When I first started blogging I had the intentions of posting AT LEAST once per month. (Such high standards, right?!) And I actually did commit to frequently writing my thoughts, but somewhere between putting pen to paper and actually posting online, I got distracted. Go figure! I'm going to play catch-up now and post some thoughts I had way back when.
August 28, 2013
I haven't worked in over six months and I am REALLY enjoying my time off. That being said, there are about 12 things I miss about my job and they happen to be some of the best friends a gal could have. The work we do is hard. It is physically exhausting, mentally draining, emotionally challenging and requires that we sometimes neglect our own families to care for a complete stranger. So while I am home caring for my Sweet P I am constantly thinking about my friends who are meeting the demands of caring for our community. Occasionally I even make it there for a visit and bring them a sweet treat to remind them that I love them, miss them and appreciate them. Also, I'm hoping that when I do return to work they remember my kind gestures and take good care of me when I'm weeping in the corner because I miss my kid.
On my last visit I brought Mark and Sweet P with me. She was a huge hit with all of my coworkers but there was one person who seemed the most enamored with her. And he came in the form of a very drunk, very boisterous yet very pleasant older man. If I had a dollar for every time he asked if he could hold her I would have had enough money to buy him a fifth of his liquor of choice. And when I pretended not to hear him ask if he could hold her, he switched his approach and just said "my turn" whenever she got passed from one coworker to another. Still, we did not entertain the idea of him holding her. (Shocker, right?) So when he finally felt he had been ignored long enough he attempted the boldest move yet-- he came right up and reached out for her. And as if in slow motion, she reached toward his outstretched arms and grabbed ahold of his finger. The one with weeks, if not months, worth of dirt under his inch long fingernail. But just as soon as she had gripped his finger, she let go and left him with a huge, beaming smile on his face. And he softly said "Thank you. She is beautiful. I will look for her in the commercials on tv that have the beautiful kids." This man had filthy hands, yes. He smelled strongly of urine and alcohol, true. But my precious girl didn't notice, and if she did, she didn't care. She just saw another human being in need of a smile and soft touch and she gave it to him. Already making me proud.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Friday, March 7, 2014
Sitting (un)pretty
Being a mommy means that on any given day there will, without a doubt, be one, two, ten reasons to feel embarrassed, humiliated, and mortified. Like the time I forgot breast pads- and skipped a bra! (amateur mistake!)- and didn't realize it until we were in the photography studio for family pictures. If you were standing within two feet of me you enjoyed a spritz of Eau De Colostrum from my Spring 2013 line. Not cute. Funny, silly, refreshing for bystanders (it was a hot day), but not cute.
Or that time I left the house feeling super fly in my "skinny" jeans, only to realize 6 hours into an 8 hour shift at work that I still had the tags attached. No big deal if this had happened at any point between 1985 and 2011, when my pant size was enviously tiny. But instead it occurred 7 months postpartum. And the plethora of different tags all proudly advertised what I preferred to be "my little secret"...
SUPER HIGH RISE
HIDDEN TUMMY CONTROL PANEL
BUTT LIFT TECHNOLOGY
LOOK TEN POUNDS LIGHTER INSTANTLY
There may as well have been one single tag that said it all...
MOM JEANS
Sigh.
Is it such a crime that I prefer for people to know I am a mom because I have my cute kid sitting on my hip and not because I have some extra meat around my hips?
And if the obvious outwardly changes aren't humbling enough, how about the ones that don't meet the eye? Like the annoying layer of hair that now covers every inch of skin from the knees up and nipples down, courtesy of hyped-up mommy hormones. Or the lingering hemorrhoid that has become a permanent fixture in my life. My own personal sidekick that serves as a constant reminder of a gruesome vaginal AND butthole delivery. And how unfair that, besides surgery, the only way to treat this motherf@#%er is to "avoid prolonged sitting on the toilet". Seriously?! That seems to be the only place I can sit without interruption from a husband or kid. (And even then there is no guarantee that I won't hear my name yelled incessantly.) In fact, this blog post is written, edited, revised, and published all from the privacy of my bathroom. Over the course of three weeks. At the expense of my comfort and my overall health, but privately, nonetheless. Maybe breaking the rules of "hemorrhoid home care" will turn so catastrophic that I end up either
1) placed on bed rest with strict dietary guidelines to eat a high Oreo, low vegetable diet (that exists!)
OR
2) admitted to a long term care facility that plays Bravo! all day on TV and lets me sleep till noon. Of course this facility welcomes family visits and encourages my involvement in Sweet P's life, but there is a much larger emphasis on massage, aromatherapy, and hair and nail care.
Now please excuse me while I pretend to use the restroom again.
Or that time I left the house feeling super fly in my "skinny" jeans, only to realize 6 hours into an 8 hour shift at work that I still had the tags attached. No big deal if this had happened at any point between 1985 and 2011, when my pant size was enviously tiny. But instead it occurred 7 months postpartum. And the plethora of different tags all proudly advertised what I preferred to be "my little secret"...
SUPER HIGH RISE
HIDDEN TUMMY CONTROL PANEL
BUTT LIFT TECHNOLOGY
LOOK TEN POUNDS LIGHTER INSTANTLY
There may as well have been one single tag that said it all...
MOM JEANS
Sigh.
Is it such a crime that I prefer for people to know I am a mom because I have my cute kid sitting on my hip and not because I have some extra meat around my hips?
And if the obvious outwardly changes aren't humbling enough, how about the ones that don't meet the eye? Like the annoying layer of hair that now covers every inch of skin from the knees up and nipples down, courtesy of hyped-up mommy hormones. Or the lingering hemorrhoid that has become a permanent fixture in my life. My own personal sidekick that serves as a constant reminder of a gruesome vaginal AND butthole delivery. And how unfair that, besides surgery, the only way to treat this motherf@#%er is to "avoid prolonged sitting on the toilet". Seriously?! That seems to be the only place I can sit without interruption from a husband or kid. (And even then there is no guarantee that I won't hear my name yelled incessantly.) In fact, this blog post is written, edited, revised, and published all from the privacy of my bathroom. Over the course of three weeks. At the expense of my comfort and my overall health, but privately, nonetheless. Maybe breaking the rules of "hemorrhoid home care" will turn so catastrophic that I end up either
1) placed on bed rest with strict dietary guidelines to eat a high Oreo, low vegetable diet (that exists!)
OR
2) admitted to a long term care facility that plays Bravo! all day on TV and lets me sleep till noon. Of course this facility welcomes family visits and encourages my involvement in Sweet P's life, but there is a much larger emphasis on massage, aromatherapy, and hair and nail care.
Now please excuse me while I pretend to use the restroom again.
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