother. I even remember that I tore up my toy sewing machine in an attempt to make a fur coat like hers. We wore complimentary, but not matching, outfits on Easters and Mothers Days.

Complimentary, but not matching. Of course that all changed with I hit those defiant teenage years. I juggled being stubborn, high-strung, and moody with trying to define myself through fashion. My clothing choices waffled between the homely and the weird. One day I would be searching the racks at a junior's department, and the next day I would be riffling through Momma's closet. The results were interesting, to say the least. Every now and then, people would say that I had my mother's eyes. I tried not to notice.

I tried everything from track suits to business suits while in college, and I settled on a simple wardrobe once I hit my mid-20s. Tailored pants and shirts in solid colors (no prints), and I started to build a unique collection of shoes and purses. Meanwhile, my mother took jungle prints to a whole new level, matching cheetah-print accessories and separates with basic brown and black separates. In spite of my best efforts, people were starting to say that I looked more like Momma than ever. I claimed not to see it.

When I found out that I was going to have a baby last year, I started thinking a lot about motherhood in general, and I realized that some of Momma's characteristics had long-ago slipped into my personality. We have the same inflections in our voices, the same way of cutting our eyes around, and we both fold our hands across our chests in satisfaction when we know that we have the upper hand in an argument. And my determination and outspokenness are growing by the day. People say that we have the same walk, a confident gait that makes people notice you when you enter the room. I can kind of see that one.

Did I accept who I am out of a sense of defeat? No way. I think that practicality starts to set in when you get a bit older. You can't know someone your whole life and expect that person not to rub off on you. To think so is downright silly. And besides, a part of me is still like that little girl of yesteryear: I think that my mom is pretty cool.

There are still a few differences between us. My mother enjoys an occasional trip to the casino. I prefer an occasional trip to the spa. I love to try new wines. My mother loves to find new ways to mix a stiff strawberry daiquiri. And we still don't agree on the uses of cheetah-print in a wardrobe.

As soon as I finish posting this blog, I'm going online to look for some Daniel Greens. My pair is almost worn out. I think I'll get a pair for my mother, too. Complimentary, but not matching, of course.

It's All Coming Back to Me

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about The Thing. For days, The Thing rested on the tip of my tongue, just far enough away from my brain that I couldn't recognize it.

The Thing kept me up at night, had me losing focus. After about a week and a half, I threw in the towel. There was much too much going on in my world for me to be worried about things I couldn't remember.

And then, just like that, The Thing revealed its identity.

I was at a book club meeting with some friends, discussing the August selection. The main character had the picture-perfect life -- handsome husband, smart children, gorgeous home. But after 15 years, she was farther away from achieving her goals than she had ever been. And to make matters worse, she wasn't even sure what her goals were.

A first-time attendee, who's newly engaged and in her mid 20's (Oh, to be young again!) asked "How do you keep from losing yourself in a marriage?"

I could have kissed that girl. She shined a big ole spotlight on my Thing.

Between working a full-time, teaching part-time, and being a wife and mom all the time, I felt as if I were slipping away. These past few months have been so busy that I've forgotten to take care of myself.

Girls' weekend in Chicago was a great start, and so was going to book club last week. This is a three-day weekend, and I'm determined to have some solo quality time. First thing on the list -- White Ayurvedic Chai (my favorite) and some must-see TV. I think I have a whole season of Burn Notice in my DVR.

Shake Ya Money Maker

This weekend, I met up with some friends in Chicago. It was an all-out girls weekend: good shopping, good food, and pole dancing.

Yes, I said pole dancing. Apparently, this has been gaining popularity ever since Carmen Electra released a series of strip tease workout DVDs. A friend of mine suggested we try it, and most of us figured it would hurt to try it just once.

After brunch at a nearby cafe, we descended on Flirty Girl, a gym that features lap dancing, pole dancing, and kick boxing. I originally thought that kick-boxing was a misfit until I realized all three have one thing in common: You work hard as hell.

Our instructor was Diana, a well-endowed cutie with caramel skin and long blond weave. She first took us through warm up designed to loosen us up, and they worked. By the time I got finished shaking my rear end and rolling all over the floor, I was too sweaty and too tired to be nervous about grinding all over a pole.

In two hours, Diana taught us a full routine, complete with two spins, a headstand, and a backflip. I wish I could say that I was ready for showtime (and by showtime, I mean showing my husband, not going to the local strip joint), but I felt more like Carrie from the King of Queens.

My spins were ill timed, I did more of a roll than a back flip, and I left the headstand to the professionals. What I did gain were sore arms, a set of bruises along my thighs, a lot of laughs, and a newfound respect for ladies who make their living working the pole. I may not agree with their career choice, but boy, do they work hard. They need a raise and a union representative.