Tag: my girls

Lady Products

This past week-end, the family took a road trip to Northern Virginia to visit with friends.  We got a late start leaving the house as the morning was a frenetic mash-up of gymnastics, laundry, and cleaning.  I would much rather put in the work on the front end so the only mess I’ve got when I get home is whatever is in the suitcase. 
Anyway, the trip to NOVA was going along pretty well until we hit Garrionsville on 95.  Then everything just stopped.  I mean there were brake lights as far as the eye could see and no discernible reason as to the cause.  I can’t call our forward movement “rolling along” because that would imply that there was some kind of forward movement.  There wasn’t any.  
Miraculously, all of the girls were quiet and entertained. I had a book and the hubs was behind the wheel, plumes of smoke curling out from his ears as he white knuckled the steering wheel, silently imploring the traffic to just vanish so we could zip up the road.   He and I both had a a sense of déja vu;  four years ago, we were trying to get up to NOVA for an event, this time leaving from Norfolk.  We crept along and crept along before the traffic came to an excruciating halt right around Williamsburg.  It had taken us 2 hours to go exactly 45 miles.  By the time the traffic cleared (if it did at all), we’d have missed the event anyway.  So, we detoured to the ‘burg, showed the girls the campus and had a very enjoyable Plan B. 
Fast forward to the present: things were looking strangely familiar. Rather than sit on that road to nowhere or bust a U-turn and head home, the hubs took the next available exit.  We rolled through towns that literally had one traffic light.  There were more cows lolling on grassy hillocks than there were signs for McDonald’s, Starbucks, or Panera.  Oh the humanity!  
We drove a handful of miles before coming through into civilization and (praise be!) a Super Target.  SUPER TARGET!!  Sweet fancy moses, that thing is ah-may-zing!  To the Target so everyone could have a potty break and a snack break!  The hubs took Vivi to the snack bar for her bottle and I took the girls with me to the ladies room. 
Normally, when we go to a public bathroom, there are enough stalls for each of us to do our business in private.  Unfortunately, we caught the Super Target bathrooms during their hourly cleaning.  The only available bathroom was the family restroom.  No big deal; we use that one all the time. 
The girls and I go in. I take their jackets and my bag and toss it onto the baby changing table.  I remind them to line the seats and to wipe properly.  I’m trying to distract them because I really don’t want them all up in my business.  See, I had some feminine products I need to make use of and I was really too tired to explain the who, what, and why of it all.  
As I palmed a Tampax into my pocket, ol’ eagle eye Co says, “Hey! Mom, what’s that?!”
“What’s what?” I ask, trying to camouflage my little bag of stuff in my coat pocket. 
“That thing! That thing you just pulled out of your sleeve.”
At this point, I’m trying to re-line the seat so I can go, and also trying to re-direct them to the sink so she can wash her hands.  I’m so busy issuing commands (Use soap! Don’t use that much soap! Use the paper towel, not your sweater! Don’t open the door! Don’t you see I’m on the toilet?!), I almost miss Mo enlighten her sister by saying, “I know what those are! Those are tampoons! They’re lady products that come out of the wall.”
And then the two of them proceed to stand next to each other and watch me while I wrangled said “tampoon” from point A to point B, using my coat as a stragically placed lap shield. At the conclusion of that educational experience, they turned to each other like this:
“Hey, so long as she knows what she’s doing.”

Next time, I’m insisting that the hubs take them in the bathroom with him! I can hear it now: “Mom, did you know they giant Sweet Tarts in the mens wall toilet?!” blechhhh!

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IN: ON: November 6, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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A Response

The other day, I read an article over at Mommyish by Carinn Jade entitled “I Lost By Baby Weight In Three Weeks But I’m Still Not Comfortable In My Post-Baby Body.” By the time I finished the last paragraph, I felt like I could have written that article myself.  Not that I lost any baby weight from any of the girls in the three weeks, but I could strongly relate to the author’s feeling that her outward appearance was not in sync with her inner self.  I started commenting at the end of the article, but it turned into something more.

(image)

When I first saw this quote, I thought, “EXACTLY!” Ugh! I was so disrespectful to my pre-baby body. I have been disrespectful to it for a long time. I went to an all girls high school, where unbeknownst to probably everyone, I never felt like I fit in. Of a class of 66, I was one of three Black girls. Being Black made me stand apart from the other 63 classmates who weren’t.  Being a fair-skinned separated me even further from the two other girls of my race.  Let me explain: I doubt the other two girls had to defend their paternity to our history teacher during Black History month.   My teacher declared that  my father had to be white because:

1. He has green eyes.
2. She saw him.  –> her actual quote, “He must be white! I’ve seen him!”

Oh, okay.  Thanks that dollop of mortification on top of my precarious confidence.

High school is hard enough with fluctuating hormones and constantly trying to find your place in the ebb and flow of the social hierarchy.  Back then, I felt very obvious.  That made me  continuously see ways in which I was lacking.  I wasn’t the crush of the right boy. I didn’t have the right  hair. I didn’t wear the right size; whatever it was, it was bigger (in my eyes) than everyone else.  Everything just wasn’t right.  When it came to sports, activities and school-work, I threw myself into it. That was something I knew and I could do.  Self-confidence about being a teenage girl was elusive.  I was grasping for something that I thought could be conferred on my by someone else.

When I thumb through my yearbooks, I look at myself and think about the time I wasted.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed high school.  There were dances, proms, holiday brunches, sleep-overs and the like.  There were plenty of distractions to pull my attention from cataloging my perceived deficits. Besides, the list was private; I’m sure if any of my classmates were reading this now, they’d be surprised.  I realize now, how much more fun I could have had instead of wasting time thinking about how to be cuter or prettier or (and I’ll admit it) skinnier. I should have been nicer to myself, but since I can’t change that, I can change how nice I am to who I am now.

I worked hard to get to a place where I was comfortable enough to not have my body be my own for nine months.  I worked hard to get back to that place after each of the girls were born.  With every subsequent pregnancy, there was almost an implicit challenge among other pregnant women and moms about how quickly one could shed the baby weight.  We were all (and continue) to compete against one another for a prize that doesn’t exist.

Think about all the scrutiny that surrounded Jessica Simpson and her never-ending gestation. When she did have her little girl, all eyes turned to the scale and the ticking clock perched above it.  The sooner a woman loses weight after giving birth, the bigger a hero she becomes.

When Beyonce popped out Blue Ivy (if you didn’t believe the pillow conspiracies) and popped up on a date night a few weeks later looking better than she had before, you could hear the collective groan from the mommy-verse.  She set the bar way high for the rest of us, came the refrain.  But did she really? I don’t think she turned to Jay-Z and said, “You know what? I’mma make it rain on these broads. Ka-Pow!”  Don’t even get me started on the Victoria Secret Triumvirate that is Adriana Lima, Alessandra Ambrosio, and Miranda Kerr.  The bottom-line is it’s their job to look good.

My job? Keep the kids alive and if they become worldly, well-rounded, well-adjusted, contributing adults, consider that a bonus.

I kid, of course.  My job is more complicated than that.

My pre-baby weight is gone, but so is my pre-baby body.  There’s a difference between the two. I’m grieving the loss of the body way more than the weight.  It’s not a death sentence, though.  Sure, I’d prefer that some things be where they used to be (or at least a little bit higher) and that other things would be more firm, less poochy.  Things have settled differently; it happened after Mo, it happened after Co, it happened after Vivi.  

Because I’m aware of how my body has changed, I’ve always dressed it appropriately. I’m not going to squeeze myself into two sizes two small just because I can pull it up, close the clasps, and zip the zipper.  And I’ll admit it, I’ve got Spanx — multiple pairs (would that be Spanxes? Spanxi?).  Whenever someone would tell me how wonderful I was looking, I would immediately explain it away with something like, “Oof! You wouldn’t believe the scaffolding I’ve got going on under here!”
I felt like I didn’t deserve the compliment. I didn’t want another woman to feel less than because of how she saw me.  I wanted that woman to know, “Hey! It’s a facade! I’m still ten shades of crazy and everything jiggles when I walk.  My boobs must be having an affair with my belly button because when I take my bra off,  that’s where they go to hang out!”  
But I couldn’t say that. I had to be like the Great Danton and maintain the illusion.  I felt like I was the only person who was doing so — then I read Carinn Jade’s article.  She said,
“In clothes, everything superficially looks the same. This mistakenly prompts people to remark “you look fantastic!” or “I can’t believe you’ve had two kids!” It’s always nice to receive a compliment but this one feels more like a jab. The truth? I am so uncomfortable with this new body.    Other mothers tell me how lucky I am to look the way I do.  What they see on the outside doesn’t match what I feel on the inside.  They assume I am confident, that I don’t struggle somehow — because I’ve dropped the baby weight?  The truth is I am confident about very little since becoming a mother.”

Hah! I’m not alone!  I could have kissed her after I read that! Who among us knows what we’re doing with absolute certainty? I don’t.  I’m doing the best I can with what I know how.  I’m relying on my own experience as a daughter, folding in tidbits that I glean from parenting books and magazines and conversations with others.  Do I get it right all the time? Nope.  Do I get it right some of the time? I certainly try.

When I was trying to get back into shape after Vivi, Mo saw my Weight Watchers foodstuffs in the pantry and the fridge. She asked me why she couldn’t eat it, why was it only for me.  Hello, teachable moment.  So I told her how my body grew to make room for Vivi, to ensure Vivi would be healthy and strong.  I told her that now that Vivi was out and about, I didn’t need to carry this extra weight around any more. She seemed satisfied with that answer, but also told me that I needed to share the snacks.

When I was pregnant with each of the girls, every night I would pray that they would have all of my strengths and none of my weaknesses.  As I would roll those words around my mind, I could readily call up weaknesses I wanted them to avoid.  Over time, I decided I needed to call up the strengths instead.  I have to inoculate my girls against low self-esteem.  I have to boost their self-worth, remind them that it’s not tied to a number on a scale, a number in their jeans, the length of their hair, the color of their eyes or the color of their skin.  They will learn to take a compliment, not explain it away.  I can’t guarantee that these things will happen, but I can pray that they will.  Often times one wry word from an outsider can tear down these ministrations, but I will build them back up. And when they see me do that for them, they will learn to do it for themselves and each other.

That’s my job, and it begins with me.

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IN: ON: October 31, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Protection

I can’t believe I forgot to share this with you guys! It was funny when it happened and it’s still funny when I think about it.

So, pre-ankle accident, Viv-o, Co and I were out running errands at — you guess it — Target.  I remember we had seven items on the list. This was going to be a quick, fast, and in a hurry type of trip. Because I’m a proper prior planner, we were in the feminine products aisle (pads, tampons, Vagasill, etc.) and I was trying to decode the difference between pearl handled plastic applicator Target brand and the pearl handled plastic applicator Always brand.

Co was wandering up and down the aisle, trailing her fingers along the boxes and packages, aimlessly humming to her herself.  She stopped mid aisle, picked up a box and said, “Mom, can I have these?”

“Hmmm,?” I said, holding one turquoise box and one lavender box.

“These,” she intoned, shaking a bedazzled looking pink package in my direction.

Pantyliners. For thong underpants.

Of course.

I put my two boxes back on the shelf and gave her my full attention.  “What do you need those for?”

She huffed out a sigh, rolling her little eyes to the top of her skull, a complete “Duh, Mommy,” type expression.  “Because,” she said, “sometimes I have drips.”

And I die.

SN: Truth be told, I honestly think she thought they were those kiddie potty training transitional liners (gah! I can’t remember the name of it). . .but then again, I wouldn’t put it past her to know what they are and for whom.  I got some smarty smart kids.

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IN: ON: September 20, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Proper Prior Planning. . .

Because Mo and Co are two years and three weeks apart in age, I decided that we’d only have birthday parties on big number birthdays.  Otherwise, there’d be two parties over the span of two weeks. I know my girls; they aren’t going to have any of this “sharing a party” business.  So, Co turned five on Saturday and we had a party to celebrate. 

I’ve been planning this party since March, no joke. I knew that having a baby a few months before the party was going to be a challenge, so I did as much as I could ahead of time, once Co decided on a theme.   A mermaid themed party had lots of hits on Google, Pinterest and Etsy, so I started my due dilignece there.  Certainly, there was a lot from which to choose.  Some parties went all out on the theme:  mermaid tails for guests to wear, sand imported from the beach for guests to play in, and all manner of sushi, star-fish shaped sandwiches, rock candy and swedish fish floating in jell-o molds as table top decor, and netting strewn with seashells, casually and artfully draped around the house.  I’m no Martha Stewart, but I do try my hand at some crafts that are within the realm of my capabilities.  I kept it simple, but concentrated the craftiness on things that I thought would have big impact — invites, thank-yous, and the sweet treats.  The rest was pretty basic 5 year old birthday fodder — pizza, goldfish, juice boxes and games.  It’s a good thing, too, because the night before the party, I ended up in the ER.

Seriously.  Co and I share a birthday, so talk about kicking off another year in a big way. 

Earlier in the day, I had broken a glass pitcher while making some iced tea.  I didn’t wrap it up and dispose of it right away, like I should have.  Later on the in the evening, I was running around, per usual, and needed some kitchen counter space. I threw the pitcher in a plastic bag, dropped it in a second plastic bag, and then put it in the trash bag that had been leaning against the kitchen counter.  On my next circuit through the kitchen, I tripped over the trash bag, and my leg connected with the pitcher. It hurt like the devil and as I looked down to see what I’d done, I noticed that I was bleeding, a nice deep, dark red.  Not good.  Fast forward to everyone hopping to: my in-laws got the girls squared away (they’d been in the kitchen and saw the whole thing –> freak out), Craig got a tourniquet around my leg and carried me fireman style to the car.  ER, registration, wheel-chair, waiting. . .waiting. . .waiting. .until I’m finally seen.  I’ll spare you the gory details but suffice it to say, 
I’ve got some tendon damage, stitches, a soft cast, and crutches. I have to see an orthopedist in the coming week to figure out the next steps.  *sigh* It’s always something with me, isn’t it.  

And mind you, this is Friday night at 8pm. Co’s party was at 11am the next day.  The show must go on!  And go on it did!  We had a great time, friends and family pitched in and enjoyed the nosh, the games, and the treats.  So even though I get a hard time for being type A/anal/overachieving/etc., I’m certainly glad for those tendencies in this case.  Things went off seamlessly, the birthday girl was overjoyed, the family was involved, the friends were entertained, and I got to sit back with my feet up, literally.  Which is exactly what a girl likes to do on her birthday!

Here are some photos from the main event!
(all pictures courtesy of fête{ography})

Invites courtesy of ScrapStory on Etsy

The Big 5 y.o girl

Craft time
Game time: Pin the Tail on the Mermaid
Picking tails.
Water Games
Cupcakes courtesy of Frosted and Dipped.
Cake Time!
Happy Birthday, Co!

Favors: Mermaid Cookies courtesy of Frosted and Dipped.



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IN: ON: September 10, 2012 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Pronunciation

So, for Mo’s birthday, I took her to get her ears pierced.  I know that in the mommy-verse, there’s a raging debate about ear piercing, if and when it’s appropriate, is is mutilation and so on and forth.  I don’t really think about it like that. Truth be told, she wanted either an American Girl Doll for $100 + dollars or a Nintendo DS. I offered up ear piercing as a compromise and she bit.  Plus, it’s a lesson in responsibility; she has to clean her ears, twist the posts, all that jazz.  At seven, she’s old enough.  I was nine when I got my ears pierced. I was in my twenties when I got two more holes put in my right ear and one put in my cartilage. As for my foray into body piercing, I wasn’t putting my belly button on display, but I had no problem sticking out my tongue.

Anyway, Mo gets her ears pierced.  She gets a big bottle of ear disinfectant and cleaner and is advised to soak some cotton balls with the solution to clean her ears.  I open up the medicine cabinet and no cotton balls.  For a few days, we use q-tips, but I know that I’ve got to make it official and get the cotton balls.  The problem is, I keep forgetting.  Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the store, and by some miracle, I remember to throw them in the cart.  Actually, I was trolling the aisles because I left my list in the car, yet again, and happened to bump into an end-cap display of cotton balls.

I get home, whereupon Craig and I start unloading the bags.  Co dances her way into the kitchen looking for (what else?) a snack.  She spies the bag of cotton balls, picks it up and says, “What are these?”

(source)

Me: Cotton balls.

Co: Cock and balls?

at which point, I am about to bust a gut to keep from laughing, but am immediately silenced by the death glare boring into my skull from Craig.

Me: No, dear. Cotton. Balls.

Co: That’s what I said! Cock. and. Balls.

Now Mo has come into the kitchen in search of a snack and picks up on the conversation.

Mo: Cotton balls.

Co: Cock and Balls.

Me: COTTON. COTTON. 

Craig: Enough. Gimme the bag.

Ohhh, c’mon, that’s funny stuff.  Highly inappropriate, therefore highly entertaining.  So of course, I have to tell someone.

Good thing my big brother is on speed dial.

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IN: ON: September 5, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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