please hold for sexy

Look, Sir, all I’m trying to say is that it’s hard for a mom to feel Sexy.

It just is.

Sure, it’s nice to tell us we look Sexy. We appreciate it, we do. But to us, Sexy = a lot of things, the last one often being tied to our appearance.

It’s not that we don’t want to feel good – we do. We’d probably even like to enjoy some sex at the end of the day. And trust me, we’d love to feel hot about ourselves when we do.

It’s just that “Sexy” is hard work. It’s exhausting. And for a mom it’s sometimes harder to obtain than an orgasm.

Sure, early twenties were Sexy, but that’s because there weren’t too many responsibilities and life was just starting to feel real. Hangin’ out. Goin’ to class or “work.”

Drinking.

Laughing.

Dreaming.

Teasing.

Sexy.

Mid-late twenties were still kinda Sexy. Getting a “real” job. Buying “real” clothes.

Growing up.

Maturing.

Sexy.

Being pregnant was Sexy…

…in theory.

Extra skin.

Lots of extra material.

Back pain.

Pregnant “sex.”

Right.

As a mom, Sexy becomes this intense memory. We’re pretty sure we were Sexy. And even if we don’t show it, we know we still are.

Somewhere.

But now Sexy is this state that starts in our head. There is no warning. It just happens.

Some kind of thought or event that triggers the emotions and jumps the serotonin. The serotonin spills into our walk and talk and reflection. Suddenly we look hot and can’t remember why we thought our hair was totally 90’s today.

Of course it usually happens in the middle of the day when we’re either at work, or it’s nap time and this whole Sexy episode threatens to drip off before we can “do something” to “celebrate” it.

And then lunch break is over, or the kids start to whine or they’re hungry or bored. And then the commute or bath time which ruins our make-up and frizzes our hair. And then there’s dinner.

All the while we’re fighting our damnedest to hold on to Sexy because we really did feel great about ourselves, and we don’t want to lose it because People. Won’t. Believe it. If. They. Don’t. See. It.

But even with all of that, we make it.

Everything is done.

The day is over.

We still have energy.

And a drive.

Now, with everything it takes to cling to Sexy, what I want to know is why YOU, Sir, you misogynistic, anti-mom, m-f*cker, decided to peddle these things to mothers.

Are you kidding me?

Are you mocking us?

Are you really suggesting we wear a fleece baggie to bed?

Weren’t the creation of sweatpants bad enough?

Are you trying to push us further into celibacy than we probably already are?

And the flap?

How dare you.

I hope your dick falls off.

Sincerely,

One (Still-Fighting-to-Be) Sexy Mama

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©2008 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

WHY THE REPOSTS?

Thanks for stopping by! I’m taking a break to finish up my book. I’ll be back in a few weeks with new posts and comments and all that good stuff. In the meantime, if you want me to check out a post you’ve written, or need to contact me for any other reason, you can shoot me a note on Twitter or in the comments field of any post.

it’s not you

It’s not you.

It’s me.

Really, it’s me.

I’ve decided to take a break. Not a long one. But a needed one.

I’ve been trying to finish up the second (and hopefully final) draft of my book to get it off to my kick-ass editor by mid-December (more about her later, but for now I’ll just say that she’s amazing), but with everything going on with ONE, the book got moved from the backseat to the trunk.

So now that things are finally getting better at home and I can focus back on the creative, I’m stepping out of the blog arena until my book is done.

On a positive note, ONE is doing much better. I’ll write all about it when I’m back because so much has happened, but I wanted to give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who voiced concern and support and ideas a few weeks ago.

Our first visit with the child therapist went really well. She gave us some great, practical tools that have already made a huge differece. But just like with anything else, you address one issue and it uncovers three more, so we’ve got lots more work to do. But ONE is happy. She’s even happy at school. Last week went so well that she wanted to bake cookies to bring to class. What’s that? Chocolate chip cookie dough for lunch? Bring it!

In the meantime, for those of you who stick around I’m syndicating myself and putting a new/old post on my main page each day until I’m back. It won’t go through to your blog readers or show up on blog pages, since I’ll just be putting it on the front page. I’ll still be around to read comments and emails and stuff on Twitter, but I have to cut it off there because if I’m not careful I’ll spend all of my time not writing.

And again, to all of my readers and lurkers and commenters and friends, THANK YOU. Being a mom can be a lonely struggle sometimes, and as lame as this sounds, I’ve never felt as good about being a mom as I have since meeting all of you through this blog. Even those of you who don’t say anything, you don’t have to. I know you’re there and that’s more than enough.

-CK

PS: I already miss my daily reads, but you guys know I’ll be back as soon as I can. See you then!

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

just in case

RELAX

I’m not going to touch you
I’d never dreeeeeeam of helping you
My hands are nowhere near you, okay?

I’m only standing (all the way over) here just in case.

Just in case you want to climb the wet slide backwards
Just in case you chose to scale that chain-thing
Just in case you ride that rusty scooter without the hand grips
Just in case you pet Jake one too many times

Just in case you jump down the stairs
Just in case you brush your teeth, and then the dog’s
Just in case you try going from the tub to the potty without drying off
Just in case you pull this sh*t again:

Just in case you pretend to bite the balloon, but your pretending includes actually putting the balloon in your mouth
Just in case you need reminding about how we treat other people’s birthday cakes
Just in case you forgot what I said about touching things we won’t buy
Just in case you think I’m an idiot. I’m not. Especially around ceramic

Just in case the playdoh (still) looks tasty
Just in case you’re tempted to remove your clothing and then hide
Just in case the urge to stand in the dog food overwhelms you
Just in case you have a moment of weakness and allow me to help pick out your clothes

Just in case you need me
Just in case I need you to need me
And especially when you don’t.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and you’d better be on the lookout for rusty scooters.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

the top 10 reasons why cold weather can bite me

10 - Forcing Ten Tiny Fingers into Teeny Tiny Gloves. Who’s idea was this? Who decided it was a good idea to give these marionette-like appendages their own cotton slot?

This glove not this glove should be standard-issued for all children until they learn how to do this sh*t for themselves or are too embarrassed by their parents to ask for help.

9 – Lyin’-Ass Windshield. I finally get everyone buckled in and turn on the windshield wipers to remove the condensation only to find that it’s actually ice. Then I have to dig through the foot of kid crap in my car for the scraper I haven’t seen since last spring, all the while feeling guilty for keeping the car running while I scrape. Which, somehow always leads to frost on the inside of my sleeves which really pisses me off because it melts immediately and I don’t like feeling soggy and since we’re on the topic of soggy sleeves…

8 – Tissue Sleeves. It doesn’t matter how many wads of tissues I stuff into a baggies and jam into all available pockets, I always wind up using the cuff of my sweatshirt or jacket to wipe a nose. And then I’m so skeeved that I have to roll it up. So my arm is cold and snot glues my jacket together. And sometimes when I return home I’m so happy to get in the house that I take it off my garment, hang it up and completely forget until the next time I need to wear it.

7 – “Trips” to the Park. Even when you factor in the time it takes to dress up and strip down, the occasional pity walk for the dog, the token trip down the slide and the icy swing ride of death, the entire “trip” never exceeds 18.5 minutes. Which inevitably leads to:

6 – Stop it! Maker her stop it! She’s not listening! I asked her to stop and she hit me! MAMA! SHE JUST HIT ME IN THE FACE WITH HER DOLL. STOP IT! STOP IT! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP IT! Which often leads to:

5 - Spending Money. Not on purpose, but when you stroll through Target, climb in designated (and undesignated) mall play areas or jump on IKEA furniture for sanity purposes, you always find things you forgot you needed. Or coffee that needs drinking…

4 – Running the Trash Outside. So I don’t. Instead I wind up welcoming my husband home after an 11 hour-day with poopy diaper baggies, recycling, and trash bags lined up outside the door and two #6s (see above) waiting for him inside. (You know I love you, Baby.)

3 – The Mice Stop Making an Effort to Co-Exist Secretly.

2 – Baby Back Crack. Why can’t they make onsies for 5 year-olds? It doesn’t matter how long their coats are, they always show that crescent of skin when they bend down that makes you cringe for two reasons. One, it’s freakin’ cold. Two, you realize they’ve already outgrown their pants again. Why does this always happen around Christmas?

1 – Lyin’-Ass Sky. It looks like bedtime. It feels like bedtime. They’re behaving like it’s bedtime. But it’s only 4pm.

Of course, if they never learn to tell time, they’ll never be able to prove that it’s not really time for bed…

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’m locking you in the house with two #6s, an unwalked crazy dog and all of #3s. Have fun, sucka.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

cats in the cradle

With everything going on in ONE’s life lately, I’ve really felt the need to find ways to be softer with her. Being soft with her is a daily struggle. From her first month on earth she wanted to be turned around to face the world. She batted away kisses, didn’t like the restriction of hugs and emotional connections were on her terms only.

I was disappointed, but there’s only so many times a girl wants to be screamed at for lovin’ on her kid, so I gave her her space. And then over the years I became addicted to the space and felt like I needed to protect it. It was a guilt-free pass to “me time.”

But I also knew that if I didn’t want a cats-in-the-cradle type life situation, I had to moderate it. So I’d go on regular >>jags<< with parenting her. Stretches of times when I’d focus on her and finding ways to connect on her terms, just to “even” things out.  And when I made the effort I always found something meaningful in the everyday, applied my good intentions, had success and then binged on “me time” directly afterwards.

But being entrenched in her school anxiety has made me realize that my half-assed efforts won’t cut it anymore. I need to put a little more of me on the shelf and I need to be an adult about it. So once again I’ve put away my computer during the day and tried to focus more on her. And since Thursdays are our days with nothing planned, I was determined to do something special, something soft, with ONE.

She must have sensed it because right after TWO went down for her nap ONE asked if she could use her special porcelain tea set for lunch. I said yes. Then she asked in a casual voice if I wanted to join her. She hesitated as she asked, which made me a little sad, because I could tell she was expecting me to turn her down. So instead I said yes.

She jumped up and down while I retrieved her special tea set. By the time I handed it to her she was already in a costume. She set everything up on the floor while I made sandwiches and prepared the lemonade. And as I watched her pretend to be a princess, I knew exactly how I could make the experience soft and meaningful for her.

I slipped upstairs into the attic and retrieved the only real Halloween costume I’ve ever owned. A Maid Marian get-up I bought years and years ago for a party that she’s never seen, and put it on. I walked back into the room and when she finally noticed I was dressed up, her entire face smiled and she whispered,

“Oh, Mama. You look like an angel!”

This is where I’d normally end my post with a photograph of the two of us in our costumes picnicking in the living room.

But I’d left my tripod in the car.

And my car was parked down the street in front of my neighbor’s house. (>>The neighbor I accidentally flashed<<, remember her?)

And I knew I had to be careful about getting my tripod because I didn’t want to break the spell for ONE. So I raced outside, in my costume, across the yards grabbed the tripod from the car and got back into the house without anyone (to my knowledge) noticing.

And when I walked into the house, a giggling ONE handed me my camera.

And as I sat down to eat it occured to me, my girl was just like me. She was growing up just like me…

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©2009 CEK, GVK. All Rights Reserved. Touch our stuff and your ass is ours. AND you’ve stolen from child.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

bein’ mom

It’s not that eas-y be-in’ mom
Having to spend each day pre-tend-ing to be calm
When I think it could be nic-er
Bein’ left alone in quiet or something much more comforting like that

It’s not that eas-y be-in’ mom.
It seems you blend in with so many oth-er or-di-nar-y moms
And peo-ple tend to pass you over
And you catch yourself remembering simple things you used to do
And wish for them back

But mom’s the giv-er of wings
And mom can be cool and friend-ly like
And mom can defend like an army
Or give refuge when there’s hurting
Or heal with a kiss

When mom is all there is to be
It could make you want to cry
But why lose it, why lose it?

I am mom, and it’ll do fine.
And it’s beau-ti-ful.
And I think
It’s what I want to be.

 

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. You know the drill. Touch any of this sh*t, especially my photographs, and your ass is gonna get pummeled.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

__________________________________________________

PS: This photograph of ONE in her Halloween costume is a photo finalist over at parenting BY dummies. If you have a minute and can cast a vote in her favor, please click >>here<< scroll down to the comments field and vote for #3, “Hermione Who?”

an apology

I’m really sorry.

Don’t roll your eyes. I AM sorry. Let me explain.

First, I’m sorry for judging you. I know I said I wasn’t, but I totally was. I’m sorry for chipping away at your core with posts like >>this one<< in which I claimed that you expelled your gross factor, as well as part of your manliness after I did all the real work, birthing your child. I’m especially sorry for “grrrrr-ing” each time you pretended not to notice one of our rank children frolicking around the house in crappy pants and how you consistently pawned off the one dirty diaper you got stuck with each week.

Because now I understand. I finally get it. All because of:

Don’t worry. I haven’t bought new furniture. This belongs to the nursery I’ve been helping out in lately. And as you might imagine, part of “helping” is diaper rotation. Two weeks ago I got stuck changing the poopy diaper of a sweet, tiny child I didn’t know and it was so gross that I gagged. Not “gag-me-with-a-spoon” gag, but watching-someone-else-vomit gag.

And I continued to dry heave for a few minutes after I put her back down on the floor. For the rest of the shift I actively ignored any other child who smelled as though he/she might have a little somethin’ goin’ on in there. I was NOT the one getting paid to be there. I was just the HELPER.

And then this week when I found myself filling in again, this same adorable child took a man-size dump and wandered over to me to ask for a new diaper. This time when I changed her, my eyes teared and bile crept up the back of my throat. I actually had to step away from the changing table for fear that I would throw up on her. Thankfully she didn’t take the opportunity to escape, as TWO would’ve.

About twenty minutes later another kid had a sh*tty diaper. And it was a boy. Since I’ve never changed a poopy diaper with a penis in it, I just couldn’t do it. So I pretended he was fine. Wished a rash-free existence on he and his family. Waited for the woman in charge to notice. Which she did, God bless her. She changed his stinky behind without a complaint, although I think she might have “grrrrr-ed” at me. I’m not sure.

So like I said, I understand now and I’m sorry.

Because if I changed just one poopy diaper per week and was so wholly unfamiliar with the smell of our kid’s poop that it made me gag, I’d pawn it off on the nearest adult too. And if you stayed home with the kids and changed diapers all day long, I’d also say things like, “Daddy’s better at things like this,” and “What’s one more?” and then walk out of the room.

Because really, what’s one more?

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and you’d better watch your back. And your car. I don’t pelt with eggs, my friend. I’m packing heat. Hot, steamy, poopy diaper heat.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

be that woman

If we don’t look out for each other, who will?

Be That Woman – Pass it on!

–> UPDATED 11/6: the principal’s office

To my friends and readers:

Thank you.

Thank you for your comments and prayers and phone calls and emails. I had no idea when I wrote this post that it would draw in such support, push so many buttons and introduce me to so many voices I’d never heard from before. All I knew was that my husband and I were feeling overwhelmed and scared. And that I needed to get this guilt out of my head.

ONE had a good week at school. No tears, no lies, no excuses. She even slept well, which for her is a big deal given her history of night terrors. I received the number of a highly recommended child therapist who I’m seeing tomorrow by myself. We’ll see what happens after that. I will certainly post updates.

Thank you again to everyone for reading, reaching out and sharing your hearts. I was humbled by the realization of how surrounded and supported I really was.

-CK

<<…LAST TIME ON THE-MAN-AT-TARGET-WHO-TOUCHED-MY-DAUGHTER

I was escorted into the office last week. The principal in front of me and a teacher behind me. The door closed. We all took a seat. “We-Don’t-Know-Where-To-Start” looks from them. A blank look from me. The last time this happened I’d gotten caught smoking during lunch. This time I felt equally as guilty, even though I had no idea what happened.

Turned out ONE’s teacher was concerned that she has anxiety issues. While they boarded the bus for their class trip he played a game with the kids where he pretended to sit on their laps. When he got to her she panicked and said, “Please don’t sit on me. And DON’T touch me, either.” And later when she asked him a question, he squatted down to her height to answer and she backed away from him and almost started to cry.

He told me that he and the class assistant stopped calling everyone “Sweetie” because it so visibly upset her to even hear the word. He also made sure that the assistant (who is female) was the one to help ONE with everything she needed, down to walking with her to the water fountain. He asked if she was anxious at home or if there was anything else I could think of that he could do to make her more comfortable. He also requested that I accompany the class on all future field trips.

Five days later I was back in the office, this time to pick up ONE who was sitting in the back room because her “tummy felt yucky like she was going to throw up.” About a half-hour after we returned home she told me she was actually fine, she just didn’t want to stay at school. She insisted that she wasn’t lying though, because being near her teacher made her feel like she was going to throw up. She continued to beg me to get her into another class because she was afraid he’d touch her like the man at Target did.

Switching classes is impossible (there isn’t another 3-day class) and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to do it anyway. She’s got 12 years of school ahead of her where she won’t have the option to chose her teachers. And this teacher is actually working with us. Doing everything he can to accommodate her and make her comfortable. So it’s actually a safe environment for her to get beyond what’s stuck in her head. She just hasn’t gotten beyond it. Yet.

But at the same time, she’s only 4. She knows her teacher wasn’t the man from Target, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I mean, is this normal behavior for a child who experienced something like this? I’m at such a loss. What if making her stay is screwing with her wiring?

She also understands that if I pull her out I can’t get her into another class and that she’ll have to stay home all day with me instead. Some days she doesn’t care. But other days, like Wednesday, she pumped herself up to go back to school. She sang and jumped and danced. And there were glimmers of her getting stronger.

But the moment she saw him, she turned away, couldn’t make eye contact, mumbled a “hello” and somehow disappeared into her clothes. I couldn’t see her. She gave me a hug and a kiss and marched right into his class anyway. And then cried that night about not wanting to go back. And woke up 5 times sobbing in her sleep last night. And each time she cried I realized that I was already up. Not worrying. Just praying. Floating half-way between sleep and awake.

And as we passed the principal’s office on our way to class this morning and received the knowing, encouraging smiles, I wondered if this would be the day she moves past it, or the day that breaks her. I’m not sure how many more times I can make the walk. Or she can make the walk. Or if we’re doing the right thing.

I just feel helpless. And yet for me, no word is more unacceptable and elicits more guilt than that.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Just don’t touch my sh*t, okay? I’m not in the mood.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

it seemed like a good idea

Teaching you how to dress yourself seemed like a good idea.
Until you undressed in the pharmacy while I secretly tried to study the Anusol cream. I knocked several boxes to the floor while reaching for your bare arm. Secret’s out. Thanks.

Giving a crying baby a pacifier seemed like a good idea.
Until she turned two and strangers found it impossible to mind their business. And instead of keeping their traps shut and reveling in the quiet for which I’d sold my soul, they found it necessary to share the downsides of pacifier sucking. Guess what, a**holes? I KNOW. PS: Her father and I had sh*tty teeth. She was going to need serious dental work anyway.

Changing a toddler’s diaper seemed like a good idea.
Until she threw a tantrum mid-wipe, smacked her heel in poo, splattered it on the wall and then flipped over to crawl away while I tried to clean it. Hope she enjoyed the impromptu after-nap nap as much as I did.

Grabbing the toy car from your sister (that neither of you liked anyway) seemed like a good idea.
Until she yanked it back and swung it at your head. You didn’t know about her aim, did you?

Ignoring me and jumping on the top bunk of your bed seemed like a good idea.
Until your head made contact with the ceiling, as I suggested would happen. On the upside, the bang seemed to have scared the mice…

Water-skiing your sister around the house in socks seemed like a good idea.
Until she let go of your shirt and you both landed on your faces.

Letting the two of you play alone on the porch seemed like a good idea.
Until your sister wandered back out covered in greasy healing ointment. I’m glad you “healed” her. Thanks.

Pretending you were sick so that the school would call me to pick you up seemed like a good idea.
Until you returned home, got caught lying and were then forced to spend the rest of the day continuing to pretend you were as sick as you said you were. Hope you enjoyed that 3 hour nap, no TV and no sweets as much as I did.

Having a kid seemed like a good idea.
Until about three weeks after I gave birth and found myself trolling the pharmacy for Anusol. Oh it was fun to silently mock old ladies who purchased it, but I was in my 20’s. Surely it would go away by the time I hit 30…

Surely motherhood would get easier…

Surely the pains in my ass would not personify into the little people I’d eventually share my life with…

Surely…

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’m telling everyone that the Anusol was for you.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

we just do it

While getting ready to leave the park, a young mom marched in with a double-jogging stroller. It was the kind of forceful push that showed that SHE needed to be there. The kids probably did too, but she REALLY needed it. I know that walk well.

As she neared us I realized that she was pregnant. I was struck with awe by how she had it so together that she was already using a double-stroller. And then she passed us. She looked to be about 6 months pregnant, and her child was about 18 months old. And inside the other side of the stroller was baby carrier. With an infant in it.

At first I was confused, but then I remembered hearing of a young mom in the neighborhood who had a set of Irish twins born 11 months apart. And when she went in for her 6 week check-up after the second birth she found out that she was pregnant again.

I tried to focus on collecting the girls and their shoes, but all I could think about was the Irish-twin-having mom. HOW DID SHE DO IT?

Seriously?

I mean, I can barely keep it together these days and both of my kids are older than all three of hers.

I watched her for a minute. Chasing after the toddler, checking in on the baby in the carrier and stretching her back. She just did it.

We all just do it.

Like when there’s a sick baby who doesn’t understand that being sick means laying down and sleeping and watching TV. And instead they whine and cry and puke all over the house.

We just do it.

Or when we’ve almost made it through the store and our kid looks up at the cashier and asks, “Why does she have a beard?”

We just do it. We die a little inside, but we still do it.

Or when our kid misbehaves on a playdate and we raise our voice and everyone around us jumps at our tone and someone actually gasps. But not our kid, she doesn’t seem phased.

What? That’s just me? Fine, whatever. I just do it.

When the day melts down by 2pm and it’s raining and it’s boring and it’s loud in the house.

We just do it.

Or when there’s nothing to make for dinner and it wouldn’t matter if there were because we’re not going to cook anyway and we really want to order out but we know we can’t afford it.

We pull out the pancake mix and just do it.

Because there’s just something about being a mom that makes us do it. Some strange, autopilot strength that kicks in when we’ve shut down and carries us through to bedtime.

Because sometimes we just need to make it to bedtime.

There’s always hope at bedtime.

And quiet and peace and a moment to ponder how glad we are to have done it.

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©2009 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is just messed up.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.