Self-Made Mom

What happens when you take two 30-something moms and send them to the Coldplay concert? They fit right in. I’ll admit, I was little hesitant heading into last night’s concert. What with the fact that I haven’t gone to a big-arena show sober in quite sometime. I’m sure the last time I headed to the United Center to see a band, I really didn’t care about guzzling beer on a weeknight. But in the land of mom, nothing sounds worse that swilling multiple beers on a Wednesday night when the concert didn’t start until 9 pm.  As my friend put it,

I’ll fall asleep if I have a beer right now.

But, we were in good company.  Never in my life have I seen more pregnant women, grey hairs and all out PEOPLE LIKE ME in one place. You know you’re at an old people concert when no one spills beer on your purse and the faintest smell of a certain smoke makes everyone gossip in their seats. 

Which was fine with me. Aside from a few lame-o guys trying their very worst pick up lines on my friend and I, (all I wanted to hear was the song “Yellow.” I didn’t want to engage in a discussion of the band “blowing their load early”) no one really bothered me and I walked out smelling fresh as an arena seat.  I didn’t get to sit down enough, but I also didn’t get dirty stares when I rested my old legs after 70 minutes of standing. 

I needed to conserve my energy for that long walk to my car.  Which led to my house.  And bed.  Which I was grateful to see at 11:30 pm.  Sorry, Pete. It’s too late for me to die before I get old.  I am already there.

I’ve been avoiding reading about all the fun everyone’s having at BlogHer this weekend because while they’re all meeting famous people, I’ve been sitting on my couch eating Crispix being coaxed into following the Tour de France again (I don’t blame him for not wanting to watch 27 Dresses, but still.)

Good times.

But then instead of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to put down my cereal box for a moment and read up on the parties and swag and baby kissing that I’m apparently missing.

Yeah, uhm, that all really doesn’t look as fun as watching men in spandex take major spills on the pavement.

Back to my box and the peloton.

Have fun, my friends.

Our weekly swim session at camp started out normally enough today with a lot of splashing, filling up the watering can and other assorted two-year-old activities. (No, mommy does NOT enjoy having her feet watered. Yes, you can play with the rubber frog squirt toy.) But what began as a benign activity of some of the moms mistaking the frog’s water stream for a little boy taking a whiz turned into something worse. Reality.

As I was changing such little boy out of his swim diaper, I felt a pull and a tug and those dreaded words,

Mommy I have to go pee pee.

So I let him go pee pee outside.  In the flowers.  On the Temple lawn.  Well, because that’s where camp is, and well, I didn’t have the foresight to run to the bathroom inside.

I’m going to hell.

The funny thing is, I totally thought that I had gotten away with the “sneaky pee.”  I somehow thought that the butt naked boy with his back turned to the crowded lawn wouldn’t attract any unwelcome glares.  But when we rejoined reality, I saw the teachers snicker and I knew it was over.

I let my kid pee on the Temple lawn.

Moms started exchanging stories.  Tried to tell me they’d all been there before, rushing to find the nearest porcelain g-d.  But none quite had defaced religious property.  I’m not sure how toilet training could get much worse at this point.

I’m going to hell.

Don’t you love when your friends send you photos of the fabulous places they’ve been on their summer vacations?  In tune with everyone’s favorite summer tradition, here is a recap of my summer vacation.  A.k.a. the reason I haven’t posted in like 15 internet years. Enjoy.

I shut off my laptop…

Read TWO books. Haven’t done that since I was at least 14.

Brought out, used, and cleaned up lots of sand toys.

And found yet another expired bottle of salad dressing in my mom’s vacation house pantry.  We almost ate it because we didn’t have any other options, but I couldn’t bring myself to it.

So tell me ladies (and gentlemen), since I’ve been MIA for awhile, how did you spend your summer vacation?

It’s inevitable whenever I meet a new mom the topic of do I work, stay home or what will come up.  I’m a talker and I’m also kind of nosy.  I like to know what other moms do in their spare time - who they are behind the veneer of Play-Doh and finger paint.  I love when moms reciprocate as well and try to find out a little about me.  In my post-working life I have so many different facets to share it’s sometime hard to know which ones to activate when.  Last week, for instance, when talking to a mom in my son’s camp class, I was volunteer mom.

In my head, moms who volunteer also have perfectly-bobbed hair, clean-shaven legs, wear white dresses with yellow flowers and a strand of pearls to bed.  Ok, so does Sarah Jessica Parker, but her hair is long and messy so she can get away with it.  I never pictured myself as a lady-who-lunches-while-addressing-envelopes-for-a-fancy-fundraiser.

This does not look like Little Miss Junior League.

But these are my new adventures.  Spending my time serving my community. Donating my time and talents to bigger causes.

That is, when I’m not being freelance writer mom.  Or SAHM mom.  Or even helicopter mom. (Ask my friends who attend playgroup at my house).

Increasingly I realize that while I don’t necessarily want to have a job, I like having the ability to activate the workhorse part of my personality. Like when I get to be “I’m a legit blogger” mom.  A line created by my husband defending the “you have a blog?” inquiries at a work dinner. 

I also like being able to turn it off.  Like those days where I laze around, go to the gym, get my nails done and leisurely pace the aisles of Target at 2 pm on a Wednesday.  I have those moments too.  Even Diego’s Rescue Pack must get tired of being activated all the time.

Even Rescue Pack can’t get out of Target without spending at least $100.

My version of adventure is finding new and different outlets for myself.  Outlets for my brain, my body, my future.  I like having challenges outside of putting together 3-D puzzles that a three-year-old should be able to do, but I can’t seem to figure out.  It’s nice to say I was elected to something that I believe in, and to have the ability to help out another organization with skills I learned on the job.

The six-month bug is itching me bad.  Now that I’ve got a little momentum behind me, I like the thought of being busy with something that requires me to use Excel spreadsheets again. Just as long as it doesn’t interfere too much into my time with the world’s best sidekick.

I’d take a two-year-old over Baby Jaguar any day.

A necessary evil of having friends, especially mom friends, is loaning money.  I don’t know anyone who hasn’t remembered at one point to put their wallet in their diaper bag when heading out for the day or realized they only had $45 in their checking account so couldn’t put anything on their debit card (who, me?).   At one point or another every mom has asked their mom friend for a few dollars here, $30 there (expensive dinner) with a “sure, I’ll pay you back soon” wink and nod.

I happily loan out money whenever I have a friend in need. Even if my checking account is absurdly low right now (ahem, perhaps I should find another freelance gig), I’m always flush with cash thanks to a neurotic husband and refusal to pay the $2 ATM fee if my bank’s terminal is not nearby. See you at Starbucks and you’re a dollar short? No worries, I got your latte. Need parking fee for the zoo? I’ll get your car out of that lot.

I’ve also been on the receiving end of many a dollar. But as soon as I see my bank friend again, I always pay back. Even if I have to shove the money in their wallet. I hate having an I.O.U. to a B.F.F.

There are those out there though who may not remember how I treated them to a yogurt or turkey sandwich (with a soda), wine (Australian Shiraz) or even a movie. That’s okay, to a point, but I’m finding that the $2 here and $14 there (zoo parking is expensive) can add up.  It’d be really nice if my checking account was at $60 instead of $45.

When I brought this up to my friends today (none of which had any outstanding loans from me), I felt like a cheapskate for my plan to ask my other friend to pay me back from a movie night a few weeks ago.  It’s not like there’s a lot I can do around town with the $11.50 ticket price (that’s 3 lattes!), but it’s sort of the notion that the money is floating out there, somewhere, trying to find its way back to my bank account. (I’d be up to $71.50, cha-ching!)

My friends were mixed on what to do. I just thought I’d be forthright, up front and ask point blank for my money back.  Some thought I should be a little more tactful.  Bring up the movie, talk about its obvious plots, fabulous fashion and terrific dialogue (I loved it too!) and see if she bites with an “oh! I owe you money for the ticket, don’t I?”

But I hate being passive agressive.  If I had any outstanding movie tickets, coffees, parking fees, bottles of wine, anything, I’d want to know ASAP.  As a SAHM now, I have to protect my funds.

So that’s what I’m gonna do.  I’m just gonna ask. I hope she has the correct change.

Nothing like a nasty case of food poisoning to ruin a girls’ night out over the weekend.  Since I’m too ailing to write anything remotely creative, I’ll let you all catch up with my post last week on Work It, Mom! or better yet, enter Nataly’s Breadwinner Mom survey for a chance to win a Sony Reader!

Until my bowels get it together…

It’s funny what people inherit from their parents.  Some get the smart gene, the funny gene, the angry gene.  Me? I get the pantry gene. I didn’t invent the idea of pull-out drawers, but I’ll be damned if mine get as out of control as my mother’s. 

A display of mutated pantry genetics at work.

It’s hard to read, but here’s some relish from June 2005. Opened.

Why bother closing the top of the cereal boxes when you can just shut the drawer?

Candy, granola bars, nuts, baking soda. They’re all in the same genre. 

Cans and condiments gone wild.

I love you, mom.

I can’t stop thinking about something my father said to me yesterday while we were driving:

Whatever you decide to do, do what you love. And earn some money for it.

And it’s left me perplexed because 1) I am trying to figure out what I am going to love to do, and 2) I am trying to focus more on the “love” part and less on the money.  You don’t exactly quit your job to stay home with your kid to then worry about how you’re going to make money, right?

I’ve had plenty of opportunities to rake in the dough, but I am turning them down, even if it means I have less disposable cash to spend on anything that doesn’t come from Target. (Because I can strategically shop at Target - you know, buying the household necessities, but throwing in a $10 tank top that won’t throw off the credit card statement.)

What I’m aiming to find is the perfect mix of volunteer work that will reward me as much as a shopping spree would. So I ran for the board of my local community, gave a silly one-minute shpiel on why I’d be a good board member and got on the next day in some random post-election day miracle.

I don’t know if I’m going to like it, but the people seem nice, and the cause good. I love where I live and I am committed to helping the community. It’s a different world I’m entering. One that I’m honestly not used to.  One where public service outweighs cute shoes.

Month seven here I come. I think I’m ready.

Now before you all think I’ve been swept away with the fuzz under the rug, I haven’t.  I’ve just been at the petting zoo.  The place where moms have 10 udders, but at least get to sleep while their children pester them for food.

There’s not enough Lasinoh cream on the market to keep her nipples from hurting.

I mean the zoo really puts things into perspective - just when I start to feel stressed about not working, or guilty, or needing a really long vacation away, I remember that things could be worse.  I’m pretty sure those animals don’t have Tivo in their crates.

Animals also don’t get fun DVDs about new television shows sent to them by friends, and I didn’t see any Tory Burch flip-flops (I missed the memo about wearing those to the zoo today) on the mommy cows.  By g-d those animals are so unstylish.  I also bet that the cute little pony eating her hay doesn’t have to worry about giving her first presentation in a long time tomorrow to a room full of strangers for a position she has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting.

As different as our lives may seem, however, there are some strong similarities between our barnyard brethren and us. We are both responsible for our children’s health, well-being and need to ensure that they’re fed, clothed (or have enough fur or hair or whatever), and have a place to sleep (I’ll take my Tempurpedic pillow over a bale of hay any day.) When you get right down to it, the only thing that separates a stay-at-home mom with a billy goat mom is that the billy goat can kick her kid away when he’s being annoying.  I tried that move once, but I got too many dirty stares from onlookers to ever repeat it.

There’s something to be said, though, about living more like the animals.  Their nipples may hurt, but I bet the mama sheep doesn’t give a lick about what the mama pig feeds her kid for dinner.  Or if her pig husband brings home the bacon. I mean how bad could it really be to lie around all day letting your little piggies pick at your boobs for a bite every now and again?

Udderly awful.  I think I’ll stick with my sushi take-out, down comforter-loving self at least until my next visit.