The Justin Timberlake Hangover
Filed under: Mental Strain for Mama, Rockstar, Uncategorized
When Mr. BBM suggested we go to the JT concert for our anniversary, I was kind of surprised. I had imagined a weekend away, somewhere quiet, where we could catch up on sleep. Exciting, I know. But with a 12, 8 and 2-year old in the house, quiet and sleep are two things that are in short supply.
I spent weeks planning my outfit for the occasion. I haven’t had a night out in a big city in a long time. Clearly all the other chicks there thought high black boots were the way to go too. At least I knew I was still somewhat “with it.”
So we went to the concert and had an amazing time. There’s something about being a woman and knowing you’re breathing the same air as JT. It is instantly exhilarating. I couldn’t help thinking as I screamed, “Oh My GOD, he’s coming right here!” that perhaps this is not what Mr. BBM had in mind for our anniversary. Me, him and JT. . . and me screaming with utter joy when the stage began to move and he got closer to us by the minute. I left that concert completely “love-stoned.” No joke. Minus the beer-soaked jacket thanks to some klutzy girl sitting behind me, it was a night I won’t soon forget.
But instead of just enjoying the concert, there was this nagging feeling deep inside. I should have pursued a career in the music industry. I should have been a performer’s manager. I should have been a back-up dancer. Heck, I’ll be the girl that stands on the side of the stage and hands the man water when he needs it.
We spent the night in Philly and came home to our three awesome kids. Little Man followed me around 24/7 and kept hugging me and kissing me. Parting so I could go to the bathroom was almost too much for him. The girls picked up right where they left off with the sibling rivalry and non-stop arguments. Mr. BBM and I couldn’t help but look at each other occasionally and mouth, “let’s go back.” We rarely get a minute, let alone a night, to ourselves. It truly was amazing.
Days later though, as I drop off the dry-cleaning and pick up ingredients needed for dinner, organize Little Man’s toys and go about the business of laundry, the feeling lingers. It’s clearly a JT hangover. The concert was incredible and I can only imagine how cool it would be to be a part of it, day after day, night after night. Can you imagine what it would feel like to be a part of putting on that production? To be a dancer within feet of such an incredible celebrity? To be one of the behind the scenes people who makes it all happen?
Swim Girl and I were having a conversation in the car the other night about it. “Do you wish you were doing something different?” she asked me. It’s a tough question to answer. I think every stay-at-home mom who made the choice to put career aside for her kids would jump at the opportunity to do something extravagant, to go on a worldwide tour. I’ve been thinking about my choice a lot lately. There are things we’d like to do with our house, places we’d like to travel, but we can’t right now. I would never want anyone else raising my kids. We’ve certainly made the sacrifices so that I can be home when they get home from school, so that none of them ever had to go to a daycare setting. But it also meant putting aside the dream of being a big-time magazine editor or writer, navigating the streets of NYC with ease. Also, that whole dream of being the next Madonna, but better and without the gladiator boob contraptions.
So I have it all figured out. JT needs to hire and train me as a back-up dancer (social media genius or even as security!). I’ll need a bus all my own, equipped with enough beds for my family, and internet access so Mr. BBM can work from the road. I also need a nanny. I’ll home school the kids during the day; we’ll travel the world and consider that a year-long field trip. At night, I’ll pop my strawberry bubblegum on stage while my kids chill in the trailer watching Disney movies or finish up their homework. Yep, I’ll be “That Girl,” the one who has it all. Who says I can’t?
Useless
The other night, we took my Mom out for dinner for her birthday. My sister, Mom and I went for manicures and then waited at the bar of the restaurant for the rest of our crew to show up. We got in a conversation and somehow, my volunteer position as the President of my daughters’ swim club came up.
“Yeah, you should quit that,” my sister said. “Little Man is little and he needs you.”
“He gets me,” I protested. “It’s a lot of work, but I do it at home and it’s not like Little Man is being neglected.”
It wasn’t the comment that bothered me, as much as the fact that my Mom and sister had clearly had discussions about how my volunteer position should be eliminated. This is my third year as Co-President along with Mr. BBM of a thriving USA swimming club. In one year, we moved up almost 400 spots nationally. We added 15 more kids to our roster this year and had to turn many away because we simply don’t have the lane space. This past summer, we had enough swimmers in attendance at Junior Olympics to have relays in three age groups. And the relays did well. Twelve of our girls came home with medals; two of our swimmers made the Zones team. In the relatively short time of our tenure, we made major changes to our staff, applied for and received 501c3 status in less than six weeks (which our accountant says is virtually unheard of), and frankly, I’m just getting started.
What bothered me is that it was implied that because there’s no payment for what I do, there’s no value. I disagree.
Yes, I sometimes complain about all the work because there is a LOT. OF. WORK. I spend a minimum of 40 hours per week updating our website, sending out emails, sending in meet entries, and doing things to make our club a better place to swim. I’m tireless in my efforts; and yes, I sometimes get very frustrated with circumstances and people. Because OH. MY. GOD. can people be a pain in the butt sometimes.
But when I’m at the pool, and I see our coaching staff working together so well, and I see our swimmers achieving things they wrote on their goal sheets at the beginning of the year, it makes it all worth it. Every. Single. Moment.
Worth it.
Selfishly, I want this club to be the most amazing place to swim in a 100 mile radius for my kids. I want college coaches to take notice of the swimmers we’re churning out. I’ll stop at nothing to make it that way. But the pay-off is that this year, we have 99 swimmers that are benefiting from our amazing coaches. These 99 kids are all “my kids” in so many ways. Their successes and achievements are my successes and achievements. And just because there’s no payment for what I do doesn’t mean that it’s useless or lacking value. I do what I do because it’s a labor of love.
And it’s worth it. . . for my kids and for every other kid who swims at our club.
Sending my First Grader Back to School
I had a difficult time wrapping my head around sending my girls to school today. In fact, because I wanted just a couple more minutes with her, I actually drove Sassy, my 1st grader, to school today. When I arrived at the school, there were lots of other parents dropping their children off. There was also a Police SUV parked close to the entrance of the school. I felt a little bit of relief, but I’d feel even more if I knew that was a permanent fixture at my girls’ schools.
People are discussing gun control and mental illness, and of course, they are all valid things to be discussing. But personally, I’d like to see an armed police officer in every school in the country. When I taught in a Delaware public school many years ago, we had a school resource officer. He was a constant presence in the school. If there was a fight, he was immediately there and involved. If there were issues with drugs in the bathroom, he knew about it, and took care of it. He got to know the kids and the teachers and having him there was a great comfort, especially considering that I started teaching not long after the Columbine tragedy occurred.
I remember sitting on my living room floor, putting together a project for one of my last Master’s classes, and watching the news of that shooting. Those images were forever burned into my brain. They were there when I started preparing my classroom. I decorated the inside of my classroom door to cover all the glass. I made a conscious effort to always have my classroom door set to lock as soon as it closed. I had an action plan ready in my head at all times so that I could keep my students safe. Thankfully, besides a couple random bomb threats at the school, we never had to go on lock down. But if we had, I was ready; and our school resource officer would have been on the scene from the start. Our school wouldn’t have had to wait those precious 5-10 minutes for 1st responders to arrive. One was already there.
I don’t think there’s a parent out there who would mind their school taxes being increased enough to fund a full-time police resource officer at their child’s school. School budgets are tight, but funding school resource officers should be made a priority. The fact of the matter is that just knowing that there’s an armed and trained person at a school would be a huge deterrent to someone seeking a soft target to do their evil. Imagine for one second, that an armed officer had been inside Sandy Hook Elementary School last week. As soon as the glass was broken, he would have been there to meet the shooter.
And think about this. . . it’s unfathomable for some to imagine arming our school principals. But what if we armed each principal with a stun gun? Could that have saved those 20 first graders? A principal attempted to subdue an armed attacker with nothing more than her person. What if she had some resources available to her? The story may have been a lot different.
It’s easy to look back on horrible events and say things we should have or could have done. But what we should do now is push for an armed police officer in every school. School shootings are very rare and the likelihood of one happening in my neighborhood or your neighborhood is slim; however, there are many advantages of having a police officer in schools. On the news the other night, someone suggested employing armed military veterans at our schools. So many of them are looking for work. Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to put them to work and keep our schools and children safe at the same time.
Will you join me in contacting your local schools to push for more protection for our children while at school? It’s important that we are not lulled into complacency after this tragedy. As time passes, we should not forget. We should move forward and find ways to protect our children at school.
Am I Parenting or in a Street Fight?
I was talking to someone about my blog last weekend, about how I feel completely and totally stifled in what I’m able to write about. When I first started writing, I was completely anonymous. I didn’t even tell Mr. BBM I had a blog until I already had a couple posts up. I had my first comment before he even knew it existed.
Then all of that changed. First, people at my original karate school found out about it. I knew I hadn’t said anything unsavory about anyone, but I still went flying home after class, just to double-check and make sure. Then my family started finding out about it. Then my friends.
At some point, my neighbors found out about my blog. I worried that my crazy neighbor, the one who drank chardonnay at 10 a.m. in fuzzy slippers while stopping to peer in my kitchen window at me, would find out that the way I dealt with her weed garden and airing her litter box out on my sidewalk, was to vent about her erratic behavior on my blog. When she told me a squirrel had found its way into her house and she wasn’t sure where it was, I kind of stopped worrying. Hell, if a squirrel in her house didn’t bother her; nothing I could say was going to get to her.
Then I moved and within a few months, all my new friends and neighbors found out about my blog. Some of my best blog posts are my rants about the crazy people in my life; and when your family, friends, neighbors and everyone else is reading your blog, you’re sort of limited in what you can share without feeling like you’ll have a lynch mob after you.
But I miss writing, because it’s a release for me that I’m currently not getting by going to the gym or going to the dojo. I’m removing the gag and I’m just going to put it all out there and tell you about my week. . . because it was a good one (heavy on the sarcasm).
First, I’m now obsessed with making my own baby food. I started for two reasons: to give the little man healthy food and to save money. The amount of money that I’ve spent on little baby bullet storage containers, a crock pot, a steamer, a masher and a baby food cookbook (which basically says, “cook the crap out of everything and then blend it into nothing”), and a new peeler is definitely going to cancel out the money I thought I’d be saving. I also almost lost a finger this week.
I’ve been using a potato peeler (a super cheap one), since like college. I finally decided to be a big girl and buy a grown up one. I was amazed to find out that it actually peels stuff, well. Like really well. In fact, it peels things so well that while I was peeling an endless amount of apples to make applesauce for Baby Belated (that he still hasn’t eaten because I think he hates apples), I inadvertently peeled my middle finger. It was one of those moments where you’re like ohmygodthathurtouchholycrap, and then you think for just a second that you’re actually going to be ok, right before the gush of blood erupts.
At that point, Baby Belated had decided he was so completely done in his exersaucer. Sassy decided she forgot where all the band-aids were located (and when she finally remembered she brought me one that would cover a pimple, not a gushing near-amputating wound). Swim Girl was busy being an almost teen, locked in her room with her iPod. I wrapped my finger in a paper towel and tried to pretend I wasn’t getting light-headed. I handed a new toy to Baby Belated and ran upstairs to find a band-aid. Sassy beat me to it, because she finally remembered. The bathroom floor was covered with open band-aids, because you clearly can’t tell what size it is until you open it; and even if the paper looks the same size, what’s inside might be much bigger. You know, because that is ALWAYS the case.
I soaked through the paper towel and by the time I got two very tight band-aids on my finger, my bathroom counter looked like a murder scene. I needed chocolate; we had none. I also sort of needed a transfusion.
When dinner was finally ready and the homemade baby applesauce and sweet potatoes were ready too, we all sat down for dinner. Baby Belated decided he would have none of that. I was SOOOOOO happy I had slaved all afternoon and nearly amputated my finger (Hey Layton, you may be right. . . ).
Today, I took the girls for swimming lessons and was maneuvering the stroller into the pool through a double-set of doors when I slammed my left pinky toe into the wheel of the stroller. At this point, I’m fairly certain I have four broken toes, each in various stages of healing, with one still being firmly in the throbbing and hurting like a mother mode. I have broken all four of them on baby things, baby seats, baby strollers. Right now my toe is purple and my entire foot hurts. This is the curse of being born with finger toes when you love flip-flops. I think I need to start buying closed toe sandals like I used to make the girls wear to prevent tripping. It also didn’t help when Sassy asked if she could see my toe, and then proceeded to squeeze it. That’s what everyone with a broken toe needs, someone to squeeze it as hard as they can. (What was that kid thinking???)
Basically, this parenting business has been kicking my butt all week long. I won’t even go into details about how I threw my back out, all in the name of keeping little man asleep in his car seat for a little while, only to have him wake right up the minute I set him down in the house. Nope, not even going there.
On Not Creating Resolutions
Have you created your resolutions for 2012? I haven’t. I’m not doing any this year. I’ve decided that resolutions are just one more thing that women create in order to make themselves feel guilty. I have enough guilt in my life. Scene cuts to Christmas morning with Swim Girl counting presents. I’ll give you one guess who had less.
I actually thought about creating work-out resolutions for this year. Last year, I was on my way to being super in shape. I was working out with my trainer and feeling strong and awesome. Then I got pregnant and started feeling nauseated 24/7 and all that working out business slowed until it stopped.
My trainer also moved to California. He’s now a celebrity trainer. Wayne Brady is one of his clients. Have you seen Wayne Brady lately? Clearly, I was getting him at a steal. And man, do I miss him. I’m thinking about asking him to record a work-out for me. (My sister never did cash in her gift certificate I bought her with him, and I didn’t get to use up my last two sessions since I was too nauseated to make it to the gym). Somehow though, without his physical presence pushing me to hold that plank for 10 more seconds, I picture myself watching the work-out with a handful of chocolates in my lap.
I still remember a lot of the exercises he taught me. The other day I was doing some boxer crunches and decided to follow that with a plank. Since there are no nursing shirts that property conceal “the girls” (or long arms-what is up with that?), and since I was trying to distract myself from the agony of the first plank in many months, I looked down and saw my stomach. . . hanging there.
I won’t go into details. It will suffice it to say that it’s going to take a lot more than crunches and planks to help this stomach. After three kids and the third who decided to stay 15 days beyond what he should have, it’s going to take a plastic surgeon to firm that sucker up. What makes me frustrated is that the muscles are returning. You can feel that they are tight. Standing up straight and tall with a slight arch in my back produces abs that look amazing, especially considering I’m just 10 weeks post-delivery. However, it’s not going to be possible to spend my whole summer standing straight up. When I bend, the illusion is gone. You won’t be seeing me do a plank without a long t-shirt on either. I’ve decided that no one’s skin goes back the way it’s supposed to without surgery; and if you’re one of those people whose stomach skin went back after having three kids without surgical intervention, then please do share how you made that happen. Otherwise, enter ruched swimsuit this summer.
I have to keep it in perspective though. I may not have perfect abs anymore, but I have three amazing kids. Baby Belated is sleeping through the night (and has been for weeks). Swim Girl has qualified for the Junior Olympics in five events already, with many more meets left to qualify in even more. Sassy is currently where she’s supposed to be at the end of the Kindergarten year when it comes to reading and writing. I have much to be thankful for and that stretch-marked skin is certainly worth it. It would just be nice if the reward for bringing such amazing little beings into the world would be a free pass on stretch marks. A little elasticity perhaps?
It would also be nice if I wasn’t feeling like such a total hermit. Having a baby in October turns me into a crazy person. I don’t want visitors who have runny noses. Little kids and their grabby hands around my baby scare me half to death. Why does every stranger who approaches a baby always grab for their hands??? When Baby Belated was just a few weeks old, his sisters both had a terrible stomach virus. I almost locked the two of us in my room until the barfing stopped. It’s also hard to be social when you’re a nursing Mom. Let’s face it, not everyone is comfortable with my revealing method of feeding my son. Although I have a “Hooter Hider” (does just what it says it does), Baby Belated gets irritated with being under wraps while trying to eat his food. Imagine if someone covered you with a blanket when you were trying to eat your dinner! And as comfortable as I am with nursing my baby, it’s not comfortable being in a room with someone who is trying so damn hard to avert their eyes.
My Dad practically has a heart attack whenever I decide to nurse in front of him. Little kids stare at you like you’re a dirty magazine or get way too curious. Some people just get really uncomfortable to the point that they make me uncomfortable. Not everyone is as cool as the lady I sat beside at a swim meet a couple weeks ago. She carried on a conversation with me the whole time and never acted weird for a minute. I wish she could give others lessons. And let’s face it, how many nursing moms want to feel even MORE isolated by taking the baby into a different room. I spent half of our family Christmas party at my aunt’s house, hiding my hooters in her upstairs office. That’s not isolating at all.
I’m also in the new Mom wardrobe slump. Sweatpants with Uggs, a nursing shirt and a zip up sweatshirt is pretty much how I roll these days. The other day, I almost left the house in slippers. I was in the garage until I realized I needed actual shoes. I might soon find myself on “What Not To Wear.” Perhaps that would be a challenge for Stacey and Clinton. Dress a nursing Mom in nursing clothes that doesn’t reveal the girls unless they’re supposed to be revealed during feedings AND camo a set of abs that is less than up to par.
Until I can figure out a way to fix it, I might as well just eat more. If my stomach is full it might just stretch out those marks. Because eating more won’t cause me guilt at all, right?
See, it’s never-ending.
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