Thursday, June 2, 2011


I gave too much away.
Someone knows it all and I can't hide. The codes, the keys that keep me are not for me or mine alone. They are in....I am out...never sure of where I stand.

Is it fair or smart or real? Do I regret this loss of "voice"...and rue the days adrift, floating through the house in bliss?

I gave too much away.

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Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Au Revoir Ma Grande Ta-Tas!

As I was watching the controversial “Born This Way” episode of Glee on-demand, I kept thinking about the one or two things about my own physical appearance that I would want to less than bodacious ta-tas.  Yes, I admit it, I have a big boob obsession....mainly because, well, mine are so not.   It’s been 6 months since I had the baby, and well, things have definitely flattened out and gone south. At breakfast this morning, as I sat, braless in my pjs, sipping coffee, my 7 year-old son was looking at me funny and pointed to my chest, “Ah, mommy are you going to do something about those……ah floppies?”

And I thought, “Oh no he didn’t! Oh no he didn’t just diss the twins! Wow, maybe he ISN’t gay.” But floppy is as floppy does and before anything would flap about in a breeze, I went up stairs to put on proper foundation garments. As I came back into the kitchen, decidedly not blowin' in the wind, my thoughts wandered back to a conversation I had had on the subject with my husband, just before the baby was born.  And come to think of it, it really wasn’t much of a conversation, but just me announcing my intentions amid the glow of big pregnancy boobs and, he, more or less ignoring it.

We had been sitting on the couch durning football preseason.  He was deeply engrossed in the HBO football series, "Hard Knocks," yet all I could think about were "hard knockers." Mine, in particular. The one true perk of pregnancy, is, let's face it ladies, bigger boobs. It's the one sexy thing we if in some cosmic equation, they were a perverse consolation prize for the hemroids, heartburn, nausea, fatigue, extra weight and kankles...whoever complains about bigger breasts. (Except if you have DD hooters already, and if ya’ do….you’re not getting my sympathy anyway.)
The only downside I was experiencing was that my d├ęcolletage was becoming a collection bin for cookie crumbs, goldfish, loose earrings, dust, bugs, and the occasional spilt beverage. Thus, I have been taking great care to buff and moisturize my burgeoning cleavage. Late at night, while all in the house were asleep, I would slip out of bed to fluff and powder them until they gleamed with a high powered shine.

"I think when all is said and done with this baby, I want to get a boob job."

"Hmm, yeah...." he was well into the Jets' Revis negotiations.

"I said BOOB JOB."

"What? For who?" He was perturbed that his attention was diverted from the business side of football and driven straight to my breasts.

"For me....I dunno, after the baby....maybe." I couldn't gauge his reaction. It wasn't no, it wasn't yes...he seemed to think about it, but his furrowed brow returned to the TV, much like the time I had declared that I wanted to learn to play the harp, the time I felt I really needed to learn how to cook authentic Indian curry, or the times I wanted to learn to SCUBA dive, swim on a National Master's team, and hone my conversational French with a native-born tutor. None of which have come to fruition.

The real reason for my fascination with my “lady lumps” was that I knew that the effect was fleeting.. I knew the minute the baby came, they'd pop, and “poof’” I'd be back in the land of shriveled plums and padded push-up bras. I thought my request was reasonable, I wasn't going for anything over 3rd letter of the alphabet....Heidi Montag took all the appeal out of the letter "G" when she tweeted about having to massage her implants to keep them soft. I don't need bowling balls, just a little bit of bounce. Not looking for the added flotation enhancement or anything that I'd need to sling over my shoulder and tie back with a pashmina the next time I'd go for a run. Just a slight augmentation. A whisper, just enough to show the whole world my girls can still sit up and beg like the best of ‘em.

For the most part, my feeling of enhanced self confidence was fueling these silly boob job fantasies. I felt, in my on head at least, that I looked better and garnered more looks from men, more than ever before. This skewed logic completely ignored the fact that people really could have been looking, in confused disgust and/or pity, at the 3 unruly children hanging off me or my gargantuan belly as it would jump out from underneath my shrinking maternity shirts every time I hoisted myself in and out of the car.
Yet, my “a-ha” moment came at a soccer tournament on Long Island. It was the end of the day and we were packing up for the trek home. In the distance, I caught something slowly making its way up the side of the field. There was lots of movement as the game had ended. I was bending over, not to gracefully at the waist, folding up tailgate chairs, blankets and picking up random bits of trash. As I was doing this, I notice the object had stopped and a long shadow was cast over my collection of chairs and coolers...Still bent I looked up to squarely meet the gaze of a mid-forties man in a motorized wheel chair.....who had been very obviously trying to look down my shirt. I immediatlely shot back upright, preggo belly in full salute and trying to make sure I was covered in all the right places. The man feigned some type of mechanical failure and inadvertently sent his chair into reverse.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. It's never a hottie, celeb look-alike that you catch trying to seek a peek.....its always some pervy creepy “Danny DaVito” with no teeth, a jersey shore tan and a serious physical imparement. Or some odd ball in the grocery store, who makes a mind-numbing comment like, “Wow! You look like you’re going to have a good time with those!” as you are trying to fly through the express line with infant diapers, a bag of apples and garlic bread. It’s those moments when I realize, you really do, like Heidi Montag, need to be careful what you wish for. Bigger is not always better, and I guess I'll just have to learn to be more creative with what I do with ‘em and invest in a wardrobe of killer push-up bras. Yet before I play taps and carelessly fling the huge pregnancy brassieres into the fire....the one's that now look like Jared the Subway guy's huge pants... when I hold them up and for wistfully moment of silence and wonder how hell did those underwired cups ever get filled out..

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Happy Mother's Day to "The Worstest Bestest Mom Ever!"

"You're the meanest, worstest mom, EVER!” my 7 year old son announced. “You don’t ever listen to me. You don’t ever care about me.” He screamed and stomped up the steps to his room. Over the slam of the door, I vaguely heard him shouting something about how I was ruining his life. I stared up the darkened staircase, sheepishly sighed and thought, “And the award for most dramatic response to the question, ‘Did you do your homework?’ goes to….”

By now, the baby was crying, as the noise and commotion had woken him from a very brief nap. On to the needs of the next one…because just a squeaky wheel gets the grease, the child who screams “MOMMMEEE,” the loudest and shrillest, inevitably gets the pleasure of my undivided attention and/or disciplinary wrath.

Motherhood is definitely not for the fragile of ego. With four children in my house, ages 12 years to 6 months, the pendulum of emotions swings in an instant from “I love you! I love you! I love you!” to “You don’t understand me! I hate you!” or in the case of my tween, in an eye roll.

I fully realize that just as the storm clouds gather and erupt, they quickly dissipate. And as I feed the baby, my 7 year old will quietly come back down, apologetic, with hugs and kisses. Once an evil ogre, I am again the White Queen of his small world. (Though, when straightening up his room a day or two later, I will undoubtedly find an angry crumpled note, in which he vents “Mom is mean. This is a story of my Meanie, Meanie Mom!)

As Mother’s Day approaches, I haven’t, to date, ruined the lives of my 12, 10 or 7 year olds. I know this because Sunday will bring a small stack of handmade cards, each stating that I am “The World’s Greatest Mom,” or “I love you Mommy, because” or “U R Awesome Mom,” and possibly a random shaped pasta necklace or coupon to ‘help fold 1 load of laundry.” Small consolations for 364 days of misbehavior and mayhem, but I’ll take it. Along with the burnt bagel, my daughter will say she toasted, but did not, and the afternoon of quiet that ensues after my husband loudly wrangles all four kids into the car under the auspice of “OR ELSE!” I will sit back, reread the “Meanie Mom” story and laugh…..then call my own mother and apologize.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Immaturity Trumps Midlife Crisis

When I went to bed last night, I knew the morning wasn't going to be pretty.  Before I had finally fallen asleep, my husband had said, "Okay, so if I'm working from home tomorrow, you need to figure out when you are going to go workout."  Aggh, I groaned.  The alarm went off at 6 a.m., but what woke me was the poke from my husband.  "Just drop the kids at school and go right to the gym," he said as he pushed the covers onto the floor.

Fast forward two hours. It's 8 a.m.and I'm sitting in the parking lot of the local Y. I'm angry, really angry...royally pissed off. Pissed at my husband for pushing me out the door to workout. Pissed that I didn't go to bed earlier and as a result am so damn tired. Pissed that I am completely unorganized and had an argument with my pre-teen daughter regarding socks vs. no socks with Uggs because she couldn't find any clean socks to wear.  Pissed that my workout clothes are too tight and pissed that I can't afford new ones. That I couldn't set a schedule and stick to it. Pissed that I had let my self go, that I let my weight run unchecked, launching my pantsize into the double-digit stratosphere. Pissed that 99% of women depicted in the media are glossy and flawless and perfect.

I can't be perfect. And I'm pretty damn pissed about that, too.

Yet, everyday I buy into the "perfection trap."  I get up and fool myself into thinking that the aphorism "Today is a new day, I will try my best," will somehow work.  I turn a blind eye to the thought that "trying my best," is really code for "Bitch..Be perfect."  There is no alternative.  Cee Lo Green could be the soundtrack of my life:

As I sit in a far corner of the parking lot, covered in flakes of butter croissant and nursing a luke warm latte, it is hard to keep my eyes open.  My eyelids are heavy and I long to go to sleep.  My mind wanders back to my anger and I vow that I will just go through the motions.  Sit here and pass the time, while I let him think he got his me out of the house and into the gym.   But the more I thought about it, the stupider my plan seemed.  I was the brat, the immature one....having my very own little inner temper tantrum. Throwing excuses around my head with reckless abandon. Looking for every reason why this moment supremely sucked and why it was not my fault. .

As others went about their routine, I sat and sulked. This was something that I envied - something my profound lack of discipline prevented my anything.  I was displacing the anger I had at myself and projecting it onto my husband.  On the cusp of midlife, I was silently acting more like a spoiled toddler than mother of four. My discontent was with myself....but why? What was I afraid of? Why do I keep holding myself back? Will I ever know the answers to both questions?

I hope so....
But until I figure it out - the best I can do is multi-task:  brush the crumbs off my fleece as I move the car closer to the entrance, and hop on a treadmill for 30 minutes with a smart phone to walk and blog....

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