I have succumbed to the fact that nothing I own belongs to just me. Even my personal sanctuary was tainted with kiddie cooties, when Dad had to put the kids in my special spa tub last night. He had no choice, as the other tubs were out of order, but that is another long and disgusting story. Grimy playground residue now decorates the non slip floor of my precious bath tub, because my husband forgot to rinse it out. Being that he took on the task of bathing all seven kids, it would have been down right bitchy to complain about the presence of spawn scum. After last night’s bath, it was quite evident that the separation of “Mom” and “Me,” is dangerously close to extinction. There is rapidly decreasing space for a “Me” in this house. As a result of last night, I’m currently trying to figure out how to install a secret spa tub in the back of the van. I tried to take measurements but the fossilized layer of fishy crackers and football equipment, kept me from being able to maneuver around. I may have to call in a professional. Once the tub installation is complete, I will be able to drive to an undisclosed location and take a relaxing soak, without fear of slipping on tear free shampoo slime and having an amputated Barbie leg inadvertently crammed up my ass…ouch!

The loss of my tub’s virginity, was enough to make me want to cry. Not because it happened once, but because it will be considered open territiory from here on out. Like, “Hey Dad, the bearded dragons need a good scrubbing. I’m gonna use mom’s tub ‘cuz they like the jets.” Mark my word, it won’t be long until I’m sharing bubble bath with the resident reptiles. The tub isn’t the only thing in this house that has been erroneously encroached upon and ultimately soiled. I am always finding greasy little lip marks on my beloved Dr. Pepper. The kids know how badly their practice of sipping on my soda pisses me off, yet they do it every time I turn my back for a second. I despise those tiny floating remnants of back wash and the way they taunt me to take a big gulp without ingesting one of them. Most of the time, I chug the whole damn can before even setting it down, because I know it is my only chance to drink the contents, without encountering spittle. My spawn have gotten wise to my game, though. I recently discovered many cans, sitting in our fridge, empty and placed back in their original positions. I am in the midst of devising a repellant solution, made of vinegar and hot sauce. I will fill half full cans of soda, then sit back and watch as the little miscreants suffer the wrath of the meanest mommy on the planet.

The way I see it, there are two choices. I can either allow the “Me” to fight back and rage war against the ones who threaten my right to retain a smidge of individuality. Traveling this route could be time consuming and potentially deadly (for me.) My other option is to let the “Mom’ win and wave the white flag. I’m only twenty nine and I still have a long stint as a stay at home mother. It will be at least 16 more years until I can boot the last one out. If I give up now, I might very well live out the next 16 years in a comatose state and stink like a bucket full of buttholes from the lack of a decent bath. I think I’ll take my chances and fight for my right to cootie free Dr. Pepper and a non-scummy tub. After all, the “Mom’ may make up a larger part of who I am, but the “Me’ still has seniority!

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I am so sick of “stuff.” I can be a material girl, won’t deny it. But keeping up with the Jones’ is just something I can’t get into. In case you haven’t heard, we’re in the midst of a recession, although George reassures us that it’s just a “slowdown.”

My husband and I do OK for ourselves. In an attempt to save money for our future we have decided to live frugally for the time being. Our house isn’t decked out (although we will be siding it this month!!!). We live within our means. We do have nice clothes, dine out occasionally, and can be seen at our local watering hole once in a while. I even splurged today on Red Sox tickets! However, the need to spend incessantly among some that I know has become irritating!

Many of us have, at some point, lived beyond our means. And where has that gotten us? You don’t need new furniture every two years. You really don’t need a TV that rivals a movie theater. You’re new monster truck will be a hit at the gas station. And those jeans you paid $120 for — no one can tell. They look like the same pair I saw at JC Penny for $20.

If spend, spend, spend is your prerogative, fine. Knock yourself out. But when you can’t afford it, and you complain constantly about cash flow, bills, and the rising price of gas and groceries, you kind of make me want to stab myself with my Target flatware (that I bought at 40 percent off).

This need to keep up with the Jones’ can’t just exist within my circle of friends. Has anyone else experienced this, or am I just being a green-eyed monster?

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Please tell me what’s up with the tattoos and the piercings. I’m not talking the regular old ear piercing, or even erotic piercings. Those, I understand. I can even see how the little nose stud can be cute (although sometimes they photograph more like warts). I mean the funky eyebrow piercing, or the labrets or the bull rings in the nose. What’s with that?

I remember watching a documentary on the history of tattoos a few years back. And, if my memory serves me, this was a custom that certain tribes used as a coming-of-age status. The idea was to withstand the pain of the tattooing process, and the tattoo was the proof that the boy did endure it and was now a man. They didn’t get the tattoo because of the image, the image was a result of the process. It made sense.

continue reading…

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There’s a lot of fun stuff I want to do with my daughter. I’ve got an incredible [if I dare say so] book collection growing for her, and I want to do tons of crafts…in fact I go to Michaels about once a week and buy ribbon and Mod Podge and buttons for projects. Am I lame? Perhaps. And perhaps my daughter will want to play soccer and hate books and ribbon and weird buttons and I will be bummed but I guess I’ll be mommy goalie, or defense, anything her little heart desires.

But right now? Right now her interests include: putting things in her mouth, falling and hitting her head on things, crawling at record speeds around our home, getting stuck under coffee tables, putting the cat in headlocks, dog bones, and giving me heart attacks.  She can get into a good Touch and Feel book for 30 seconds at a time, and sometimes if I do funny voices and act-a-fool she’ll giggle. We went to the zoo and spent a good deal of time in front of the fish tanks We also enjoy shopping. Paige is perfectly content making goo goo eyes with strangers in the mall if it means I’m pushing her around all day and providing her with apple strawberry Gerber Stars and carrot juice.

But I got to let it out folks.

I don’t like playing with my daughter. Touch and Feel’s are cute but I can’t read “Zoo’s Who” over and over again without thinking about my email. I can only feign enthusiasm for the fish in the tank a few times before I realize I’d rather be reading the new novel I have sitting on my desk. I like to go to the park and feed the ducks but I don’t like watching my daughter like a hawk so she doesn’t put branches and bugs into her mouth. I feel horrible about this, really and truly. I want to be super mom and get psyched about everything. I want to crawl around the floor all day enthralled to be picking up dust bunnies before my daughter can get to them. In fact, I want to be the kind of mom that gets rid if dust bunnies before they even happen even with a dog, cat, and shag rug.

But I can’t.

And for the record, I’m really glad she’s sleeping, where’s my book?

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Mommy is sleep deprived popette. Quarter to five ain’t a good wake up time. 6am? Sure, lets do it…but if it’s dark out you better think twice before grabbing my nose and poking me in the eyeballs. Yes, I know we co-sleep and I probably deserve the smacks and pokes but you know what? IT WAS QUARTER TO FIVE. You know you you love listening to birds chirping. They weren’t this morning…wanna know why? It was too goddamn early. So why did you think it was okay to start laughing and assaulting your father and I? Did you REALLY need to bite daddies nipple to try and wake him up? Weren’t kicks to the rib and cackling enough?

And now you’re at Grandmas for the night. And I miss you, you’ve been gone for about three hours. Why is it I daydream about free nights like this and when they come I sit around eating chicken salad, doing laundry, contemplating going to sleep so I can wake up sooner to see you tomorow thus starting the cycle of getting annoyed/wanting you at a sitters/missing you.

The world will never know.

Go to bed,

Love mommy

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These conversations always seem to happen when I’m elbow-deep in bread dough.

“Jump, Mommy kangaroo, jump with me!”

“Not now, Baby kangaroo.”

“Jump with me!”

“Mommy kangaroo hasn’t been that big into jumping since puberty, hon.”

“Mommy kangaroo has big boobies. I’ve got little boobies. When I get really bigger, I’ll have big boobies and then I can’t jump.”

What am I teaching her with my laziness and unsupportive bras? That she can’t jump once she gets boobs?

Then again, there’s genetics. I was a C-cup in sixth grade. Her father’s mother didn’t sprout until high school, but by the time she graduated she was 40-24-36. Unless there’s something *very* freaky in the water, my little munchkin is going to look like she’s 20 before she gets her learner’s permit.

“Honey?”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got financial planning with your company, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You need to make an appointment with them. Discuss savings plans with the goal of being able to afford a Swiss convent school in about ten years.”

“Is Penny talking about her boobies again?”

“You know it.”

“Have you tried telling her she’s really a boy?”

“Honey, we can’t afford private school. You think we’re going to be able to foot *those* kinds of therapy bills?”

“Point made. Just start in with the ’sex is evil’ talk.”

“I’d rather leave it to the nuns.”

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I was skinny once. The kind of skinny that people apparently remember quite clearly, and refer to as “that time you were skinny…” It was the kind of skinny that amphetamines prescribed to me while I was in high school to help me “concentrate…” Okay, how many times did I just use the word skinny? Too many.

When I went to college and managed to loose health insurance I lost my doctor thus loosing my “ADD” medication. Feeling scatterbrained and hungry I mostly ate my way through my first semester. Taco Bell at lunch time? Okay! My mom’s amazing Sunday night dinners followed by my Aunt’s chocolate chip cookies? Bring it on bitches. I had spent my high school feeling wired, and surviving on granola bars and missing out on all my favorite foods. Post teen hood years I was a tad bit chubby but no one seems to remember that, focusing on when I was a twig. A medicated twig.

So yes, motherhood has reared it’s fat  head. My thighs rub together and I’ve got a belly that sticks out of my tee shirts in all it’s stretch marked goodness, and I may have back fat. The only plus side to all this is my boobs are huge and my husband loves them. It took me awhile to deal with this. I’m sure my husband wanted to grab me by my aforementioned back fat and drop kick me for all the times I asked him “do you think I’m SEXY? Do you think I’m FAT…if I am chubby am I STILL sexy? Are my boobs sagging? Look at my stomach! I’m uglyyyyyy [followed my wailing and cursing and maybe throwing a book or two…]

It’s not like now I don’t care. And it’s certainly that I don’t care about being healthy because I do! I just accept it. I had a baby, a nine pound baby and she stretched me out. She gave me back fat. She weighed my boobs down with milk, and yes maybe I ate too many Oreos but who cares? When my mom tells me my belly still looks like I’m “five months pregnant…” I pleasantly tell her to shutup. When my mother in law kinda smirks at me as I’m baking chocolate chip banana bread and goes “no diet huh?” I pleasantly think “shutup..” And I really don’t care.
I’m sexy!

Today.

Right now.

Tomorow I might feel gross again.

How did you deal with your post partum bodies? Did you worship them? Loose all the baby weight within 2 days of giving birth and have no idea what I’m talking about? Or sometimes want to smash mirrors?

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Once upon a time I worked at a boy scout camp, and once upon a time I harbored a crush on a certain co-worker. One night we were at Friendly’s and he patted his seat urging me to come sit next to him….as we gazed into each others eyes over a sampler platter he told me I looked like I belonged on a farm (what with my sun streaked hair, freckles and all). He said I was the perfect “farm girl…” I thought that was hot.

Country bumpkins my friends, are hot. They’re all sunburnt noses and flimsy sundresses. They take baths in claw foot tubs after a long day making jam, and they leave the door open. They make love on giant four poster beds all creaking and clawing and there’s no air conditioning so everybody is a sweaty mess. Uh huh, that’s what I think when I think of “perfect farm girl…”

But I mean, I don’t live on a farm. I live on shitty Staten Island in a tiny apartment with too much stuff. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t suck too much, I do live within walking distance to a craft store and a TJ Maxx but as far as traffic, the general population, crime, shitty schools etc go I hate it. The private school has a huge sign hanging over it that says “DON’T KILL THE UNBORN BABIES…” it’s very welcome. So our lease is up in two months and we are getting the (pardon) fuck out. Debating city vs more rural suburb was easy. I don’t want to pay 3 grand for a tiny apartment when we both work from home. I want to drive fifteen minutes to get to Trader Joes. I’ve never drove! I want trees, flowers, and backyard for our dog to run around in. I want to let my cat roam the neighborhood.

So I’m happy and psyched to say Saturday we are going to peep our dream home. It’s a rent-to-buy (sup shitty market) but we are hoping to buy in a year or two. It’s got a detached garage so Phil can have a mancuary and I don’t even need to see him! Sitting in our living room! Working! Trying to prevent my daughter from playing with his USB cords! And it’s got 2 acres, and it’s only 15 minutes from my own fantastic mommy, and it has a room I can have all to myself for writing. I wanted to share my happiness! Lets pray we get it.

So what’s your take, city, or country bumpkin?

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I’ve been MIA.

Paige and I made the great escape to Grandma’s for a weekend of debauchery, and by debauchery I mean we went to Trader Joe’s and out to lunch a lot. We also spend three hours in Target, oh behave! I love my mom so much even if she asks me “why my belly still looks puffy and like I’m pregnant…”  The bitch.

I had a great few days spending time with my mom, my brother, and his girlfriend….which brings me to the topic at hand which is my need for a wife. Things just went so god damn smooth during my visit. My mom, and brothers girlfriend worked like awesome in sync team members kicking ass at child rearing. One of us was sleepy? We hung out with Paige while one napped (okay, that was me, I was the only tired one..), changing a diaper in a diner while Paige screamed? A breeze! Maneuvering hot coffees, a carriage, and some bags over bumpy suburban roads? No sweat! (a little coffee ended up on Paige but in my defense it was luke warm..) Naps, feedings, the fact that my daughter was completely off her schedule and refusing to sleep at night? Not a big deal because we helped each other out.

I seriously think woman  just get it. Now, as annoying as he is my husband’s still incredibly helpful and a kick ass dad but I just get such a natural high from being around woman and my own child. Because woman get it. Lauren and my mother never say “Why are you so tired, she only woke up three times last night…”

I’m feeling sick, and brain dead today so that’s all for now but once I catch up on caffeine, sleep, and remove this infection from my eye causing me to squint at my screen I’ll be back in action.

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My father is a twin – and I have always been nervous about having twins. One baby I can handle, but two at once – whew! My husband and I would happily welcome two at once, but I think we’re more of a one-at-a-time kind of couple!

Then the other night, while watching my beloved Discovery Health channel, I caught a show called House of Twins. Without any infertility or hormone treatments, one couple had THREE SETS OF TWINS!!! Three pregnancies — six babies.

Turns out the momma is creating a high level of a follicle-stimulating hormone – meaning she is hormonally wired to have twins.  I think I’ll go in for tests tomorrow…

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