Today, I overheard a co-worker telling a real estate agent that she is in the process of getting a separation.  She has two boys and one is only 7 months old.  It made me feel sad for her but almost relieved.  Of course I don’t know the particulars, but I was relieved to know that someone else was finding marriage and children tough.  Now that I’ve written that down I feel pretty shallow.   But, I’m just being honest.  I get all wound up sometimes when people seem to be going along all pretty and pink.

In fact, I can hardly stomach couples with two (or more) kids.

Especially if they’re smiling.

Then I wrote a little P.S. ~

(To those of you managing with multiples, I hope I did not offend.  But right now you just happen to be up there with women who maintain a size 4, eat doughnuts, and refuse to exercise.  If you are a size four, and you have three kids, and you eat doughnuts, and you’re still married, you best stay out of my way…)

Apparently, I was offensive.  But, that’s beside the point.

I can’t help that my innards twist and that I am only two small steps away from piece-mealing a Voo Doo Doll when I hear about baby number two or three or four.   I can openly admit that I get crazy jealous.   Sometimes just plain jealous.  Sometimes evil jealous.  And, sometimes I just suffer from the ole self-loathing variety.  (And, yes, I am aware that piece-mealing is not a verb.)

Still, the problem is not my actual jealousy.  (Well, maybe that’s a bit of a problem.  Especially because it doesn’t just stop at baby making.  Lately, I’ve been just pure out and out green.)

The problem is my dishonesty around the reason for my jealousy.

You see, I WANT ANOTHER BABY!.

I pretend that I don’t.   But, I don’t pretend very well.   Everyone knows that I want another baby.

In fact, I talk about it incessantly.  I tell random strangers.  Or, my husband’s friends.  My therapist even pointed out– when I thought that I was being direct about it for the first time–”Yes, you’ve mentioned that three times already today.”  (”Today” being the past thirty minutes.)

I am nuts about wanting another bun in the oven.  (Even if by immaculate conception.)

But, when asked directly about whether or not I’m thinking of “number two”, I often say things like: “Hmmmm…  I don’t think so.”  or  “You know, Silas might just end up being a solo child.”  or  “That’s none of your GD business!”

Occasionally, I’ll tell the truth:

“I’d love to have another baby, but we can’t afford it.”

(And sometimes I also feel compelled to add:  “Well, I did just stop hating my husband like three weeks ago.)

The truth is, I feel trapped.

And, if one more person says something like:  “Well, if you wait until you can afford it…”  I’ll scream.  Because we have to wait until we can afford it or we’ll be eating Sheetrock dust.

Still, I prefer the encouragement to the alternative I’ve gotten.  The “You really might want to consider stopping here” or “Things have been so tough on you, one might be enough.”

I know I can’t have it both ways.  I can’t expect sympathy on one hand and encouragement on the other.

Or, can I?

Yes, the last two years have been tough.  Silas was a screamer. I had postpartum illness.  Paul was depressed, was mis-medicated, and destroyed our kitchen.  And now we’re in an ugly financial nightmare that feels like it has no end.  And, yes, we went from two to three and now I want four.

Still, just because life has been tough doesn’t mean that I am, that we are, not capable of pulling our heels up by the bootstraps, of battening down and finding a solution to this financial mess, of discovering what love means after adversity, or of having another (happy) child.

You see, I get all wrecked up and anxious when someone tells me what they think I probably want to hear: “You don’t need to have another baby to feel complete.”

It’s not that I want to feel complete or that other people that are telling me that I can’t have another baby.    It’s me. me. me.

I am, as my grandmother would often say, the friggin’ Wreck of the Hesperus.   I am, as my husband would contend, a ball of ugly negativity.  When did I turn into this wad of tar-like cynicism?  When did I become so, well, stock out of idealism?

I must say and say I must that I don’t know.

Still, while I am not at that place of “ready to conceive”, I guess I am certain that I will, someday, if blessed with the opportunity, going to be the vessel to bring another life into this world.

Stop!  That’s bullshit!  I am ready to conceive.  I am.  I know I am.  (Even if I may change my mind several weeks or even days from now…)

I am ready and I am trapped.   That’s the truth.  There is no way on Earth that we could, right now, pay our bills and either survive on one income or put another little one in day care.  No way.  Not right now.

But that’s the key, I think.  Not right now.

We can do this thing.  This family thing.  This marriage.  This one more baby.  We can.

We just have to get our shit together first.

And, we will.  I am certain of it.

(There, not so negative right?!?)

I read on my friend’s blog, you know the one that I was puking all sorts of green over, about her plans for baby number two.  One of her concerns was about not finding room for all that love.  For, maybe, not being able to love the next baby as much as the first one.  (I may have just butchered her sentiment, but earlier I also said that I was happy to hear that a couple was getting a divorce.  I am not trying to be pretty here.)

While I understand what she is getting at– I’ve heard many parents say it– but I don’t feel like I share that concern.  I feel like I could love five more and all with the same brilliant fervor.  (Of course, then I often wonder if maybe I just don’t love my son enough.  Like maybe there is something wrong with me.)

The problem for me is more like sometimes I don’t know if I can hack it.  If I can deal with the nitty-gritty.  If I can give up even more of my time, of myself, of my passions.  If I can be even less selfish.

Still, the grass is always greener.

And, I want that luscious green.

So, let’s hope, let’s toast, that in a few years you will meet me here, an accomplished young writer and mother of two, as I explore the reasons why it’s so damn tough to have two instead of one.

Here ye!

Congrats to all of you and your babies and your dreams of babies.

I can stop hating you now.

~Em

But, that’s about all we have.

My husband owns a tile installation business that has taken quite a hit since Christmas.  Unfortunately, he hasn’t owned the company long enough to build a bird’s nest, or an egg’s nest, or a nest egg or whatever it’s called.

So, now we are broke.  Seriously broke.  And a little in debt.  Or, honestly, a lot in debt.

But, we do have two pennies.  And, I rubbed them together.

Maybe it’ll bring us luck.

It’s hard to imagine that we are poor and living in a house with three bedrooms and wall to wall books and a computer to type on and a blog.  I’ll bet movie stars go through this all the time.

I’ve been picking up odd jobs from my friends.  I clean a house here, watch a dog there.  I think most everyone is looking out for us.  My co-worker offered to buy me groceries.  We’re beyond embarrassment at this point.  (I didn’t take the groceries though.  Not yet anyway.)

So, you probably don’t have to guess, but I didn’t imagine my life this way. Not with a kid and an out-and-out scramble to make the bills.  I guess I imagined that if I had a kid, I’d also have, uh, assets or something.  That’s part of the problem.  I imagined.  I didn’t plan.

Not well enough.

If I weren’t so confident that something is gonna have to give, that the sky will have to open up and rain down $100 bills on us, then I’d be devastated.

The next thing to go is the internet.  And, you know what that would mean.

Let’s not think about it.

So, back to this planning business.  I wasn’t really taught to plan.  My husband wasn’t taught to plan.  Neither of us were taught about money or how to handle it or how to save it or how not to use it when you don’t have it to buy things you don’t need.

(I imagine that Mireille Guiliano would also say that French women don’t incur debt.  Yes, yes, we live in the height of gluttony here in the good ole U.S. of A.  Moo, again.)

I guess you might say that Paul and I have been throwing caution to the wind, living on the edge of our seats, handling things off the cuff.

We didn’t exactly plan out the whole baby thing.  But, that’s a story for another time.

That brings me to the fact that I said that two pennies was about all we had.  I thought about going all “that’s not all we have, we have each other” on you–which we do, of course– but it’s hard having each other when you don’t have gas to get to the day care.  That’s just lame.

Still, we’re going to pull through.

And, money or no, I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever trade Silas for financial stability.

We just have to find out how to make this work.

Paul is looking for additional employment and is planning to go back to school.  (He’s thinking radiology.)  I am doing my odd jobs and thinking of ways to make money writing.  (I did get accepted by AdSense to start putting advertising on this blog.  Just need about 1,000 more readers and I’ll be set.)  We’re shopping at Aldi and, dare I say it, Wal-mart and are trying to make regular meals out of rice, pasta, lentils, onions, and PB & J.

But what happens if we don’t make it?

Well, that’s not gonna happen.

Plus, if you like me, you’ll tell your friends about me, and your friends will tell their friends, and their friends will tell their friends and then I’ll be on Oprah like that bitch who traveled around to Italy, India, and Indonesia on her advancement checks.

(For the record, I loved Eat, Pray, Love and I don’t in anyway think that Elizabeth Gilbert is a bitch.  She is lucky and awfully pretty, but I don’t hate her.  Really, I just wanted to sound bad ass.)

Seriously, I’m sure lots of people go through economic tough times.  I know my father’s family did.  And, my family did. And, Paul’s family did.  Now, Silas’s family did.  May the circle be broken.

Anyhow, please eat for us (some scrumptious delicacy), pray for us (or whatever you do in place of praying), and love us (even if you don’t know us– we’re good people).

And, again, I’ll keep you posted.

(My God!  Did you hear that Michael Jackson died today?!?  Honestly, I don’t know how to feel about that.  Despite all the recent oddities, I do have some super fond Thriller-album memories…)

Anyhow, I have a few more rooms to go.  The bathroom could use a once over.  Our laundry room is pitiful and my “reading room”  is more than a bit trashy.  Still, I got under the beds and into the closets!  Now, that’s progress.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll make a pot roast.

(That pot roast bit is a joke, but it’s not a funny one.)

So, in just two days, Paul and I are meeting my parents to drop Silas off for his first big trip with Grandma and Grandpa.  Aside from one night in Charleston over a year ago, Paul and I have not had a Silas-free night since he was born.  We haven’t been to the movies together in almost two years!  So, yeah, we’re looking forward to it.

That doesn’t mean I’m not apprehensive.

First there’s the issue of Silas actually being gone.

Today a friend was watching him. (You know, because the day care is closed.  He does have a low grade fever by the way, but no other symptoms of the flu.  If it’s your style you can pray for us.  Or light a candle.  Or do a voo-doo dance.  Or at least keep your damn fingers crossed.)  So, yeah a friend was watching him and I was a little weirded out that she would be taking Silas places in her car.  That’s how sheltered Silas has become.  He doesn’t even ride in other people’s vehicles.  That’s how insulated we all have become.  It’s almost sick.  Now, he’ll be gone for three, well almost four, whole days!  Whatever shall I do?

Okay, that’s one issue.

So, the other one.  (Beat around the bush, beat around the bush…)  Ummm, Paul and I are actually going to be alone in the house together.  Yeah, alone.  Sans Silas.   Just the two of us.  Me and, uh, him.

I’m a bit frightened.

I’m thinking we’ll walk back through our door on Sunday afternoon and twiddle our thumbs in awkward silence.  I don’t know how I feel about that.  (Didn’t I just say that about Michael Jackson?)

Sure, I’m excited about the possibility of a date.  And, if I keep this whole home-ish thing going on, the possibility of honest relaxation.  (Oh, the thrill of it!)  But, I don’t even know Paul anymore.  Not a Paul without Silas anyway.  And, it’s not that I don’t want to.  But, honestly, I don’t even know me anymore.  Yeah, not a me without Silas.  So you have to ask, are these two childless strangers going to even dig each other?

I have some reservations.

I think a large part of the problem is that I’ve been dodging my marriage and using motherhood as an excuse.  I’ve been doing this for some time.  Yeah, approximately 20 months and 8 days.  Or, about since Silas was three weeks old.  I use mothering as an excuse not to be intimate, not to have sex, not to see things eye to eye.  Strip me of that and what the hell excuse do I have?  (I better think of something damn quick!  Since I have an IUD, menstruation’s not gonna cut it…)

Yeah, things will be a wee bit raw.  (Emotionally, Melisa.)

And, don’t tell me it’s like riding a bike.  Learning to be a couple after a kid is tough stuff.  I’m surprised we’ve made it this far.  And we used to have (or at least I thought we used to have) a really solid thing going.  Now, I’m afraid to be alone with him.  Whew!

Today, I overheard a co-worker telling a real estate agent that she is in the process of getting a separation.  She has two boys and one is only 7 months old.  It made me feel sad for her but almost relieved.  Of course I don’t know the particulars, but I was relieved to know that someone else was finding marriage and children tough.  Now that I’ve written that down I feel pretty shallow.   But, I’m just being honest.  I get all wound up sometimes when people seem to be going along all pretty and pink.

In fact, I can hardly stomach couples with two (or more) kids.

Especially if they’re smiling.

Often, in the words of the cowardly lion, I think “what have they got that I haven’t got? Harumph!”  (One thing they might got is family close by.  Or maybe, they got their sanity.  Or maybe they got both their family and their sanity.  Hallelujah!)

Yeah, I’m just green.  Insane and green and family-less.

Because, you know, I’ve been thinking a lot about having another baby.  In fact, I’d like another one.  IF we didn’t have raw beams holding up the entryway to our kitchen.  Or if I didn’t have to carry a sock full of change to the grocery store to buy bread.  Or, if, uh, I wasn’t spending a half hour writing about how nervous I am to be alone with my spouse.

Yeah, there are a few things to figure out before taking that leap.

But I guess everything starts out with a single step.  I cleaned our bedroom today.  Silas has stopped putting everything in his mouth and has started telling us when he’s gone pee-pee-poo-poo.  And, I’ve got a few days with Paul to try and find ourselves again.

Sounds like a step to me.

Now, just a few hundred more steps and maybe we’ll talk.

And, don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted.

(To those of you managing with multiples, I hope I did not offend.  But right now you just happen to be up there with women who maintain a size 4, eat doughnuts, and refuse to exercise.  If you are a size four, and you have three kids, and you eat doughnuts, and you’re still married, you best stay out of my way…)

In the meantime, I have been listening to a collection of 55 word short stories about love and death.  The collection itself is not really very good.  But, the idea was inspiring.  Since, I don’t have too much to give, 55 words seemed managable.  

Second Storm 

They had stayed here– in this den– three year’s ago during the ice storm.

They had watched a film, drunk wine, made love– passionately– on the day bed in the middle of the night.

Now she’s here again.  Work clothes packed haphazardly in a suitcase.  Toothpaste and a paperback book.

Alone. 

Wounded and alone.

My Dearest Paul,

Today I found– in the bottom of a box, in the bottom of a closet– some pictures of us from a time when we were just starting out: carefree and full of wonder.  It was during these times that we were so certain that we were meant for one another– when we walked through forests, through the street of New Orleans, through a crowded dance floor in amazement and awe that we’d actually found true love.

I thought that you were the very Universe.  When I looked in your eyes, I found God.

Will we ever find those times again?  It seems like eons since I have even looked in your eyes, swayed with my head rested on your shoulder. Will we ever be so certain and full of wonder?

I hope with this first note that we begin to discover that wonder all over again!

With much hope and love,

Emily

Now, you know and I know, that I am doing my best at the glass half full thing. So, I would like to squelch any possible mis-readings even before I begin. My tone for the remainder of this post will be bathed in the bright light of sarcasm. I am not, in any way, shape, or form, honestly complaining. I am only paying homage to the fact that I am now living in a household in which I am a gender minority and the majority has already begun gaining power-by-number and using its iron-fisted methods of oppression. I am the clear underdog.

Lately, and I started out really okay with this, Silas has been clinging to his Da-Da for dear life. He whines if his father passes him to me and throws really outrageous and unbecoming tantrums if he sees good ole Da-Da even getting in his truck. He has also cleanly and successfully obliterated the word “Ma-Ma” from his vocabulary and has started using the word “Da-Da” not only to mean “father” but to mean anything pleasurable, exciting, or hilarious.

“Da-da!” (Translation: This sure is a tasty banana!)

“da-Da!” (Translation: I love my new kid-sized wheelbarrow!)

“Daaaa-Da!” (Translation: Let’s go outside and play with Man-toys!)

“Da-Daaaa!” (Translation: Oh, yippee! Mama’s going to the store and leaving us men to concoct devilish plans on how to annoy her when she gets home! We’ll obviously start by playing on the kitchen floor while she does the dishes!)

So, yeah, I’m feeling a little outnumbered. What happened to that whole “baby boys just love their mothers” thing? Or, the supposed rumor (and Paul read this to me from a book while I was pregnant) that the Mama functions as the entire Universe until the boy reaches five! My only attempts at reassurance come from my belief that maybe Silas is just that advanced. It’s like he’s moved out of the Mama stage and he’s ready for college.

I’m sure a lot of Silas’s newfound infatuation with his Y-chromosone donor comes from the fact that A.) they are both musicians (yes, i count shaking yellow giraffe maracas, playing a Fisher Price electric guitar, and banging wooden spoons on metal bowls as music making), B.) they both like to do things like fart and avoid clean up and veg out in front such ridiculous five o’ clock freakshows as “Hole in the Wall” or whatever the heck it’s called (all habits i am less-than-thrilled about) C.) they both have male gentalia and D.) they’ve had a lot more time to spend together since i’ve been back at work.

And, I’m happy about their similarities and their newfound time together. But, I am also well aware of the inherent danger in this situation.

This morning– this lovely morning– for example, while I was lost in a dream about being crowned “Classroom Queen” (No, I feel no obligation to explain what I mean by that), my lovely boys were camped out on the living room floor, surrounded by dirty diapers and wipes, by empty soda cans and juice boxes (50/50 juice/water Thank God!), watching crap on the t.v. and polishing off a entire bunch of bananas. (At least it wasn’t Ho-Hos. It might have been if Paul didn’t already know that that would be grounds for murder.) When they ran out of bananas or when they tired of infomercials, they both got dressed in odd multi-patterned and multi-seasoned ensembles that I hoped were bout of pre-Halloween creativity but were not.

Maybe that doesn’t seem like much to worry about. And yes, I have a lot to be thankful for. But, coup d’etats often start out small. Every little secret lick of ice cream, every little mismatched pair of socks, every little smile and snicker when I lose my cool, every hour spent feigning sickness so I am the only one left who can finish the laundry has the distinct odor of treason. I am fast learning that I am not the head pirate on this ship.

And, Silas is only one. He can’t even really talk yet. What happens when he catches up with his Dad’s never-forgotten middle school mentality? I am absolutely doomed.
Okay, you might be thinking that I am taking this a bit overboard. You might be snickering to yourself about the fact that I am so uptight. Or, maybe, just maybe, your sympathizing with me, because you have also had to hand over the parental joy stick.

Honestly, I am getting a little nervous. I am hesitant to leave them alone. One day, Goldfish and Cheerios is an adequate dinner and going to bed with just a tiny, little bit of a bottle is okay (yes, I about completely lost it about that one) and the next thing I know their eating Sunday dinner at Hooters. I mean, I feel like I’m just a stones throw away from finding them in a pissing contest on our back deck!

The odd thing about it all is that I never really considered my husband to be a “manly-man”. He’s sensitive and passionate, uninterested in sports, is a lover of art and nature, and doesn’t prefer Pamela Anderson over Cate Blanchett. Still, when the Ultrasound confirmed that we were going to have a son (and until then Paul actually wanted a girl), Paul smirked and sighed in such a way that I knew he feeling all smug and giddy about having made a boy. He started showing off the Ultrasound pics, pointing to Silas’s penis, and bragging about how well he was hung. He was damn proud of himself. Me Powerful Man. Me Do Push Ups. Me Create Penis and Testicles Out of Thin Air. Ug! Ug!

Odd things started happening. When we talked about letting Silas pick out the kind of toys he would like to play with instead of choosing toys for him, it was suggested that most toys were kosher but that Strawberry Shortcake was off limits. Then Paul started constructing a fantasy in which the two companeros– Paul and Little Paul– would go on tour together playing their loud electric Fenders in Honky Tonks and dingy bars while mom stayed home to tend the garden. Paul even went as far as jumping off the bed screaming “Ew! Disgusting!” when I suggested that I hoped Silas found a woman or man as good his Dad to love. (I should note that this blatant and disgusting display of homophobia is very uncharacteristic for my husband. Otherwise, I doubt I would have married him.)Apparently, we haven’t made it out of the Ice Ages yet. Apparently, a male siring another male opens the unattractive door for comments like: “I am man! Hear me Grunt and Denounce Everything Girley! Watch me Flex my Biceps and eat Beanie-Weenies from the Can!”

Since rearing a sensitive, non-misogynistic, creative, loving, communicative male is on my to-do list, I am feeling compelled to get back behind the controls. To limit the amount of “boy time” that they spend together. To repaint Silas’s room in shades of yellow and pink. To sneak My Little Ponies into the toy chest.

Still, I fear that any and all of my efforts will not be enough. Our home, once a sensibly decorated, relatively clean, incense -laden, gender neutral den of happiness, is fast transforming into a filthy bachelor’s cave. Despite these difficult changes, I will do my best to remain centered and feminine. I will call for help if I find them gnawing on raw deer leg. And, I will work my hardest to produce a female ally next time around.

(Truth be told, I’d actually like another son, but don’t tell Paul that…)

Send me your most estrogen-laden wishes. I need a partner in PMS.

So, I am supposed to be folding clothes and mopping floors and washing dishes and domestic stuff like that. I am home with Silas whose nightmare cycle of illness has left all of us exhausted and weeping, begging God, if there is a God, that we’ll be his best friend if he would only spare us another blow-out diaper. Honestly, since he’s started day care, Silas has been well two days on and ten days off. Two days of laughing and outdoor play, ten days of screaming and drooling and throwing sippy cups at you. And the cycle repeats over and over and over and over again. Two and ten. Two and ten. It’s almost too much fun!

So, anyhow, I’m trying to get some of my more mundane duties out the way while he’s napping. But instead, I am compelled to write. I am so compelled because, despite the illness, today– oh peaceful, exhilarating today– has the feel of the olden days. The days of being a stay-at-home-mom. Days in which I was able to don my pajamas until 10, put Silas down for a nap and get in a good 20 minutes with the free weights, a quick, but luscious shower, a good half hour as a maid, another half an hour as a student, a final half an hour as an artiste, and a hike between naps. Oh, the good old days. How I lust after you.

In an effort to keep my sanity and my optimistic attitude (no, really, I have been optimistic), I’ve found my self slipping into deep, hypnotic daydreams of the past. These little abstractions started out innocently enough– a brief reverie of rocking in the glider feeding Silas and reading Fingersmith, a quick and gentle fantasy about a time before Silas could crawl– but quickly developed into something more dangerous.

I will openly admit, so that you don’t have to feel bad about yourself any longer, that I had begun indulging in delicious mind dramas about a life without children. A life in which catching a movie, sitting on the back deck with a book and a beer, and staying out until all hours of the night are not only daily occurrences but much taken for granted.

And, I didn’t stop there. I delved even deeper into the black cave of my imagination to uncover a fantastical dimension in which I was also unmarried, uncommitted, unattached and irresponsible. I saw myself as a winged bird in a leather mini with a cigarette dangling from my ruby red lips, flying from New Orleans to Las Vegas picking up men and dropping them along the way. As if that weren’t enough, I went even further: You got it! I started having waking dreams about certain passionate rendezvous from my past.

So, paint an A on my chest and call me dirty. But, on days and nights when the first time I get to sit down is when I drag myself and my vomit-soaked tee-shirt to bed at 10:30, it was my only recourse.

And, what happens in the red hot recesses of your mind stays in the red hot recesses of your mind. Right? Wrong.

As if I were a voodoo witch conjuring the devil up from beneath the floorboards, I managed to conjure an old, dead, wasn’t-even-ever-my-actual-boyfriend spirit back into my life.

How? you ask. What makes you capable of such perilous, mind-merging, seemingly superhuman feats? The answer is simple my friends: the G-D Internet. (Note again my use of abbreviated expletive. Pat on back. Thank you.)

So, somehow, one of those tipsy google searches that I mentioned in my last post ended up in a message on our answering machine. While I absolve myself of the psuedo-sin of actually contacting anyone from my less-than-wholesome youth, apparently, you no longer have to make actual contact to be scandalously found out. It seems that clicking on someone’s photo is enough to have you caught and trapped in your falsely secretive act of voyeurism. In the words of my husband as I type personal tidbits with the intent of posting them here, I must ask: Is nothing sacred anymore?

So, yes, the cats out of the bag: an old– I guess I’ll just throw it out there– lover left a message on our machine the other night. (Sorry, hon.) And I was faced with that incredibly awkward decision: to call or not to call.

I chose the latter.

But, in the spirit of compromise, I sent a brief email. And that is about all we wives and mothers can do with old flames.  (Thank God!)
So, when I found myself explaining to my calm, insightful, and understanding husband who it was exactly that left a message on our machine and why exactly he might have left it, I realized that I not only should be careful what I wish for (or dream about or conjure up with my witchly ways), but I should be setting my sights a little closer to home.

We need a friggin’ date!

Feel free to contact me if you would like to babysit.

Wait! Let me rephrase: If you and I have a current, platonic relationship and if you are responsible and good with children and if you don’t mind being paid with Malbec and a few hours enjoying our flat screen, then please contact me.

Former bedfellows need not apply.

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/10/14/blast-from-the-past/feed/ 2 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/08/17/two-glasses-of-wine-and-some-friends/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/08/17/two-glasses-of-wine-and-some-friends/#comments Mon, 18 Aug 2008 02:11:40 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/08/17/two-glasses-of-wine-and-some-friends/ A friend just sent me an email with this as the subject heading. Even though I am tired and quickly approaching my self-imposed curfew (I’m officially back to work tomorrow!), I felt that the subject was worth honoring.

Tonight, a small group of us assembled outside a beautiful old barn of a community theater with the intention of honing our improvisational acting skills. Instead, we ended up sitting beneath a wise and magnificent Oak, soaking in the mountain breezes and sipping wine. We were alive with conversation and laughter and as the conversation continued both our social masks and our previous anxieties and depressions dropped away. (Several of us admitted to almost missing the rehearsal b/c of some sort of negative emotional funk.)

It was what we all needed: the safety and security and laughter and love that results from time spent with cherished friends.

Nothing profound.

I just wanted to honor that.

I love you guys!

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/08/17/two-glasses-of-wine-and-some-friends/feed/ 1 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/07/20/may-i-suggest/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/07/20/may-i-suggest/#comments Mon, 21 Jul 2008 02:16:04 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/07/20/may-i-suggest/ First a disclaimer: This post may not contain my usual brand of spontaneity and comic wit. It may feel forced and disjointed. Or, it may feel like I am speaking through one of those boxes that is intended to alter a person’s voice when they want to remain anonymous during a television interview.

Why? Because the damn Internet failed just as I was finishing my original essay and all my work was erased. As I stomped and swore and threatened the cat, my husband calmly reminded me of his repeated suggestion that I write my posts in Word and then copy and paste them onto my site.

Yeah. Great idea. But, his logistical smugness only pushed me deeper into a pit of unhealthy rage. (Of which I have since recovered.) Realize that this post is only a facsimile of its true self. It is a compilation of little bits of initial thought that were able to be salvaged from the wreck of my memory. Unfortunately, attempts at recapturing ideas from ghost drafts are more than often futile. I am sorry, so sorry then, if I fail to amuse you.

(Speaking of the true self, has anyone checked out Eckhart Tolle? Out of nowhere [okay, maybe it had a little something to do with his stint on Oprah] it seems that Tolle’s work and my life keep colliding. So, I finally started listening to A New Earth. Man, is Tolle some deep, deep stuff. And, for better or worse, I am totally digging it.)

Now, on to my reconstructed post:

You may have noticed, as of late, that my Muse has gone packing. I must admit, that I am little sour about it. Especially, since I’m guessing that that slut is probably in Las Vegas throwing her money away on the nickel slot machines. Or, off trying her evil hand at Black Jack in Atlantic City.

Honestly, I’m a little concerned about her health and reputation.

Still, I can forgive her this one extravagant holiday as I have possibly been too busy to consult with her anyhow. (If you see her, please don’t tell her I said that. Politely compliment her on her outfit and hair cut and then try to persuade her to come home.)

Still, I am not too fretful. Muse’s earned vacation time is almost spent and I’m confident that I’ll be back in the saddle by Monday. (I am not yet blaming her absence on my medication. Not yet. No, we certainly won’t go there.)

In the meantime, before I embarrass myself running half-naked down the street screaming “Muse! Muse! Come back! Come Baaaack!” in the same irritating voice that the stranded, mashed-potato-eating little brother uses in A Christmas Story, I am compelled to offer up a suggestion to all of those couples struggling to redefine their postpartum relationship:

Get away for 24 hours without the baby and be ridiculously irresponsible.

No, I don’t mean go out on a 24 hour bender spending the last of your savings on a half shipment of cocaine. No, no. I just mean get out and live a little. We did and Man! are we better for it.

Yes, thanks to my incredible, intelligent and good-looking parents (I hope you’re reading because I’m buttering you up for another overnight), Paul and I were set free. Freeeeeeeeee!

These wonderful, incomparable, as-close-to-perfection-as-two-people-can-get-without actually-being-the-Messiah parents made a pit stop on their vacation to entertain our lovely, lovely loud, crawling, climbing, squealing, energetic, creative, potty-mouthed, temperamental 9-month-old son for an entire 1,465 minutes (no I wasn’t counting) while Paul and I stumbled down vaguely familiar Charlestonian streets in a happily intoxicated tizzy.

Ah! The old life. It’s still there just waiting in the shadows. Go ahead. Invite him over. He’s feeling awfully lonely standing under the lamppost all by himself, planning deliciously debaucherous schemes, that will most likely never come to fruition. Leave him alone too long and he’ll go sniffing after that wild Muse of mine. And when that happens, they may never come back.

Don’t let Mr. Stale come for dinner and ruin your life.

Just because you are a mother doesn’t mean that your inner wild child has shriveled up and kicked the bucket.

Oh no. You are just as wild and crazy as ever. Maybe even more so…

So, do as I do and not as I say especially when going over our monthly bills or trying to get Silas to take a nap or folding an ugly, ugly forsaken pile of laundry.

Go off with your hubbie. Stretch your meek finances to the limit buying items (so, we needed some duds for dinner!) and gourmet entrees (did I mention the foie gras?!?) and bottle of champagne that really POPS! when you send the cork flying across the dimly lit parking lot. Go off. Get wild. Take 24 hours and call me in the morning.

Trust me. Just do it!

We did.

(No pun intended.)

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/07/20/may-i-suggest/feed/ 2 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/25/men-what-be-thy-purpose/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/25/men-what-be-thy-purpose/#comments Thu, 26 Jun 2008 01:02:12 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/25/men-what-be-thy-purpose/ To my wonderful husband Paul, I’m sorry. I had to…

Like many of my mama friends, I seem to have made a critical error in cognitive reasoning. While pregnant, I somehow believed that our lives would change but that our marriage would remain the same. Now, I’m not at all sure what that even means. It is a ludicrous statement and I should be ridiculed for thinking it.

Still, I must continue. Not only did I imagine– despite warnings from books and magazines– that my husband and I would find ourselves snuggled on the bed with Silas between us, more in love than we had ever been, but I also felt confident that once the baby was outside the body, that our roles as caregivers would be instantly equalized. I mean, the baby would be tangible, holdable, real. He’d be up for childcare grabs. In my daydreams, I witnessed my husband grabbing. And grabbing. And grabbing some more.

I also thought we might be, I don’t know, having sex.

Oh, ho, ho. The folly of being childless. The innocence. The idealism. The unknowing.

Now, when asked how things are going with my husband, I frequently answer, with my signature false, close-mouthed, I-dare-you-to-delve-deeper smile, that I didn’t realize I’d signed on to caring for twins.

I mean, after gas pains and constipation, queasiness, and exhaustion. After lugging the body of an eight pound baby up hill and through the grocery store. After exercising and avoiding fun snacks like ice cream and fluffernutters. After twinges of knife-like pain shooting through my vagina. After breasts, seeping from their F-cups, so swollen and sore it hurt to take a shower. After hemorrhoids and muscle cramps. After having to use a step stool to get into bed. After laboring for 20 hours without medication, all through the deep, dark night; and then on Pitocin, and then feeling like I disrespected myself, my birth, and all the women who labored naturally before me, by asking for and accepting an epidural because I was still- after 20 hours and on Pitocin– stuck at four measly little centimeters. After bruising my tailbone while pushing a living human creature from my body, and then having, for the next three weeks, to carry around a padded vinyl toilet seat to ease myself into (and I’d only just turned thirty!) After nursing a three-day-old boy for almost twelve hours straight on nipples that felt like open blisters. After waking hour upon surreal-night-time-hour feeding and changing and swaddling a baby…

I didn’t think I would have to explain why the floor needed mopping.

Suddenly, all of the things about my husband that may have provoked a slight twinge of annoyance, suddenly seemed like the rupture of a volcano. There were nights when I was sure that our marriage was over simply because I heard him snoring peacefully in the other room. Oh, dear, sweet men, what be thy purpose?

I am relieved to know that, among the mothersphere, I am not alone in my fears of and wallows in marital despair. (And, to be fair, my husband is a lovely man, with many redeemable qualities, and I have been assured by my psychiatrist that some, and let me reiterate, some, not all, of my feelings toward my husband had to do with my capital-S “Sickness”. But, should a woman who has carried and bore and cared for a child really have to make a detailed list of chores for the seemingly full-grown???)

So, I am bashing. Said husband might not be pleased.

But, a woman needs to vent her frustration or it surfaces in other ways. Like the accidental tossing of frying pans. Or, the icy, arctic, cold, cold shoulder.

And, honestly, I wouldn’t be writing this if I thought it was our marriage alone. Apparently, the first year with your first child is a difficult one.

Hmpfh!

(Note: I have written that I really hated naysayers and negative advice dolers when I was pregnant. And, I still do. But, I also wish that I had been more prepared for the absolute desecration and reconstruction of everything I once knew. If you are pregnant for the first time and you are reading this, Congratulations!, and I am sorry. If you have already had a first child, then, I don’t have to apologize. You know what I mean.)

Now all I can really do is this:

Dear Husbands,
Sweet, lovable, clueless, dopey, husbands,

Rub your wife’s feet and shoulders. And, don’t expect anything more.
Not yet anyway. Not until she’s finished breastfeeding.

If you get any further than foot-rubbing, count yourself lucky. Be thankful and show her that your thankful.

If there is a mop in a bucket of dirty water sitting next to the bathroom door and your wife is cooking for company (oh, why is your wife cooking for company when you have a newborn?), the dirty water needs to be dumped out in some appropriate place (like the toilet) and the mop needs to be rinsed and put away. Empty rolls of toilet paper need to be replaced with full rolls of toilet paper.

Offer to take night duty, even if its just one tiny, forgettable night, even if it means using formula, so that she can sleep on through like a normal person might and enjoy her REM dreams. Then, in the morning, take duty again. Maybe she can sleep until 8AM. Maybe 9AM. Maybe 10.

Forgive your wife if she snaps at you for the way you diaper or change your baby. Or if she freaks out when you feed them some nasty combination of peas and prunes. She only wants what’s best for your child. Please know that little babies need socks and hats when it is under 50 degrees outside.

Remember that your wife also likes to go out with the girls and grab a drink. She is not a machine and you are not a cave dweller. She feigned off partying for at least 10 months. Encourage her to take a night out on the town. Tell her she looks nice when she gets dolled up. If she’s still wearing maternity jeans assure her that no one will notice and that her ass looks good.

Did I mention that you should rub her feet and shoulders?

You should learn how to snip the baby’s finger and toe nails. You should also learn how to rinse off a cloth diaper.

You should read up on women’s hormones or at the very least respect that hormones are very powerful little beings and that a woman’s body goes through a mind-boggling amount of shift and discord.

You should worship your wife for bringing life into this world. Whatever worship means to you: running a nice warm bubble bath, bringing home flowers, offering to take the baby while she goes for a nice 45 minute walk. Bringing life into the world isn’t easy.

You should love, love, love, love, love your wife. And, quietly, without complaint, do the dishes.Thank you.

Yours respectfully,
Emily Marjean Coolbeth

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