Living, motherhood, Recovery

The Butt of the Joke

What is it about the fabric on the butt of a bathing suit? Is the fabric such that it always sags? Or is it just the mass amount needed to cover my ass? Maybe it just gets tired and worn out as time goes by – not unlike the skin on my body.

I had youth on my side with the first pregnancy. After # 2, my breasts resembled tennis balls in tube socks. And # 3? After that one, I visited every specialist under the sun.

Pelvis malfunction and a left hip always slipping out? Physical Therapist

Lower back and left buttock numb? Chiropractor

Developing bunions (found by way of visit for ingrown toenail)? Podiatrist

My husband, knowing it would no doubt get my goat (which it most certainly did), joked that he was going to trade me in for a newer model. Nevertheless, through exercises, adjustments, and orthotics, I regained mobility. But just as absence makes the heart grow fonder, so did I forget how much continued maintenance and exercise matters. Gradually, my routine lessened, then, went by the wayside.

Two years later, I have a near-constant stitch where my left hamstring meets my butt. The place where my abs weakened and spread now yawns open hungrily. I have saddlebags where once there were all straight lines and angles.

Now, I’ve heard of how ladies in years past, like those found in Rubens’ paintings, were valued for their curves and wide hips, signifying their life-giving capabilities. And I do enjoy a certain comfort with my body more now than at any other point in my life. Once upon a time, I was extremely shy about my body, even though I had a ‘cute little figure’. Now that I’ve seen it morph and grow and sag, I realize I should’ve flaunted it when I had the chance. But after bearing it all to give birth and publicly breastfeeding, I enjoy a ‘take me as I am’ attitude and a pride akin to battle scars, I suppose. Plus, there’s only so much stretch before an elastic won’t snap back into place. Just like accepting what your body is capable of on a given day of yoga, I accept that there are certain realities about my current form I must accept. It is what it is.

It’s also a source of great amusement – because as I tell myself so often – laugh so that you may not cry. And it’s something to share with my friends as we grow older together. Just the other day, I received this card in the mail from my dear friend.

Maybe with the increasing effects of gravity over the years, I’ll at least stay grounded ☺

Intimacy, Living, parenting

The Perils of NFP

I awoke this morning with a thermometer in my eye. My two and a half year-old, having recently mastered the art of crib climbing (as in, out of), came stealthily to my bedside and announced her presence by handing me my thermometer, point-first, in the eye.

“Thank you, honey,” I murmured as I deftly plucked it out of her little hand and out of range of my eye.

Rousing myself to face any day is hard enough – exhaustion keeping me down, thoughts of the daily grind keeping me from getting up. A poke in the eye by a metal-tipped prod adds injury to the insult.

Every morning for more than a decade, I’ve taken my temperature before rising, marking it down on a chart as part of the Creighton Model of Natural Family Planning. I’ve also noted other symptoms of my cycle, such as the start and duration of my period, any pain, etc. For the most part, it’s been no problem. For all the reasons that matter, I’m glad my husband and I have chosen this method to order the reproductive part of our lives.

Then there is the drawer of my bedside table, spewing charts from months past, always a pen, the thermometer. One more thing to add to my morning routine – the taking of the temperature; and one more thing to do before bed – recording the temperature (because I usually don’t have – or take – the time to do it in the morning).

And the restraint it takes to successfully practice Natural Family Planning. There are certain days in my cycle that we must abstain from sex if we wish to postpone or prevent pregnancy. Then, there are days when it ‘might’ be safe. That’s when the third ring of our circus (see last post) found her way into the world. My husband may never get lucky during that range of days again! Unless I/we decide to throw caution to the wind.

But, then, that’s the point of Natural Family Planning – and perhaps what makes it hardest for even the most God-fearing humans to practice. Relinquishing control.

I may not have been ready for a baby at that time, and yet, I cannot imagine my life without her love in it. And the personal struggles that I dealt with during my pregnancy and postpartum with her, have wrought changes in me that never would have happened had I waited until a time I deemed the right one. The self-control and mutual respect that my husband and I had at the start of our marriage have blossomed into a stronger partnership as we follow this method.

With the ebb and flow of my body’s natural cycles, God has a chance to interject His will into our usually tightly structured plans. There certainly is no peril in that.

Me getting over my control-freak tendencies – and avoiding blinding by impalement – that’s another story. At least I can find a new spot for my thermometer – because I’m thinking the crib climbing is just the beginning.

anxiety, motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression, Recovery

Three Ring Circus

Don’t tell my baby, but my third pregnancy was a huge surprise.

My husband and I cut our wedding cake to the tune of Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” – we envisioned a life with ‘three little kids for the flavor’. But just like the top to the spice jar coming loose unexpectedly and dumping a whole pile of paprika in the pot, we got all that flavor all at the same time.

When Julia, our second, was born, we said, “Oh, yeah, she’ll definitely have to be older than Bella is now when we have a third.” God chuckled at that one. Just after Christmas just under two years later, we found out Number Three was on its way. Angela was born when Julia was four months younger than Bella was at her debut as a big sister.

When we found out I was pregnant, my husband and I were instantly wrapped in a cocoon of haze. Everything seemed blurry and just out of reach. Lost in our own thoughts, we wandered around in shock. We didn’t tell anyone right away because we’d always waited until we knew the baby was well on its way, but also because we were waiting to wrap our heads around it.

Mere days after proof positive, we attended a New Years’ Party. In attendance was a mother of three I’d come to know through the host. I knew wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to tell her I was about to join her club, but I needed some assurance that I could do this. She always seemed such a magnanimous mother, building her children up while laughing enough with them to keep them grounded. If she said it was do-able, I could do it. I asked her what it was like going from two to three children. She said, “I have never been more acutely aware of the fact that I only have two hands.” We laughed, her sense of humor seemingly able to overarch any obstacle in her way. I can still see her standing there, those two hands raised in front of her.

Her words came back to me once we were all home from the hospital. When someone asked me what it was like going from two to three, I said, that yes, there is some truth to the theory that it’s easier than going from one to two because you’re used to keeping all the balls in the air – but what no one tells you is that there’s always. a. ball. in. the. air.

I was a veritable ringmaster with all the balls I kept hurling into the air and trying frantically to catch and hoist again. There was no intermission. No time to catch my breath. And I felt like I’d missed a very important set of lessons at circus school. The fact that this circus took place under the big top of postpartum depression did not lend any sort of solace to the situation. There were times I felt like I was the #1 attraction for the freak show. But even though I was at the mercy of my hormones, I somehow made it through – and thankfully didn’t end up looking like the bearded lady.

Life is still crazy, but I’m feeling less so lately. It’s just the usual brand of crazy, the kind that comes with three little kids and the flavor they bring (aided by the hula hoops the Easter Bunny brought each of them this year). It may have been an acquired taste, but now it’s my favorite flavor.

Living, Writing

Dreaming in Blog

Last night, I dreamt I was walking down the broad, curving main road that passes by my street. I waved to my daughter’s playmates. I laughed at the bizarre boat race in the bay. I pushed my children to the side of the road when a snow plow came careening around the corner. It was at that point that I probably should’ve realized my subconscious was in control. Even though I live in New England, the weather does not shift that abruptly.

But no, I continued on down that street. I think there may have even been a parade. Then as easily as they do in dreams, the street morphed into another, further removed from my home. I passed by small businesses, restaurants whose culinary ancestors hailed from various countries. In fact, there were two such restaurants from two apparently feuding South American countries directly across the street from each other. I knew the origin of each cuisine from the outline of its country on the front of the restaurant, of course. And I knew they were feuding because, well, some things are just understood in dreams.

As I passed the front porch of the restaurant closest to me, a man in an apron stepped onto it and deposited something that looked like a pizza box on one of the outdoor tables. He was trying to sneak off the porch when another man in an apron stepped out the door.

He questioned him. “Aren’t you from [feuding country’s restaurant]?

“Yes, I’m just taking part in the ancient tradition of the holiday truce in which we share our culinary treasures with our foes,” he said, and moved off the porch.

The second man’s face softened. “I thought that tradition had died out,” he said. “I’m glad to see it lives on.”

All this as I moved (apparently very slowly) past the building. But time, like place, is also fluid in dreams.

As my husband and I (who knows where the kids had gone!) moved on to a nearby hotel’s sorely lacking continental breakfast and I melted my swizzle sticks in my cup of coffee, I thought, “What an amazing blog entry this would make! A story of cultural divides torn down, if only for a day. And I witnessed it firsthand!”

And then I woke up. Is it bad to say I was disappointed when I did? When I found out that none of that which seemed so vivid and heartfelt was real? And that I missed out on a kick-ass blog entry?

Now, those that analyze dreams would have a field day with this one. I walked through all these scenes without interacting. I created hybridized cultures and foods. I thought I’d found the answer to many of the world’s problems. I lost my kids. And thought melting plastic into my morning drink was a good idea (not to mention I don’t even drink coffee).

But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d have the following to say:

I stayed up way too late blogging because I was so psyched about my new-found versatility; said staying up late caused restless and insufficient sleep
Cause of staying up late meant I had blogging on my mind
I dreamt of coffee because I knew once I woke up I’d be dragging; I screwed up the coffee because my subconscious knew I wouldn’t like it
I saved my kids because I’m always afraid I won’t be able to some time in real life
I dreamt of varied foods because I’m always looking for something new and delicious; and because I’m apparently in denial about this blog not being about food.
Holiday traditions? Thinking of the true meaning of what we hold dear after Easter’s recent celebrations?
And I’ve always wanted world peace – even if it’s one restaurant at a time. What can I say, I’m a sucker.

parenting, Writing

A fabulous lady who stepped out of the blogosphere and onto my stats page nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. Tiny steps, big journey first found me sometime in February, then we bonded over Star Wars and a predisposition to dressing our kids in Star Wars garb! No matter what our parenting experience, it’s the commonalities that draw us together, isn’t it?

So I looked up the definition of versatile for a deeper understanding of it. Visuwords, one of my favorite language sites, says versatile is varied, which I knew, but also skilled and mobile. I’d like to think I’m not only a versatile blogger, then, but parent as well; skilled in handling the various crises that come my way, such as shuddering and moving to another room when my seven year-old daughter sings “I’m Sexy and I Know It”.

If you find yourself nominated, you’ve been awarded The Versatile Blogger award. And then, you need to pay it forward:

Thank the person who gave you this award
Include a link to their blog
Select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly
Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award — you might include a link to this site.
Tell the person who nominated you seven things about yourself

Seven things about me:

I love the combination of chocolate and peanut butter.
I was slightly obsessed with anything Jack Kerouac for the better part of ten years.
I am neither a morning person nor a night owl; I thrive between the hours of 10 AM and 2 PM.
I was born tired (which may explain # 3).
I am an only child raising three children (at times, bizarre!)
I love to sing.
I love to compete with my husband as to who can first name the title and artist of a song within the first few beats.

And the nominees are . . .

1. The Fulcrum Chronicles

2. Burgeoning School Psychologist

3. Mermaids Love Sushi

4. grrlscene

9. misslisted

10. A Calibama State of Mind

11. Sassy Sass

12. Unexpectant

13. Momma Swears

14. Off-Duty Mom

15. For His Love . . .

These fifteen fabulous blogs are not ranked in any way, shape, or form. I’ve found something that speaks to me in all of them, as I hope you have in mine. Thank you!

I’m Versatile and (Now) I Know It

anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Torn

I felt like a thief, stealing away in the gloom before the house’s inhabitants awoke from their slumbers. My voice caught in my throat when I called to my husband, “Give them kisses for me when they wake up.” It felt so wrong to be leaving, especially when they didn’t have the chance to protest. They’d been prepared well in advance, but somehow, it still felt covert.

I looked at the house as I drove away and waved at the closed curtains, the locked doors, the house already closed to me mere minutes after my leaving. In my mind’s eye, I saw my youngest’s eyes peeking over the windowsill to wave another time I recently left. I missed them already.

It took me awhile to settle into the drive, but eventually I pulled out the CDs I’d packed for the trip. (Yes, CDs – apparently, my technology is at pace with the frequency of solo road trips). I’d packed selections to fire me up for a marathon drive and a fun reunion at the end with a friend I don’t get to see nearly enough. I’d also picked stuff I can’t listen to when driving the kids around. I listened to the entire Beastie Boys’ Sounds of Science anthology and then switched to The Clash. While I was having a grand old time car-dancing and singing along, it was about this time that I realized, I must be angry. Punk rock, rap, ska with a driving back beat, songs with titles like, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”.

Was/is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Is some part of me totally repressed by my current state of affairs? Am I really unhappy with the way life is? Am I speeding down the highway chasing after the ‘me’ I lost somewhere along the line? Am I doing such a sucky job at getting respite time that I’m about to blow? Or did I really just need a road trip?

Somewhere around hour four of the six-hour trip, the soothing effects of the road took over. I got used to the hum of the motor around 2800 rpms, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel, the crick in the back of the heel from my foot’s constant 45 degree angle on the gas pedal, the dull ache of the full bladder that I’d chosen to ignore till the final destination. The traffic thinned, the sun came out, and my mind cleared. I thought about everything and nothing.

I realized that one freeing thing about being totally overwhelmed and screwing up postpartum was that my heretofore-crippling bent toward perfectionism was thrown out the window. Now, if not ever before, it was blindingly clear that it just wasn’t gonna happen. And that theory was thrown out the window, when later that night, I confided to my friend that I felt like I couldn’t possibly do everything for my children. She said that feeling came from me worrying so much about doing such a good job (i.e. perfectionism).

The whole weekend was a study in contradictions, me being torn in different directions.

Fear gripped me when we headed to the restaurant at 3 PM for lunch. What about dinner? Used to following a schedule acceptable for little bodies needing balanced meals, it took me awhile to adjust to eating whatever, whenever I wanted. I ate so much at “lunch”, I had chips and Twizzlers for “dinner” at some point in the evening – I lost track. I ate granola and yogurt for breakfast the next morning, but then gorged on a short stack with all the sides for “lupper” (we messed with meals so much this weekend, my friend started giving them her own names).

I wistfully noticed the babies in the arms or on the hips of nearly every person we passed. Were there really that many small children in the state of Maine or was I missing my own babies that much it just seemed like it? Though my husband does say all there is to do in Maine during winter is drink and have sex, so maybe there really are that many kids – and maybe that’s why he’s always wanted to move there ☺

Yet, I relished in looking at every single item on every single aisle of every single store if I felt like it – with no one to whine at me. I loved chatting with my friend with no screeching interruptions – though we had so much to catch up on, we interrupted each other plenty of times. I loved not waking up in the middle of night!!!!!!

I think what I liked most of all was being able to operate on the basest of levels. Basic functions: eat, sleep, pee, laugh, breathe, be. The weight of responsibility was lifted from my shoulders – if only for 36 hours. And that’s what I meant when in my last post, “that which I was trying to escape had stowed away in the backseat”. I don’t want to escape my children at all. I love them and will always – even if it’s the death of me.

It was just really nice to get away. Though, the squeezes I got when I walked in the door Sunday night were more powerful that any pressure I’ve ever felt in this trip called motherhood.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Monthly Archives: April 2012