Does this look okay?

"Yes...You look like a mom!"  YOU LOOK LIKE A MOM! The words sucker punched me right in the muffin top.  I'm pretty sure she meant it as a complement, but it felt more like a verbal assault.  She seemed pretty proud of her words-like she had just made me president of her club.  A minivan driving club where everyone wears high rise jeans and mispronounces designer names.
I feel like I may need to clarify.  There is NOTHING that I am more proud of than being a mom.  But there is a difference between looking like a mom and looking like a mom.

I was excited about my party outfit. It was Michael Kohrs (or as my mom would say, Michael Knobs.) What's a girl gotta do around here to get a "Hey, you look good!" or a "Have you lost weight?"  I'd even take a "where'd you get your shoes?" but I wasn't expecting it since most people know where to get flip-flops.

She and I frequently share recipes and war stories from the front lines of our diets.  Truth be told she was doing a bit better than I was.  12 pounds in three weeks, and I was jealous.  Maybe I was even feeling sorry for myself.

Since Isla was born, my weight has really yo-yo'd.  Actually, it's sort of just yo'd. Up.  To make myself feel better,  I pretend it's not my fault. See, here's how I look at it:

There are  two main categories of postpartum body types: Those who bounced back, and the not so lucky.

The bounce backs are divided into two groups.  First, you have what I like to call "the nannies." You might have noticed one leaving the hospital with her newborn  in the jeans she was wearing the day she found out she was pregnant.  Sitting at the park with her 4 year old and her three week old, looking impossibly thin, there is no other explanation.  She must be the nanny. She usually has age on her side...making her young enough to be my daughter. If you've done your math, that pretty much makes me a grandma.  I don't know about you, but I haven't heard any grandmas lately boasting about how easy it is to keep it together after 40.

Then we have the athlete. This is the person who is constantly "mapping their ride" on  facebook. She runs, everyday, and for apparently no reason.  She's not even being chased.  I'm not sure where she gets her energy, who is cleaning her house, feeding her children, or if she works. But she looks good, and Kudos to her for not leaving it to chance.

The second category is also made of two groups.  I'd say most mom's fall into this category ( I certainly do.)  First you have the MIM's or the medical issue moms. After childbirth, it is not uncommon to have something making it difficult to lose weight. (Besides the child.) It could be hormones, metabolism, or thyroid...but you most likely won't find her at the doctor...unless it's a pediatrician.  There simply isn't time.  She most likely doesn't even know there is an actual medical problem, so she may think she is part of the last group.

That being said, I'm pretty sure the last group is my group, so I say this with empathy. We are the martyrs.

On one hand, I can tell you my priorities are in order. Rather, my priority.  It's my daughter.  I make sure she has the diet we all need. Veggie heavy, organic, no sweets. If she wants to play, we play.  If she wants to read, my heart swells even greater...and we read.  If she wants to cuddle, the world stops.  I've got time for all of the important things. 

On the other hand, I would really love, for once, not to end up cowering in fear at the mere hint of the words "pool party." I live 5 minutes from the ocean, and within walking distance to the river.  I should spend the summer months in bathing suits, not avoiding them.  And frankly, when I emerge victoriously in my sassy Michael Knobs party outfit, I should elicit a response other than "you look like a mom."

So what's to be done? What if this time I say I'm going to add "me" to a list of my priorities, and mean it? What does that look like?  Well, it is a work in progress, but I've got high hopes.

In the meantime, if I happen to ask you how I look, you could always forget where they sell flip flops.

 

 

 

Organized parenting. Well, regular parenting. Alright, organized chaos. Fine, it's regular chaos.

I used to know everything there was to know about raising a child.  Then I became a mom.

On July 7th, 2010, my daughter Isla was born.  I was as prepared as anyone in the history of the world.  My vast experience in child rearing (babysitting, friends with kids, and countless observations conducted on checkout lines at Stop and Shop) helped me to create a plan.  Our days would be methodical, organized, and Zen.  I was going to be a cross between June Cleaver and Gandhi.

That was the plan.  Now I know I might as well have spent my time planning the weather.

My five step plan stressed positivity, sleep, and health.

Step 1: Isla's nursery is her retreat.  This will introduce independence and she will spend her nights in there.  We will all be well rested to start our days bright, early, and fresh.

The result?  She sleeps in "Daddy's bed" as she calls it, although it is equally my bed.  "Equally" meaning I get the left quarter, he gets the right quarter, and she takes the remaining half.  This allows her to fit perpendicularly between us.  I spend most nights with her right foot implanted in my left cheek.  Her father is learning to sleep through the beatings.  It's  a slow adjustment, but it seems to be allowing us both a solid 3 hours of sleep per night.

Step 2: Be back at pre-baby weight in 6 months.  I will attend yoga, pilates, and kickboxing at the gym.  Isla will enjoy the daycare they provide.

The result?  She's three, and I am currently wearing maternity pants from her pregnancy.  As for my trips to the gym, I could usually complete a solid 5 to 8 minutes per class. At that point, I would be summoned by one of the daycare workers because a tiny tyrant stole a toy she was playing with, that we also have at our house (but that she doesn't care about when we are home.)

Step 3: Respect other families' peace in public

The result?  Today's trip to Whole Foods took place during what should have been naptime.  By the time we got to the earth friendly cleaning products, her freak-out could be heard in the bulk grains aisle.  A twenty minute conversation with the man behind us at the register ended with her telling him "Wow, you must have a lot of babies in your belly."

Step 4: Our home will be our respite.  A place for everything, and everything in its place.  All of our friends and family are encouraged to pop in with no notice so they can marvel at my ability to keep a home.

The result?  We haven't seen the living room floor in 8 months but we are confident it still exists.  When someone knocks on the door, we hide in the kitchen.

Step 5: Gourmet meals will be prepared nightly by me.  This will most likely require an apron as I will be in a cute outfit for when my husband gets home from work.

The result?  You'll have to excuse me.  I just spilled juice on my yoga pants and the pizza will be here any minute.

So, as you can see my plan was solid, but the execution may need a little work.  I like to call it a plan in progress. We are happy, though, and I wouldn't plan it any other way.

Our Thing

Don't let my shoe collection fool you.  I'm a hippie mom.  I'm a vegetarian, baby wearing, tree hugging hippie mom.

Hardcore carnivores think my meatless meatballs are the real deal.  I try to make my family's skincare products, but when I buy them I'm very conscious of ingredients.  I can do it all, and sing Edie Brickell's greatest hits while I do.

We gently shoo bugs out of our home, and are even developing a respect for bees (which I have a borderline irrational fear of since one flew into my shirt 28 years ago.)  Yup, I'm a hippie mom.

A few months ago, during dinner, Isla (my three year old) handed me a bean.  She said "look Mommy, this makes a beanstalk. We could climb it and go see the giant."

It made me think.  Why don't we have a garden?  I've always wanted one.  I find digging in the dirt cathartic.  Alright, maybe it grosses me out a teeny bit. There was that girl who went blind because of a parasite she caught from touching her eyes while gardening.  I'll just have to make sure I wash my hands.  And I'll get the special soil, sans parasites.  

Hippie moms automatically have green thumbs, right? Well, not exactly. But I approached my personal Garden of Eden the way I approach everything else. Full throttle.

From the comfort of our dining room in March we started our seedlings.  My little garden partner and I planted tomatoes, peppers, squash, cucumbers and herbs.  We're Old and Young MacDonald.

In a week we had "babies" as Isla called them.  Little green sprouts soaking up the sun at every south facing window in our home.  Once I caught Isla trying to motivate them.  "GROW!!!" She yelled at the top of her lungs.  "Don't yell, honey.  Be Supportive."  "You can do it, little guys!" from that moment she made it her job to be their own personal sunshine.  One night I walked into the kitchen and she was holding a plant in her hand.  It obviously needed to be watered and it was starting to wilt.  "Don't worry.  My mommy is going to take care of you."  As I ran for the watering can she started to sing "Three Little Birds". 

It was then that I realized two things.  Number one- the answer to the age old question "What do you get when you cross a hippie mom with a surfer dad?"  Rasta child.

Number two-this is "our thing".  I've always wondered what "our thing" would be. (I mean, of course, besides cuddling which we pretty much have down to a science.) Isla's dad is so athletic- he's cornered the market on mud runs and soccer games.  And biking and surfing and anything that requires a ball.

This is OUR thing!  Together we are filling our home with life, our kitchen with organic veggies that we grew ourselves, and our yard with beanstalks.

I'm hoping that in the fall we can carve our own pumpkins.  Maybe we will even take one with us when we go see the giant.

The Wrong Target Market

Today my faith in one of the best places on Earth was tested.  That place is Target.

It is one of the few places that 45 minutes of alone time can be transformed into a mini-vacation complete with a venti half-caf caramel macchiato.

I love that Tyra Banks conspired with Oprah to make buying inexpensive clothes fashionable there.  Its name rolls off your tongue like that of a boutique found on the Champs-Élysées..."Tar-Jay".

On a good day there, you can pick up clothes for work, an outfit to pretend you are going to do yoga in, a lawn chair, diapers, and dinner.

We were on a mission to get some exercise sneakers inspired by my three-year-old, Isla.  I think her exact words were "Mommy, you look funny in your belly." Maybe it's because I was wearing maternity shorts (from when I was pregnant with her.) Or maybe it's because of my affinity for all things food related.

While we were there, we picked out a birthday present for her friend.  Her first choice was a total score.  A Furbee.  It's loud and cute.  Her friend will love it, and it will be sufficient payback for the drum machine Isla received on Christmas.

Somewhere around the sock aisle, it happened.  She ran to the shelf, picked up something, ran back and yelled "It's so pretty! I want it." Not being a big fan of "I want it", I waited for the "manners" song and dance. "MAY OI HAVE IT PLEASE?" (She gets an accent when she's being polite.) She handed it to me so proudly.

I'm not easily confused, but this was seriously puzzling.  What she handed me was a training bra. Warning...I'm about to sound like a grandmother talking about walking to school, 5 miles both ways, with no shoes.  But when I was a kid, a training bra was a bit more, well, innocent.  This "training bra" looked like it was part of Victoria Secret's "Very Sexy" line. It was a padded training bra for a seven year old.  I can't possibly imagine what she could be training for.

"PUH-LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZ MOMMY?" she said it again.  This time she hugged my leg a little.

Luckily I was able to divert her attention to some Elmo jammies and quickly stash it back in its home next to an equally troubling pair of tiny bikini panties.

Don't get me wrong.  I remember the days of "I must, I must, I must increase my bust" but the only company willing to help me was Charmin.  And I was closer to 12. I get that there may be a small (and disturbing) market for this, but is it really the message we want to send to our daughters?

One day I will no longer be able to divert her attention.  One day this will require "a conversation" and I'm not sure what I will say.  For now, I'm going to give Tar-jay the benefit of the doubt.  If you need me, I'll be in my yoga clothes, on my new lawn chair, drinking my macchiato.

These are not the droids you are looking for

You can draw a line on the ground and put everyone in the world on either side of it. The line says "Star Wars", and the sides represent "Pro" and "Con." On one side, there are people dressed like Chewbacca, none dressed like Jar Jar Binks, and they all know that The Millenium Falcon is the ship that made the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs. If you are laughing to yourself right now because you know that a parsec is a unit of distance, not time, we are on the same side of that line. I am a geek. This is a fact I am proud of, and occasionally comes in handy.

The other night, completely out of nowhere, our  WiFi stopped working. I immediately went into helpless, techless-mom mode and called tech support at our cable company. After 5 phone calls, and 17 suggestions to unplug my router, I realized they may have improperly named their department.  That's when I remembered. I am not a helpless, techless-mom.  I'm one of the moms with nerd in my blood. I once beat Sheldon Cooper at StarWars trivial pursuit. I can do this!

No thank you Comcast.  I will not pay a $79.00 one time fee for you to wirelessly access my computer. I will do this myself!

I had to.  Not only am I supernerd mom.  I'm also the next Martin Scorcese.  Or at least that's what I've been telling myself since I saw Singles in 1992.  And, I say it like this "I'm only, like, the next Martin Scorseeeeeez..." I made a video. Well, sort of.

Ok. I'm not Martin Scorcese. But I did finally take my favorite pictures from our wedding and put them into a video on YouTube.  So...if you are interested, here they are. Unfortunately you have to be at a Desktop to watch them. I'm sure there is a way to watch them on mobile devices, but i'm certainly not calling "tech support" to ask for help. Maybe I'll get my nerd on again later and figure it out myself.

Boogie Nights

Last Sunday, after a few years of planning, and a false start in November (thanks Sandy), we finally got married.  People keep asking me how it feels.  Although I'm sure the question is rhetorical, I have an answer.  It feels like pneumonia, and it sounds like mucus, but we are happy. Really happy.

I've always prided myself on a natural approach to keeping our family healthy.  Our house is always stocked with fresh fruits and veggies and essential oils. We try our best to avoid overly processed foods.  I don't let people touch my pen at work.  Any other week, I think we could have thwarted this illness.  The week of the wedding, though, my "a" game went to the wedding details instead.  I'm trying not to be too hard on myself, but I still think this may have been avoidable.

Our two year old, Isla, was the first victim. It started the week before the wedding, and seemed to be on its way out by the wedding day.  Good luck being a healthy bride when you are sleeping with a two year old who is spraying you with phlegm as you sleep.  And by "as you sleep" I mean "as you sit awake holding her upright so she can sleep." Miraculously, at the wedding, I seemed to be fine.  But the sickness was already in the mail.  You get the picture. We aren't receiving a ton of post-wedding visitors.

Then there is the matter of "the diet." When our wedding got postponed after Hurricane Sandy in November, I decided it was a sign. The universe was telling me that no one should be in a strapless dress with flobbity arms. It took a few weeks to get the hang of it, but with the help of the appropriately titled "Insanity Workout", and an app on my phone called "My Fitness Pal" I was off and running. I was even somehow able to tell TJ to stop bringing me Cadbury Creme eggs after work (an act which classified him as the best fiance EVER.) When Isla got sick, though, the last thing I had energy for was jumping around like a psychopath in my living room and cooking intricate meals. Plus, guess who got to take home the leftover cupcakes from the wedding?  This girl.

So, here we are. Honeymoon; day eight. Isla seems to be getting better. As the mommy, I don't really have a choice...so I guess I'm feeling better too.  Now we just have to make sure TJ doesn't catch our Lung Ninja. Today we are segueing back into healthy actions; making a healthy shopping list and meal plan and going for a walk before the weather goes south again.  If I have the energy, I will go to the food store and cook dinner. Tomorrow (with  little sleep and a little luck) it's game on.