Posts Tagged ‘mommypants moment’
Monday, June 27th, 2011
Today’s Mommypants Moment comes from Morgan of The Little Hen House. I’ve met Morgan a few times and she is adorable and funny and I always am excited to see her. She’s bringing her funny (and her adorableness!) here today.
When I think about my Mommypants, I imagine them to be a super hero cape that instantly transforms me into Super Mom: Capable of handling any parenting challenge that comes my way.
I wore my Mommypants every day almost exactly one year ago, when my oldest was potty training. Any mother who has been through this process knows how scary it is to leave the house when your pint-sized potty user is still learning the ropes. Trips outside of the home that last more than say, 5 minutes, become a race against the clock (and a teeny tiny bladder).
I was taking my two girls to see my brother in Oregon and I needed to make a trip to Walmart (I know, I’m a terrible person) to get some traveling essentials, a few things to keep us occupied on the plane: lollipops, animal crackers, and Xanax. You know, the bare necessities.
About 15 minutes after I stepped inside the dingy, florescent lighted building, Emma turned to me and said those fateful words, “Mommy, I need to go potty. Bad.” I raced to the bathroom, pulled down her Princess panties, and we waited. And waited. And then…..
The friggin’ automatic flusher goes off without any warning. Emma got so scared that I was surprised she didn’t just let all that pee pee out right then and there. Oh no, that would have been too easy. It seems that the ill-timed automatic flusher had the opposite effect on her and the pee pee did a U-Turn somewhere along the lines and then parked itself halfway between her bladder and the exit.
Me: “Emma. I need you to just relax and let the pee pee out.”
Emma: “I can’t.”
Me: “Yes you can. You do it all the time. This is just like at home, except the toilet is magic and flushes all by itself. How cool is that?! Yaaaaaaaay!”
Emma: “The pee pee won’t come out. It’s busy.”
Emma: “It’s busy swimming in my tummy. It won’t come out.”
With those last words she hopped off the potty, ran out of the stall, and refused to “go.” Can you really blame her? I’ve had one of those flushers go off on me out of nowhere and it totally sucked. Can I just say right now that there are some things I am 100% fine with taking care of myself and flushing the toilet is one of them? Thankyouverymuch.
Some of you might be wondering what my infant was doing during all this. I mean, she was only five months old at time- she had to be somewhere. She was strapped in a Baby Bjorn, happy as a clam, sandwiched between me and Emma’s busy pee pee tummy, and kicking her little legs with glee. You know, this is the stuff memories are made of.
I’m not gonna lie: I panicked. The kind of panic you see in Animal Kingdom reruns when the mother lioness is stalking an unsuspecting gazelle and if you look really, really close you can see the fear light up in the poor victim’s eyes just as her jaws clamp down on its throat. Except I was no lioness. Oh no, I was the gazelle. I. Was. The. Gazelle.
This was my Mommypants Moment. Because you need them ASAP when you are in the middle of Walmart with a two year old who is about to pee her pants, but refuses to use the evil spontaneously flushing potty. I slipped on my Mommypants (is it just me or are they a little tight around the thigh?), picked Emma up by her waist (not too tightly- eeek!), threw her over my shoulder, and made a run for it.
I ran and I ran and then I ran right into heaven: The diaper aisle. I grabbed the closest pack of Pull Ups, dropped Emma’s pants, and slipped a perfectly pink pair Pull Ups right over her sweet cheeks. Sure, it may have looked a little strange to passers by, but let’s be honest here: It’s Walmart. You’ve seen the get-ups. So no one can poo poo at a two year-old dropping trou in the middle of the diaper aisle. I mean, really.
It was a victorious moment for me; a time when my Mommypants turned me into Super Mom- a mother who has the power to overcome any potty training predicament. And one who always remembers to carry Post-it Notes in her purse. You know, to cover automatic flushing sensors.
Monday, June 20th, 2011
Today’s Mommypants Moment comes from, well, me. It’s the one-year blogaversary of Mommypants, when I relaunched my old blog after four years of blogging. So for those of you doing the math at home, that’s almost five years I’ve been throwing my words around. I want to thank each and every one of you who comes by here and leaves your comments. I am proud of the community I’ve formed – WE’VE formed. Your support means the world to me.
We sit at a table at The Habit. Sawyer is waiting for his steak sandwich. David grabs X to keep him from falling over the seat into the booth behind us. Sage asks – again – when her food will be here.
“Daddy? How did you and Mommy fall in love?” Sawyer asks.
He has posed a lot of these sorts of questions lately. What was our favorite food when we were his age? What was the name of our best friend in first grade?
We tell him about how me met at an airport, how we went on our first date six months later, and how that was it.
“You know what else?” I say. “YOU are the one who made me a mommy. Before you, I was not a mommy and Daddy was not a daddy. We were already Mommy and Daddy when Sage and Xander were born. But you were the one who made us that.”
“Oooh,” he says.
He is proud. He sits back and smiles. This is something so incredibly special, something he’d never thought of before. The true gift of being The First.
Maybe, just maybe, he realizes a teeny bit just how much HE changed our lives.
It’s pretty awesome.
Shell over at Things I can’t say is hosting a Rock The Bump linky over at her place. Almost 200 bloggers have posted pictures of their baby bumps. I haven’t done it because, well, there was nothing cute about my pregnant self. Nothing at all. Which is why there are so few pictures of me in that condition. I did dig some up because, why not?
Here’s me about five months pregnant with Sawyer. I gained 60 pounds during this pregnancy, and as you can see, my butt is bigger than my bump. Also, I look stoned. I saw this picture today for the first time in years and both David and I said, “WHOA!” That’s a whole lotta me. Ack.
I was much more active during my pregnancy with Sage. I think I ended up gaining just under 40 pounds with her. This picture was taken 15 days before she was born. Again, I look stoned.
Here I am seven months pregnant with X. It was my 40th birthday and David surprised me with tickets to see Wicked. It was an amazing night. My hair got so thick and beautiful during this pregnancy. Then it all fell out. The end.
I will never be pregnant again. I will never feel those little kicks, never dream about who the little creature inside me will grow to be.
I still get a tiny twinge when I see a woman rocking a bump. I smile.
But really? I’m glad it’s not me.
I’m glad it’s not me.
Monday, June 13th, 2011
Today’s Mommypants Moment comes from the adorable Mandy of Mandyland. I was lucky enough to meet Mandy in person, and she’s as warm and lovely as she appears on her blog. Besides being a very talented writer, she also gardens and cans and does all that creative kind of stuff that is just not in my DNA. Mostly, I’m proud to call her my friend.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. I turned to the left, then the right, frowning.
The pants were the right size, the right length, the right color. But something about them wasn’t quite right. They were a bit…thin.
I didn’t understand. How could I have worn them for five years and never noticed how delicate they were? They looked as if the slightest movement, the merest brush against roughness, would shred them to pieces.
With a flash of insight, I realized these pants wouldn’t survive our new journey. I needed something stronger, something sturdier, something tougher.
I needed mommy pants that would withstand the unsolicited advice from friends and family with patience.
I needed mommy pants that would deflect the scorn and assumptions of strangers.
I needed mommy pants that would fight to keep my children’s faith in love alive.
I needed mommy pants that would withstand the temptation to give up and huddle in a ball in the middle of the bed.
I needed mommy pants that would double as daddy pants on those days when I had to be both.
I needed mommy pants that would give me the confidence to sleep alone.
I needed mommy pants that would give me the strength to kill the spiders, to chase away the boogey man, to take out the trash.
Most of all, I needed mommy pants tough enough to answer the questions my children will someday have; to raise them to believe that love comes in all forms and sometimes, the best form of all is friendship with the person who helped create two beautiful miracles.
I carefully slid my old pants off and set them aside. I let my fingers linger on the stains from spit ups and tears. I lightly ran a nail along a couple of patched holes and the frayed seams. I held them to my face and breathing in the scent of lost dreams, lost hopes, lost ideals. Gently, I wrapped them in tissue paper, protecting their fragility.
Then, I reached for a new pair. I slid them over my hips and snapped them closed. Looking into the mirror, I was surprised to see that they fit.
In fact, they fit very well.
Monday, May 30th, 2011
Today’s Mommypants Moment is by the lovely CDG of Move Over Mary Poppins. CDG is a wonderful writer (who can pen a sex scene and a hot hero like no other!) and is someone with whom I’ve enjoyed discussing the art of writing. She is funny and kind and smart and I think I’m just a bit in love with her.
I put them on when I was twenty-two. My first real job out of college, nannying for a six-month old baby boy.
From the moment I arrived at his house at 7:30 in the morning, until the moment I left it at 7 in the evening, he was solely my responsibility. I fed him, clothed him; I decided the rhythm of our days. I read and sang to him. I changed his diapers and called the pediatrician if he got sick. I helped him learn to walk, talk, and be a good person in the world.
I loved him. Without reserve.
Sure, he wasn’t my child, but he was, he still is, the child of my heart, more so than any other I’ve cared for in my long child-care career.
I dare you to tell me I wasn’t mothering him.
Ten years, a move, two younger siblings, and the birth of my own child later, I was still mothering him for 55 hours a week.
And then my position as his nanny ended, abruptly and difficultly. We were both devastated.
Walking him back from Rosh Hashanah services that mild September evening we had a conversation which reminded me what wearing the Mommy Pants was really about.
He kept asking me why? Why are you going? Why can’t you stay?
“C, I wish you weren’t going,” he said.
“Listen, kiddo, you and E and O don’t need me all the time anymore, and I need to work more hours than just after your school day.”
I wanted to say, I want to stay! I do! I would have taken the pay cut. I never thought it was going to end like this.
“Will we still see you?” he asks.
“Of course you will.”
“And Felix, too?” the longing in his voice when he asks about my then just-shy-of-two-year-old son breaks my heart. They are as much brothers as any genetic siblings.
I nod yes, my heart hard in my throat.
“But why can’t you take care of us in the afternoons and some other kids in the mornings?” His logic is sound; his intellect sharp. That I had a hand in honing it? A gift beyond measure.
I wanted to do just that, but I never got a chance to say so. Your family changed the rules and left me hanging. I don’t want to go. I love you!
“It just isn’t going to work out that way, sweetie, but it doesn’t change how much I love you, how much Felix loves you, and I promise: I will always be here if you need me.”
I put an arm around his knobby ten year old shoulders, and felt him melt into my side. I pressed my face to his coarse little boy hair, smelling a hint of the baby he’d been a heartbeat ago, and blinked back the tears that threatened.
And in that brief, walking embrace, I hoped I’d managed to say the right thing.
Monday, May 23rd, 2011
Today’s Mommypants Moment comes from Ilana of Mommy Shorts. I think I found her one day on twitter when we were trying to create an outfit out of blogs that had Mommy followed by clothes of some sort. Anyway, what I love about Ilana is she’s funny. Really, really funny, with a dry sense of humor I really appreciate. This post definitely brought back memories for me!
I never had any doubt that I would breastfeed. I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever, so if you tell me breast milk is the healthiest thing for the baby, that’s what I’m going to give her. Besides, I’m not one to pass up a calorie burning opportunity that I can accomplish sitting down.
Since I was going back to work after my three month maternity leave, feeding the baby breastmilk was going to involve some mechanics. Specifically – a breast pump. Or as I affectionately came to call it – “The Bane of My Existence”.
My first day back at work, I carried around that nondescript black bag like a third arm, hopping in and out of meetings desperately trying to meet my breastfeeding schedule and trying to convince myself that disrobing in a dingy closet dubbed “The Lactation Room” fit my needs just fine. Seriously. That room had an outlet, a sink and a chair. It looked like a place Jack Bauer would torture suspected terrorists.
But the pump also made it possible for me to breastfeed Mazzy every morning when she woke up and every night before she went to sleep. Two moments I wouldn’t trade for all the convenience in the world. (The 3 a.m. feedings were a different story.)
So the pump became a permanent appendage, my annoying unshakeable sidekick— accompanying me to every client meeting, taking up more than it’s fair share of my suitcase whenever I traveled, interrupting dinner on the (very) occasional night out. Always there to serve as a constant reminder that my life was no longer my own.
In time, I learned which shirts were the easiest to rip off, the most efficient method of assembling and breaking down the various pumping components (if there is a competition somewhere, point me to it) and most important – how to cram the plastic bags of milk into the freezer bag with the least risk of explosion. Despite one horrible moment when I emerged from “The Lactation Room” with my dress tucked into my tights IN THE FRONT, I have to say – as inconvenient as it was to pump several times a day, it also made me feel connected to the baby while I was away from home.
At nine months, Mazzy was no longer interested in breastfeeding. My last attempt was met with screaming, struggling and a “boob pummeling” that put the cabash on my efforts entirely. But I had my sights set on a year, so I continued to pump.
Let me tell you – pumping without actually breastfeeding is not the most rewarding of jobs.
Every time I opened that bag and started to screw together the little bottles, I swear I sighed “The Sigh Heard Round the World.” My bra choices were stretched out and depressing, my boobs were screaming for a spa day, and I was sick of asking stranger after stranger if there was a good place to plug myself in.
Three months later, on Mazzy’s first birthday, I finally let myself off the hook. I celebrated the retirement of the pump by throwing out my nursing bras and finding a nice comfortable home for “The Bane of My Existence” on an unreachably high shelf in the back of my closet. The first night I went to bed without pumping as part of my bedtime routine was a glorious, glorious thing.
But then, a few days later, Mazzy woke in the middle of the night with a stomach virus. She cried and cried but nothing I did would soothe her. Not her blankie. Not her pacifier. Not a bottle.
Even though it had been months since I had actually breastfed, I decided to give it one last shot.
To my surprise, she latched on immediately and took full advantage of what little milk I had left. And as her screams quieted and her body relaxed against mine, suddenly the year I had spent toting around that godawful bag made sense. It had led me to this moment of pure maternal bliss.
That was the last time I breastfed my daughter.
It’s a beautiful memory that I owe completely to the horror show of tubing in the back of my closet.