Motherhood Uncensored

Free birth control aka my trip to Wegman's and Sports Authority last night

Last night I decided it might be fun to go out to dinner at Wegman's, followed by Sports Authority and then Home Depot, which is not something out of the ordinary for people with no children, but generally not for people with children, let alone had FOUR OF THEM.

Maybe it's the cheese steaks and WAWA coffee taking over my brain because there's just no good that can come out of that whatsoever. 

But at dinner time? On a Friday? 

The last attempt at Wegman's alone with four kids a few days ago ended with me doing the "you stand here and you stand here and you stand over here and don't move until I say so" which seems like the best last resort at the time but doesn't actually work because you're distracted by the bagger putting your eggs in with your orange juice and suddenly they are playing tag again in the checkout line and you're apologizing to the 17-year old cashier who looks visibly afraid. 

So why not try it again?

Because I enjoy torture, or really, not cooking and instead paying $389,123 for prepared food from a hot bar so my kids can sit in tiny benches and stare at a television screen while I shove the first meal of the day down my gullet. 

And aside from the fighting over the high chairs, we actually made it through dinner in a totally not-appropriate Emily Post is rolling in her grave this is the sort of thing that people will judge us for situation. 

SpongeBob is my babysitter

(Totally turning that into a bumper sticker)

But the problem with a semi-successful dinner outing is that you get all brave and ballsy and HELL YEAH I'M GOOD AT THIS PARENTING SHIT, MOTHER EFFERS and you think that you can stop at other places and do all the errands because well...

you're dumb. 

TOTAL ROOKIE MOVE. 

Leave while you're ahead, woman. Enjoy the sweet taste of victory (which is gulped down falafel and tofu curry if you're wondering) and leave. 

And really, it wasn't too bad with the kids waving lacrosse sticks at each other, then trying on 20 pairs of roller skates, until Bridget decided she didn't want to wear shoes in the store and threw them at me. 

So I tried to put them back on and that was well, loud, and then she took them off again, at which point a seemingly nice lady decided to "help" me by letting me know that my "other one" was a little far away and "well you might want to..." Which what? What do I might want to do exactly? TELL ME. Because right now I'm trying to put shoes on a screaming 2-year old and unless my child is on fire, I'm pretty sure she's fine.

And really, given how her sister is screaming like someone cut off her feet, I doubt anyone will want to take any person related to her. 

Turns out, my shoe-wearing offspring (who are very good about staying together, by the way) were all standing with their face in the vagina of a mannequin laughing hysterically because LOOK HOW TALL I AM MOMMY NOSE IS RIGHT IN HER... 

Yeah okay then. I'm sorry what were you saying, ma'am?

So hey thanks for the tip, lady, no need to worry. Just here, spreading a little birth control (and sex education, apparently) to my fellow humans at Sports Authority on a Friday night. 

{photo via}

Just beachy

The beach and I are synced up like high school girls apparently because everytime I go, I have my period. 

The IUD has already caused enough interesting issues with that time of the month (said "ISSSSUUUUSEZ" like the British for full effect), but the sea water and sand well they just add to the overall discomfort that's almost as bad as the post-birth giant pad in mesh underpants. 

Actually, I was probably walking like that after two hours of sitting in the sand. 

All this wouldn't be so bad if I was lounging happily on a shaded chair with a cold alcoholic beverage in my hand, finishing up a book I've had on my reading list since 2003 while no water or sand actually touched any part of my body except by feet but certainly not the deepest crevice (Said CREVASSE) that you forgot existed except every year when you're reminded by your OB-GYN.

But there are four children, with sand in all of their bits and pieces, doing their best effort to either get swept away by the ocean tide or get lost on a beach full of children wearing the exact same bathing suit that we all found at Target for $10.99 last week. 

So there is no drinking. No relaxation. No enjoying the very weird crowd of people in front of me with half-braided heads and not-real neck tattoos on their karaoke machine and microphone singing really bad country songs. ON THE BEACH.

Check 1, Check 1, 2. Check check. 

Nope, it's just me and my boring bottle of water (ugh, hydration, seriously?), standing on a beach in a bathing suit full of sand with a half burned body because I was only able to lotion half of myself before I lost half of my kids with a gigantic now completely watersoaked super tampon stuck halfway inside me. 

It's EXACTLY as sexy as it sounds. 

But hey, SIDE BONUS! My inner thighs are now perfectly exfoliated. And I have an amazing tan. 

On the right side of my body. 

Slumber.

Those long, painful sleepless nights are mostly blurry these days, with my littlest now nearly three, tucked each night in her toddler bed. 

What I do remember is the distinct feeling of claustrophobia, from all the holding and rocking and not-co-sleeping, sometimes with a baby literally attached to me. I just wanted to breathe and sleep without a teeny heel stuck in my side or a sweaty head firmly planted in the crook of my arm. 

At first my brain had a hard time processing the longing in my heart to have them back snuggled up next to me, their hot breath on my face. The light snore of their stuffy little nose in my ear.

But now, it's like I never had babies. And a whole piece of my history, the story of motherhood that I clung to so deeply and identified with, the sleepless mom with sore arms and bruised side, is gone. 

I heard rumors of this transition, urban myths (or so I thought) spread by been-there-done-that parents clinging like I am now to those memories and moments that I know now will pass. Then change, to become new memories and moments. 

Where little children cuddle in your bed and actually sleep, their now slightly bigger heel still in your side. Still attached to you. But in a different, better way.

They still need me, but not like before.

I'm okay with that. I think. Or at least, I'll have to be. 

37.

I wept on my walk to the Metro station, lugging my small suitcase behind me, my eyes hidden by sunglasses only slightly out of place amongst early morning commuters. 

There was nothing extraordinary about the last few days, at least to an outsider anyway, that would necessarily warrant tears. 

I'm not quite sure whether it's the number of kids I have or the number I scrawl on the doctor forms next to the age question that has made me content with simplicity but its siren call is hard to ignore. 

The hot cup of coffee while still sitting in bed. A quiet dinner where the only interruption is the waiter with the dessert menu. 

The deep laugh that makes your stomach hurt like you just did a thousand sit-ups. 

You grow accustomed to the IMs, which become almost like side-by-side double beds, where we'd chat in the dark like high school girls until someone drifts off mid-conversation. Twitter is our dinner table, where we crack jokes and laugh, though our glasses and plates don't end up in the same sink when we're done. 

But then you get a taste of it, of friends now family and the joy that is just you and your dear ones, no facades, no masks, no judgments. No frazzled mom, no tired wife. 

"Hey there! I remember you, self," she says, staring back at me in the mirror as I paint my lips in an uncharacteristic shade of bright pink. "You're still around? Good. I haven't seen you in awhile." 

She's right, damnit. She's always right. 

I pulled up to my house with four kids jumping up and down on my front porch, then swinging open my car door and grabbing onto my legs like rabid koala bears before I can even get up out of my seat. 

I had nothing to show for my weekend save a shiny Tiffany necklace and a couple of very stiff legs, but I'd missed them, all of them.

"You look weird, mama, in those pink lips," my son said, stroking my hair as I held him in my arms. "But I like it." 

"So do I," I replied, catching a glance at myself as I walked in. 

So do I. 

Reasons my mom is yelling

I wouldn't stop singing Lumineers.

PS. It's not my fault they keep playing that stupid song over and over again. 

I didn't like the broccoli. Does anyone actually like the broccoli?

 

I peed on the floor. Again.

Which is usually what happens when you don't put a diaper on me. Again. 

 

I let the dog out. I was just doing what the song said.

 

I needed more water at bedtime. Next time lay off the salt on the broccoli, 'kay?

 

 

I have no fucking idea. 

 

I said "fucking."

 

 

 

I keep taking photos of her yelling. 

Touche'