To my fellow moms:
Even if you don’t decoupage, scrapbook, journal, blog, knit, make your own muffins, put homemade potpourri into crocheted sachets, or jar your own spaghetti sauce made from the tomatoes, onions, and basil you grew in the mini-greenhouse you keep on your windowsill, never, ever doubt how clever and crafty you truly are.
Morgan, since she could talk, has always had a good mastery of the English lanuage, Things that trip up most two-year olds, she says with ease. When I was her age, my brother, Christopher, became “Kick-oh-four”, or “Crest” (for Chris). Morgan says Uncle Christopher , no problem. My own name never gave me any trouble, but lots of little ones turn Hilary into “Heh-we-wee”, “Hil-a-lee”, hickory, even celery.
Despite her linguistic proficency, Morgan does have a few words and phrases that trip her up, bringing smiles and chuckles to those around her. Will I correct her? Absolutely, we already do. Of course, I’d be lying if I said, I’m going to miss them when they go.
Poffet: puppet
Abo-cabo: avocado
Arts & Craps: arts & crafts
Bert mart: birth mark
Cranger: manger, as in “Away in a cranger, no crib for a bed. . .” Bad Mammy Jammers: the Carl Carlton song, “Bad Mama Jamma”, our current most requested iPod song.
I definitely need this today. We went looking at houses and this one realtor asked me if I was pregnant. Pardon me? I’ve got Morgan by the hand, Coever in the car seat and if she really wants me to buy this house, she’ll ask me what I think of the crown moulding, not whether or not I’m expecting. You should never, ever, ever, ever, EVER ask a woman if she is pregnant, not even if you see the baby emerging from betwixt her legs! EVER!
I know, the only way someone’s words can have power over you is if you actually respect that person. Still, it’s nice to have an ego boost.
or maybe this. . .
We’ve been home bound for the past two days, a result of Morgan bringing home yet another bug or some kind of cough/cold/green snot causing thing from preschool. I am on more intimate terms with the phrase cabin fever, and if I have to wipe one more snotty nose or poop encrusted pair of buns, I’m really going to lose it.
Sure, this is all part and parcel of being a mom, and now, more than ever, I applaud moms everywhere. To all of the single moms, the working moms who come home and work inside the house, the moms who don’t have help, the moms who do have help but are too proud to ask for it (no, I’m not talking about myself), the moms who put school/work/other ambitions on hold to run the house, the moms who have to get out there every day for the benefit of their families, the moms who get up in the middle of the night to get glasses of water, take someone to the bathroom, make cupcakes for the class, finish sewing costumes for the school play and on and on and on. For the moms who do all of these things and everything in between — thank you, I appreciate you, I admire you. Seriously, motherhood, in whatever form it takes, is not for the faint of heart.
It’s hard to be all things to all people all of the time, and why I continue down that road, I can only chalk it up to my Virgo tendencies and my Type A personality. Letting go is hard to do, especially when it’s control that is the thing clutched in your grip.
When I get a chance to get on the computer — ten minutes here, five minutes there — I often visit other blogs and websites that I like such as http://www.truemomconfessions.com/. I like finding out that I’m not the only one who worries that having my children watch a half an hour of tv is going to undo all of the careful alphabet and number installation I have done, or that if neither one of them will become a homicidal maniac if I just leave one in the crib and one in the playpen for a couple or 15 minutes after they wake-up. They’ll still have strong bones if they eat goldfish and Cheerios for lunch because they don’t want to eat anything else. They don’t care that the laundry is still “soaking” in the washer, that the dishwasher still needs to be emptied, that the trash is still waiting to go out or that Mommy hasn’t put sheets on her bed in about two weeks (hey, at least I got them off the bed!). The featured post on TMC today was this:
I want to thank my mom for not losing herself in marriage or motherhood. She’s more beautiful now after 25 years of marriage and 2 kids because of it.
Thanks mom for knowing you don’t become just a wife when you get married and you don’t become just a mom when you have children.
I know that 25 years from now, I can look back on my marriage and revel in its strength. I can look back on how I have raised my children and be proud of what I see and humble in when I describe it to others. But you know what? Twenty-five years from now is too long to wait to sit back and admire my handiwork. I need to look at what I am doing now, right now, and be proud. I gotta go; time’s a wasting.
The YMCA has been a great place for blog fodder. Case in point — the locker room (again) today was the scene of yet another head scratching moment for me.
So, I sweated myself stupid after a grueling aerobics class that I was conned into by another SAHM friend. After a 2 week hiatus, I guess I should have paced myself with my return to the aerobic trenches, but I figured, “Hey, I’m a Grant/Dixon, I can do this.” Let’s just say, even after I had showered, dressed and gotten the girls out of ChildWatch, my face was still as red as a glass of Merlot. And FYI, I gave up wine for Lent, so there may be a few wine related phrases thrown in the blogs to come.
But, in the locker room, which was blissfully empty, I put my stuff away, grabbed my towels and headed to the shower. I decided to take a quick visit to the steam room and try to calm down the muscles in my legs for bit. That’s always a risky proposition because when you come out of the steam room, the entire shower room could be packed like Wal-Mart on a pay-day Friday. This time, however, it was empty.
So, I’m showering, la la la and in walk two women, one older, one younger in their bras and underpants. I’m thinking that they aren’t from the US, given their ethnicities and the fact that when I have seen them out and about in the gym, they are in the traditional garb of their country. I’m not going to even venture a guess as to where they are from, nor do I want to dabble in racial profiling — hey, I’m a Black female, I’ve been dabbled in that area enough. Let’s say these women are from, oh I don’t know, Wisconsin, just to be safe. Apologies to any Wisconsinites that I may offend.
These ladies come in with their shower paraphernalia and commence to clean themselves up, in their underwear. Bras and underpants, people. Doesn’t that impede the actual cleaning process if the vital spots (and you know what I’m talking about) are covered by cloth? How are you supposed to “wash possible” as my mom would say? Don’t we all as women know, that water, cloth and dark spaces are a recipe for a yeasty mess? What gives? Seriously, it wasn’t like they walked in and then removed the undergarments. They actually washed around the straps, leg holes, and armholes. Hey, it’s an open shower, you can see everything that’s going on. And guess what is the craziest part of the whole thing — THEY WEREN’T WEARING SHOWER SHOES!!!
I can understand the need for modesty in public, hence their traditional Wisconsin dress, but in the locker room, amongst women? I, more than anyone, have body issues, but as I’ve said in posts pasts, it’s the locker room, everyone has the same gravity afflicted parts. I’m just in there to de-funk, wash possible, shower, shave, all that jazz.
Clearly, I didn’t get the memo about shower attire. Standing there “bucket-naked” with these two ladies, I felt grossly under-dressed.
Even I can’t let the day o’ love go by without putting my 7cents into it. Before get started, I have to provide some backstory in order for you to understand this tale in its entirety.
So, I went to a Catholic, all girls high school in New Jersey called Mount Saint Mary’s Academy. No, it wasn’t some kind of punishment for acting up in junior high. I actually asked my parents if I could go there. I was done with the public school scene and the “mean girls” that existed before Mean Girls made it to the big scene. The Mount meant uniforms, nuns, and just XX’s in the genetic code. It really wasn’t a big deal and I consider myself a better person for having had the experience.
How does Valentine’s Day fit in to all of this? Well, girls being girls, we all like to brag, especially when it comes to boyfriends. Every year if Valentine’s Day fell during the school week, the main office was teeming with FTD delivery people bearing large bouquets of flowers, boxes of assorted chocolates, stuffed teddy bears and the assorted frivolity that goes with the day. During any given class block, various names would be announced over the loud speaker, summoning girls to the main office. We all knew why and it was inevitable that if a girl whose name was called wasn’t in your class at that time, you probably saw her walking down the hall, her arms laden with babies breath, roses, and balloons. If you didn’t happen to see her, you could guarantee that one of your friends had and would be more than happy to fill you on who got what from whom.
Freshman year, I watched several of my friends skip to and from the office on the 14th of February. I don’t think I had a boyfriend — I must not have if I can’t even recall — or if I didn’t, he wasn’t forward thinking enough to send flowers to my school.
Every year, the number of my friends who received things grew. I wasn’t hosting any pity parties for myself, don’t get me wrong. Congrats to the friends that raked it in; besides, they were always willing to share the chocolate. I had guys that I liked and a few that I would consider a boyfriend, but none that ever seemed to be on the roster around Valentine’s Day. Then, something changed the Valentine’s Day of my senior year.
The summer before my juinor year was my transition year. The braces were off, I was wearing contact lenses full time, my hair had started to cooperate with the chemical relaxer and I was no longer afraid of burning myself with the curling iron. I was running with a pretty cool crowd, I was getting good grades and soon enough, I was going to get my license. Fast forward to senior year, and more of the same, albeit, even more so. Things were going well. There were several boys that I had dated, and there were one or two that I had crushes on, but as in the past, there was no one that I was counting on to remember me for Valentine’s Day.
So (and I have to take a little creative liberty here because while I remember what happens next, the minute details escape me), I’m in the senior lounge, probably doing vocab flashcards with some friends or I’m in the Lion’s Den (SGA office on campus) doing Student Government stuff as the Executive Board VEEP, when lo, my name is called over the loudspeaker.
Now, I’ve never been a troublemaker. Goody-goody is a name that comes to mind, but I digress. What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t worried about going to the office when my name was called. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was positive that it didn’t have anything to do with demerits or detention.
I get to the office and the receptionist, Sister Mary Answer the Telephone points to a large box of a dozen long stemmed roses and says, “That’s for you, dear.”
Here’s what I thought in the 3 nanoseconds it took for me to say, “Thanks” –Flowers on the desk-nice flowers-there’s a card with my name on it-WTH-is this some kind of joke-I bet it’s from Mom and Dad since they were tired of hearing me complain that everybody else got flowers but me.
I scooped up the flowers and ran (more like shot down the hall) to the senior lounge and flung the door open before coolly gliding in with my flowers. Appearances are everything, don’t you know.
And as I basked in the adulation and questioning of my peers, my hand travelled to the card that was with the flowers. Nope, I hadn’t yet opened it. I was savoring this. The card, which I still have to this day, said,
Can I get a “WTH?” Thank you. When you go to an all girls school such as mine and there are alternating study hall periods, that is just a nerve center of all things female. Every girl who had a free period studied that card, doing handwriting analysis, smelling it to ascertain what kind of cologne could be clinging to the cardstock and envelope. There were several that went so far as asking me or people who knew me about the guys that I had crushes on or who could possibly (like it’s so hard to imagine) have a crush on me. Could it be Danny G. from Plainfield High? Could it be Kiadii H. from the Tatnall School? What about his best friend and Christian Bale look-alike Julian T. ? Hey a girl can dream, right? What about Chris M., Kevin V. or dare we think it, uber crush extraordinaire, Brian O. (drool, drool)?
There were some naysayers and detractors who offered the following: My parents, my brother, my grandparents, myself. C’mon now people. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, right?
Anyway, to this day, 14 years later (yikes!) I still don’t know sent me that note and those gorgeous flowers. I grilled my parents (no), my brother (yeah, right), and casually asked among the guys that I talked to, but nothing came of it.
Funny enough, at my 10 year high school reunion, a bunch of us sat around a bar, drinking and reminincing and that February 14th came up. The question was asked, “Did you ever find out who sent you those flowers?”
Nope, but when I run across the card, I’ll pick a name at random and content myself with imagining that person as the sender of the flowers and the extremely fortunate recipient of my girlhood crush.
To: The OBs, Gyns, MDs, DDSs, DOs, LPNs, CNPs et. al
From: Me and my various body parts
Subject: Gentility
I appreciate the fact that there are a number of patients on the books waiting to see you for their appointments all hours of the day during normal business hours and sometimes after hours. However, when I have spent the better part of my appointment in the waiting room thumbing through dog-eared copies of Reader’s Digest featuring an in-depth interview with Norman Rockwell and then am finally escorted back to the actual examination room, when you glide through the door, please do your best to fake like you didn’t just read my name off of my chart. I know that I am but one of many faces you will see today, but when you come into the exam room, let’s pretend that there is no place either you have to or would rather be. Focus people, focus.
When you press your frosty stethoscope to my chest, back, and stomach to check for various burbles and gurgles, be gentle in the pressure you apply. Belching, or worse, breaking wind (I had to clean it up for the masses) in front of you is going to be nothing but embarrassing for the both of us. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a bodily function and we all do it, but we ain’t that close. Trust me.
When you stick the otoscope in my ear, trust me, the plastic guard does not have to poke out the other side of my head. And please don’t comment on the wax build-up. No matter how frequently I clean my ears, there’s always going to be some in there. I know that, you know that.
When you look into my eyes with your pen light or up my nose with your nose-looker-upper (a.k.a otoscope), don’t make small talk with me that requires me to answer questions. Your nose is about two inches from my mouth and even though I used Listerine, there are times when I doubt its effectiveness. Plus, I’d hate to bite off the tip of your nose inadvertently. That’s going to be tough to explain to the insurance company.
When you have jammed my mouth full of pointy, hooked and/or blunt tipped instruments, please don’t inquire after my children, my husband, my house hunting or lack thereof, or my plans for the upcoming week-end. I can’t answer you, at least not in a language we both understand as English.
When you are doing a cheek, nostril, throat, cervix or any other kind of swab, pretend that it’s your cheek, nostril, throat or cervix that is about to get tested. Let’s not see how many times I gag before you finally finish. You don’t have to scratch my brain to make sure you’ve swabbed the inside of my nose thoroughly enough. I don’t want to see the end of the q-tip through my stomach when you’re testing my cervix for abnormal cells. See, when I wince, suck in my breath, clench my eyes shut or do any thing other than breathe normally, I’m probably a little uncomfortable.
When you are attempting to draw blood, even after I have told you that I have small, jumpy veins, please don’t “see if I can get it one more time”. I’m not a pin cushion. Switching back and forth between arms really doesn’t do much to instill further confidence in your ability. Go back to practicing on oranges. Don’t even think about asking me to show you the backs of my hands. Sure, some blood will be drawn, but it’ll be coming out of your nose from where I punched you in it.
When you have already administered anesthesia that is supposed to knock me out and yet, I’m still having a conversation with you, don’t act surprised when I say, “Yes, I can feel you pinching/pulling/poking me.” Really, I don’t need a natural experience when it comes to having a C-section.
I’ve come to realize, as my feet dangle in the stirrups and my butt cheeks hang precariously off the edge of the table or as I recline the chair with my mouth stuffed with novacaine and enough cotton balls to stuff several bras or as my thighs stick to the paper covers exam table while the rest of my body is rubbed raw under the rough paper gown or is totally visible through the threadbare cloth gown that I’m actually paying you to poke, prod, and pinch me in some pretty private areas. You didn’t even buy me dinner. Hell, you didn’t even know my name until you looked at it as you turned the knob on the exam room door.
You have a job to do. I appreciate that. But just for a second, let’s put the gown on you and the chart in my hands. If ever a time called for the golden rule, this is one of them.
Very truly yours,
Hilary with one “L” and her body.
