Midwestern Mommy

Have you been to True Wife Confessions yet? If not, you should.

Once upon this past Saturday night, Marc and I went out with Little Miss Sassy and her hubby Brinnon.

When we met up with the beautiful people, (did I tell you we call them “the beautiful people? Because we do. And they are.) we found them in great spirits. They had spent most of their day sweating their butts off staining the outside of their house. So 10 minutes into the night, I made a mental note: in the future we must force any couple we go out with to spend the entire day sniffing stain fumes in 90-something degree weather. Because apparently? People find us MUCH more entertaining than we really are when they are high and slightly dehydrated.

After gorging ourselves at a japanese steak place, we went to Westport Plaza.

A local band was playing. But they, my friends, were only a quarter of the night’s entertainment. The bar we went to is one whose patrons range in age. Sure you’ll find the 20- somethings there but you’ll also find plenty of people in their 40’s too. The people-watching is ideal as you can find “fugly bachelorette begging men to suck lifesavers off of her shirt for money”, “balding, paunchy man sucking down beer while longingly watching young hoochies”, “band groupie who ignores her date in hopes of landing the lead singer” or “horny guy panting over every overtly tanned young lass sporting silicone in the joint.” But this is St. Louis so there’s still a fair amount of “normal people out just to have a good time and laugh at all of the tired and trendy angling for a piece of ass.”

We found a great table. And it didn’t take long to find “the main attraction” for our night.

We’ll call her “Vixy”. Dressed in her pressed khaki pants with sensible sandals and her mango-colored sweater, she stood out from the rest of the rough-looking crowd she was hanging with.

Vixy was full of surprises. As the night wore on, she spiced up her “show”. After downing a few drinks and dancing to a few songs alone, she slithered up to one of the bodyguards by the stage. She grabbed his lower thigh and felt her way up his leg within an inch or two of his crotch. He laughed. She stayed next to him for a bit. But once she realized he was trying to ignore her, she staked out a new spot — near the band but in the middle of the path to the restrooms.

Her M/O was simple. When a guy walked by she would either grab his butt or try to dance with him. If the guy gave her a strange look, she’d flip him the bird or scream “LOSER” at him. By the time we were ready to leave, she had gotten even more aggressive — pawing men’s crotches on their trips to fro. As we left, she started pawing on not only an unsuspecting guy but his date too.

We laughed. Alot. At one point, she saw my hubby laughing and he flipped him off. I wonder if her middle finger was sore the next day? It sure got quite a workout that night.

Her friends tried to ignore her. Every now and again if Marc or Brinnon had to use the restroom, we’d all eagerly watch and wonder — will she grab or won’t she? She never made a move on either of them. And frankly, Linlee and I were a mite disappointed.

Throughout the whole ordeal I cursed the fact that I left my camera phone at home.

I’m thinking that girl ended up, at best, with technicolor yawn all over her shoes by the end of that night. At worst, she’s got a few less friends to party with. And they probably told her that this Sunday when she was in the midst of a hangover from hell.

Hopefully Vixy found what she was looking for. Hopefully what she got didn’t include a side of crabs or some other STD.

While the St. Louis bar scene can be fun, Marc and I always agree. Come for the booze. Stay for the “cheese”.

Tonight I called Seth’s new babysitter Shannon. Her mom answered. I couldn’t let the opportunity get away from me. I had to apologize. Shannon’s mom was the woman who saw me scream at my son a week ago. If you are unfamiliar with the post, its called, “Way to go Dumbass!” (Dumbass being me.)

She chuckled at my apology. She has three kids. She said something like, “Are you kidding? I have three teens in my house, I’m cranky alot.” Then she told me a story about when the kids were very young. They had been sick. Her hubby had been working an insane amount of hours. There was no food in the house. So she took all three kids to the grocery store. The kids were hungry and cranky. She kept saying, “If you don’t behave, we’re going home.” They didn’t behave. She had enough. She picked them up and left without the food.

“They finally realized that they had really upset mom. And once I had a good cry, I was ok. When we went back the next time they were much better behaved,” she said.

I was a shy child who grew into a shy adult. But being a stay-at-home mom changed that. I quickly learned that most of the women I meet are mothers, soon-to-be moms or wanting to be moms. We all have a major common interest. And it is a common interest we can spend HOURS talking about. It doesn’t matter what your economic background, where you live, how many children you have, or what stages said kids are currently in. Because most moms I know are always looking to learn something new, share an experience, tell a funny story, or offer encouragement.

Rose totally understood my exasperation with Seth. She has two boys. She said, ‘I know how that is. As soon as you finally get their socks and shoes on, you realize you have to do something else. Two minutes later when you get back to them, you see them on the couch with their shoes and socks off.”

I said, “Wow. You know my child well!” I had to laugh.

She saw me at my worst that day last week. And she understood. She doesn’t think any less of me. She said something to me we all say to a mom who feels guilty when she ceases to be the ever-patient, gentle, loving soul she expects herself to be around her child 24/7 — a simple, powerful sentence that soothes a mom’s soul.

“We’ve all been there before.”

I plan to post again soon. But I did something to my lower back on Friday and holy shit! It has been a hurtin’ ever since. I thought, when I woke up this morning, that I was at least 80% back to normal. But as I sit and read blogs, my back is starting to really, really ache. Like shooting pain in my hips and can’t stand up remotely straight ache. I must be getting old or something. Looks like I’ll be spending more quality time on the couch with paid meds and ice packs. Gah.

I hope to catch up on everyone’s blogs soon. And in the meantime, check out my cousin’s blog. Little Miss Sassy. Linlee is smart, funny and very sweet. She has a great hubby too. (Marc and I call them “The beautiful couple” because hello. They ARE! We adore both of them. They are wonderful people.) And they’ve been trying to have a baby for quite some time. She talks a bit about their struggle on her site. But she talks about alot of other things too. So please take a gander and say “hello.”

I don’t remember how I found my way to this article: http://www.glamour.com/features/sexandlove/articles/060501kristin

It really struck a cord with me. Because I was once this wife to a much greater degree than I am now. And I kept thinking of some of my childhood friends. I know alot of women who scurry to pacify their hubbies’ needs. Not just women of past generations with no education but women my age with respectable academic accomplishments.

Years ago, I set up a night out with a good friend to gossip, dine and see a flick. At the last minute she called to cancel. Why? Because she found out her hubby, just hours prior, had just invited a bunch of guys to play poker at their house. She had to make food for them, clean the house, and watch the kids. She added, ‘Well, he HAS been working really hard lately, so I guess he needs some time to relax.” I wanted to slap her. What about YOUR time to relax? You work hard too.

Recently, I invited another childhood friend over to catch up. She never showed. Days later she e-mailed me and told me why. Her hubby was in a parade. He decided to change his costume at the last minute. So who felt compelled to step, fetch, and fix? Her!

I love my oldest and dearest friends but it drives me crazy to watch some of them drop everything for their hubbies — not just once in a while but on a frequent basis. And later, these smart, capable women complain that they feel exhausted and “stepped on.” Well, duh. They are.

I think alot of women want to please because they reason a “good wife” makes her hubby happy. But WHY is it so important to be “a good wife” if you’ve lost your sense of self and continually feel like a doormat? What happens when you realize, like Kristin did, that you don’t even resemble the person you once were — the person your spouse fell in love with? What happens if you realize he’s happy in the marriage but you often aren’t?

Sometimes I feel stepped on. And when I do, my hubby hears all about it. (He does, just ask him.) It would be easier to be a “good wife” — to just smile and nod. There would be less arguments that way. But I know myself. When I do that, I seethe. I get angry at my hubby when I feel taken for granted. And I get even more angry at myself when I realize I’ve let it happen. My anger and frustration come out in other ways. Anger cuts both ways. It hurts everyone.

I don’t have an answer on how to improve any person’s marriage. I can only work on my own. I have no idea how any other woman can reclaim her sense of self. All I know is that its been a work-in-progress for me. But I think Kristin is on to something in this article. And I think its an article I need to save. Because in such a busy world, I need a reminder. (I think alot of women do.) I need to remember to cherish and nurture the “me.”

Guess what trailer trash move I skillfully employed yesterday morning on the front lawn?

It was 9:15 ish and I was trying to usher the little man into the car. The garage door was up so he kept running onto the driveway and front lawn whenever I’d get him close to the open car door. Before this, I had already spent at least 30 minutes telling him (at least 500 times) to take off pj’s and put on his clothes, socks, shoes…. I was running on about 2 hours of fitfull sleep. I was tired, headachy and cranky. Hubby has been out of town most of last week. He was gone Monday, Tuesday and today too. So I’ve been subjected to the “All Seth — All the time channel” alot lately. With no time to replenish my reserves, my patience was shredded.

While I was trying to wrangle the boy into the car, my neighbor across the street came outside to ask me a quick question. At this point I was in a very big hurry because I was very late. As I yelled to her my answer, I was still trying to get the child in the car. All this time, he wasn’t listening. He was doing this spastic little running-thing all over the front yard. And then I just snapped and started yelling at my son.

“Seth. Get in the car! GET IN THE CAR. GET IN THE CAR. GET IN THE CAR SETH!”

He finally stopped running and really looked at me. I met his gaze and growled, “GET IN THE DAMN CAR!” He FINALLY got in the car. But yes, I screamed at him in front of my neighbor in the front yard. There are a bunch of stay-at-home moms in the neighborhood. I’m pretty sure they all heard me too. Way to go Lisa, you dumbass!

I’m humiliated by my conduct. I feel horrible for the way I treated my son. I don’t want to yell at him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings and damage his self-esteem. I hate myself when I raise my voice. But I just don’t know HOW to get him to listen and follow directions the first time or even the 15th time I ask. He’ll finally listen and follow through if I “turn up the volume”. He is not like this around anyone but me. (I’m the one who spends the most time with him — especially since Children’s Day Out is closed for the summer and my hubby has been traveling alot.) I’ve tried removing the distractions from the area, getting to eye level and talking to him. But that child’s attention span is shorter than a gnat’s (when he’s with me.)

So if anyone has got some advice, I’m all ears!

Four years ago to the hour (its 1:37 a.m.) I was doggedly trying to evict a squirming little person from my uterus. I pushed for more than 2 1/2 hours. I pushed so hard I started to literally worry my eyes would pop out. (Can you say, “hemorrhoids from the Netherworld?” I sure can!)
Thank the baby Jesus for epidurals. (And Demoral to “take the edge off” once the epi wears out.)

When I saw my little boy for the first time, (at 2 a.m.) my sole thought was, “Holy shit! There really WAS a baby in there!” I couldn’t stop staring at him and thinking that sentiment. It almost felt like a dream. You mean, I’m a mom? I don’t FEEL like a mom. I feel like a bloated cow who’s been hit by a truck. If this is what “mom” feels like, I am so screwed! I don’t know about this….

After the birth, they told me to try and get some sleep. But I couldn’t. Adrenalin coursed through my veins. My mind was racing. The mammoth mothering task seemed more than a little daunting… What did I get myself into? What if I don’t like being a mom? Is it too late to change my mind?

It wasn’t love at first site like so many moms say. At least not for me. This little person may have come from my body, but really, he was a stranger to me. Luckily, I had read enough to know that if I didn’t feel completely in love with him from the first sight, that it didn’t mean I was a crappy mom. But within days, weeks and months, I fell more and more in love with my little man (who ended up having colic. Gah!).

I love him so much I have often wondered if we should even have another child. Would it be possible to love another child as much as I love Seth? Gee, I dunno. I love him an awful lot…

I still marvel that he’s an entirely separate person from myself and my hubby. I LOVE that he has his own opinions, agenda, hopes, and dreams. He enchants me. He entertains me. He frustrates me. He makes me laugh. He sometimes drives me crazy. But he fascinates me too. I think he’s an amazing little boy.

And I feel so lucky and blessed.

Happy 4th Birthday Big Kid Bun.

Dear woman in the small bright blue Ford pickup truck,

As I was running errands on Friday, I saw you drive by. I got a kick out of your bumper sticker that read, “Caution, Irish psycho bitch on board”. It amused me greatly. Thanks for the laugh.

Lisa

P.S. Can I be your friend? I mean, anyone feisty enough to paste that sassy bumper sticker on their truck has got to be pretty entertaining and interesting — especially after a few drinks.

Happiness is watching our Abbey-dog chase squirrels in the backyard.

Most mornings if I see one in the backyard helping itself to a morning feast, I say, “Hey Abbey” in an urgent stage whisper. That dog could be in a coma five states away and still hear me say that.

A split second later, you hear a “thunk” — its her jumping off our bed. And then you hear her race down the stairs. Usually, I wait until she’s at the back door next to me. The door has panes of glass that start foot from the bottom, so she can easily see outside.

Once she locates her prey, she starts whimpering. She’s just itching to get out there.

When I quickly open the door, she shoots out like a rocket. She runs up the steep hill in our backyard.

The squirrel gets this all too familiar “Oh SHIT” look in its eyes. It drops its breakfast and runs toward our retaining wall with Abbey’s breath warming its little brown/grey butt. She’s pretty fast and agile but she hasn’t caught one yet. (And that’s good. Because that little varmit might have a family to take care of. And I’d hate to see it get hurt. But it IS a pretty funny scene.)

Once she chases it up a tree or onto the retaining wall, she has to sniff the entire yard. She has the same bold swagger as the detective in a cliched police drama. She’s on to that squirrel. No critter is going to pull one over on HER. (Which is deliciously ironic to the chipmunks watching the entire production two feet from our patio.)

Usually, we all gather around the bay windows in our breakfast room to watch. Who needs Good Morning America or even Kelly and Regis when you’ve got that sort of entertainment?

I don’t know what we’d do without our Abbeydog.

The other day while reading fun, interesting, well-written blogs, (Ya’ll have me ADDICTED, I tell you!) my son was in my office busily trying to wrangle one of my bras over the dog.

I let him continue because 1.) It kept him too busy to trash my office 2.) Abbeydog didn’t seem too irritated 3.) He was actually putting it on her the CORRECT way. When both critters heard the garage door open, Abbey “ra-rooo”-ed, and both bounded down the stairs where they met up with the hubby.

After a few minutes, Honbun finally came upstairs with a very puzzled look on his face. You could tell he was almost too scared to ask. The dog was two steps behind him, wagging her tail and sporting a white, standard regulation “over the shoulder boulder holder”.

“Why is the dog wearing a bra,” he asked.

“I guess Bunny felt Abbey-dog’s little boobies needed the support,” I countered.

But this makes us both wonder… if those deft little fingers can successfully hook a bra onto a squirming dog at the age of almost 4, what will they be capable of in 11-12 more years? (A two-second vision of holding a baby my teenage son sired. Can’t breathe. Heart pounding. Feeling faint.) That’s it. I’m going to lock him in his room and homeschool once he hits puberty.

A very, very long time ago, Izzy tagged me for this meme. And now I’m finally getting around to extracting my head from my butt and actually doing the meme. Sorry it took so long, lady!

I AM: very tired right now. Its been a very active weekend filled with much sneezing and allergy type stuff. But also filled with watching my little man happily swing on his new swingset and dive for candy with his friends and cousins during a parade in my hometown.

I WANT: a guarantee that my son will grow up to have a wonderful, happy life filled with love and lasting friendships.

I WISH: I didn’t have the metabolism of an 90-year-old woman who weighs 30 pounds. Almost a month ago, I started exercising 5-6 days a week for 45-60 mins a session because my clothes were getting tight. Now, I’ve gained 4 POUNDS and my clothes don’t fit at all. What the FUCK?

I HATE: how some people feel completely entitled to ramrod their beliefs down my throat. I also hate how some women try to “out mom” the rest of us. They make you feel guilty for sending your kids to (gasp) public school, not spending several thousands of dollars on various enriching summer camps, and the fact that you didn’t mortgage your house to pay for toddler violin lessons. “You think its ok to send your child to a STATE college? Call social services!”

I MISS: sleeping in till whenever I want (think summer vacation when you’re 12).

I FEAR: someone’s carelessness and stupidity will someday result in serious harm to my child or other loved ones. But I also fear my son’s carelessness and stupidity may someday hurt someone else.

I HEAR: the hum of my computer right now. It is actually so lovely to not hear anything but that. In our old house, we lived off of a busy street and I had to put a fan on medium to drown out the traffic — even at 3 a.m.

I WONDER: if Matt Blunt (Mo governor) will ever get a clue? Also, if he and his wife have ever been completely naked. They don’t strike me as a couple that even has sex. They both seem to removed and sterile in their personalities. They don’t even seem like real people.

I REGRET: Not having enough confidence in my abilities or the courage to go away to college and pursue the type of career I REALLY wanted. I went to school around where I lived and stuck with a “safe” career choice.

I AM NOT: the woman who’s car, house and appearance are immaculate. I’m not high energy. I’m not the cool wife either.

I DANCE: with my son. And when I watch “The Tube”.

I SING: badly. Every time my son hears me he says, “Stop mommy. You’re HURTING my ears!”

I CRY: every time I see news coverage of animals in horrid conditions rescued from a breeder or hoarder. I cry when I think of all of the pain in the world. I cry when I read that stinky book, “Love you forever.”

I AM NOT ALWAYS: patient or kind (see previous entries).

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: lots of gestures. I can’t seem to speak one sentence without moving them.

I WRITE: alot of lists. I have horrible short-term memory. I write my hubby e-mails when he’s out of town telling him how much I miss him.

I CONFUSE: everyone at some point.

I NEED: sleep. And my son to sleep at least 10 hours a night. I also need a painter to finish painting Seth’s room and the hubby to find a job with a company that doesn’t control our lives to the degree it does…

I SHOULD: Get off the computer and clean some part of the house.

I START: my day wishing for another 30 minutes of sleep.

I FINISH: candy bars and at times, my hubby’s sentences or the wine in his glass.

I am tagging Little Miss Sassy (Linlee) and Isabel if she has some time.

On Monday I took the little man to the doctor’s for his annual check-up. As always, he insisted on bringing a few of his cars (Matchbox, Hotwheels, that sort of stuff). I told him he could bring only two. Usually this conversation evolves into a 10-minute whinefest. Because how could I POSSIBLY expect him to choose ONLY two cars. Although I’ve never counted, he’s probably got at least 75 little vehicles in his collection and probably another 30 vehicles bigger and not of the Hotwheels variety.

I thought it odd that he didn’t argue. He just grabbed two and shoved them into his very baggy pants. That day I was also very excited that he was finally fitting into size 4t slim pants. They were still loose but were the only clean pants he had.

We got to the doctor’s office. He weighed in at 38 pounds. This really surprised me. Yeay Bunny! He’s finally gained some weight.

But soon after the medical assistant noticed a car sticking out of his back pocket. I took the car out and noticed another car. And then another. After clearing them out, I noticed a bulge in his front right pocket. I removed two more cars. Then I finally checked the other two pants pockets. He had a total of 11 cars in his pants!

We weighed him again. And he was 2 1/2 pounds lighter. Imagine that!

Later that day, while helping him change into his pajamas, I noticed he also had on shorts under his pants. I’m guessing without that extra layer, the pants would have fallen off of him. And I had to laugh. So my little man is maybe a whole pound heavier than last year but he’s grown several inches. He’s one of those kids who’s a tangle of limbs. He’s long enough for 4t pants but too skinny to keep them up.

Now all he needs is to sport the socks/sandals combo, a horrible haircut, and a cheap polyester shirt. He may be destined to be what Marc and I were throughout grade school — an easy target for a bored bully.