I Learned It From Watching You!

For some reason, that 1987 anti-drug PSA sticks out in my mind...as do so many others from my youth (hello, egg in the frying pan as your brain on drugs!)  YouTube them if you forget.  Anyways, the commercial inexplicably entered my mind the other day, and I pictured the teenage boy yelling to his dad, "I learned it from watching you!" when questioned about the marijuana found in his room. This flashback got me thinking about the things that EJ could say he "learned from watching me," and here's what I came up with:

Good things that EJ can learn from watching me:

• I smile a lot.
• I rip really good jokes.
• I like to read...and series written for teenagers, fashion magazines, and J. Crew catalogs count.
• I try to be kind to people (not going to deny my biting inner monologue though!)

Bad, drug commerical-type things that EJ can learn from watching me:

• Driving aggressively and cursing at other cars (I blame New Jersey).  On that note, I do have various honking patterns that are meant to be non-threatening and teach the drivers around me to not drive so badly/stupidly, so maybe that's not all bad?
• I like sugar.  A lot.  Have dessert twice a day...after lunch and dinner.  Once I had a personal trainer who was telling me about the evils of sugar.  I told him I was so proud that I had cut my desserts down to two.  He said, "a week?" and I replied, "a day."  We didn't last after that. Ideological differences.
• I pout if I don't get my way.  Apparently you're never too old for that.
• I'm not the best with a budget.  Chanel eyeshadow quads? Check.  Six months of living expenses saved? Ummmm.

I could go on (especially with the bad..that's what us Type-A people focus on...the things we don't do well), but I'll stop myself there.  

In thinking about my less desirable traits, I'm actually pleased that they're all manageable things I can work on.  Between my spring goals and weekend lists, I can definitely strive to dial down the sugar, rushing around, being a brat, and spending frivolously.  Done, done, done, and done. Disclaimer: Will work on the sugar thing after Easter and the deeply discounted post-Easter bags of candy.

This morning, as EJ shoved pieces of blueberry gluten-free waffle in his mouth, talking and laughing to himself, I thought about what I could learn from watching him.  So many things flew into my mind: being fearless and proud of who you are, not going along with things you don't like, finding joy in the small stuff, not worrying about what's in store for you after you finish your chicken nuggets, etc. etc.  In fact, I should watch EJ more closely more often.  It seems there's a lot I can learn.

The Story of a Lunch

I've had a revelation.  Smuckers corporation (is that a thing?) listen up.  New Uncrustables sandwich idea: pasta noodles mixed with squares of bread, encased in a pretzel roll, shoved into the center of a bagel.  Delish.  If my child is any indicator of what your focus groups will say, this can become a best-seller, money-maker, pb&j kick-asser.

I'm tired of trying to hide the fact that all my son eats is carbohydrates.   Although I know that the nice daycare ladies do not have time to perseverate on what EJ's lunches say about my parenting, I'm still ashamed about his pasta-pasta-pasta-bagel-pasta rotation.  Now, I do mix in organic yogurt, cheese, fruit, and veggie pouches to hide the 'drate (is that a thing?), and I've even gone so far as to mention my intensive 10K training in hopes the ladies will think that carbo-loading is a necessary athletic practice in my home.  However, at the end of the day, no matter which way you slice it (ha!), the center of EJ's every meal is bread.  Now, before you amazing, perfect mothers shake your heads at me (talking to you, Gwyneth!), I've tried sending in some of the things that I can sometimes get EJ to eat at home: chicken nuggets, meatballs, fish sticks, carrots, etc., but nothing works.  And, EJ, likes cheese and bread....but of course, not sandwiches.  That's some sound toddler logic for you.  He will eat peanut butter as well...but of course, daycare is peanut-free.  So, basically I'm left with no options.

A few weeks ago, I had a stroke of genius.  VARY the pasta noodles.  Orecchiette, fusilli, cavatelli, penne, farfalle, gemelli, rotini...now my little gourmand seems very sophisticated and is practically fluent in Italian.  I'm actually thinking about teaching him to say Ciao! and double-kiss just to add to his European street cred.  Overall, I'm hoping this noodle shift will shift the daycare ladies' perception of me, or perhaps my perception of myself.  I'm doing the best I can and EJ likes to eat.  I also have full confidence that one day soon he'll be sipping on the kale smoothies and munching on the sunflower burgers that I love...only to have the elementary school kids make fun of him...and beg me to send him in with bread and cheese for lunch. Oy.

The Fool of April

One of my credit cards was hijacked.  Calm down, I'm fine.  It happened on April 1st, and I caught it less than 48 hours later, so it's all good in the hood.  My biggest issue with this whole thing is that the fools who did it spent my money at Walmart.com.  Now, I love getting a bang for my buck at Walmart, and I can be found there every few months stocking up on paper goods (ear muffs, Whole Foods!), supplies for EJ, and fun toiletries (can I get a woot woot for Jergens BB Body Cream?!).  I just wonder what the thieves were buying from there with my money. Jaclyn Smith dress pants? A canteen for camping? AAA batteries? Maybe they just wanted to make an innocuous first purchase and then go nuts on another site when they thought they were in the clear...I don't pretend to know how the criminal mind works.  I guess they didn't know they were messing with an elementary school teacher who stalks her accounts to see when she can squeeze out extra money for important things like ombre highlights and gel manicures...I mean, swimming lessons and educational toys for EJ.

This whole thing got me thinking about how I use my credit cards.  I'm not going to lie, at the ripe old age of 34, I still use them like when I was 20...pretending that the items I'm getting are free and someone else will pick up the tab a few weeks down the road (ear muffs, Suze Orman!)  I really should know better because I just finally paid off the interest from a pair of Diesel jeans and flared black Express pants I bought in 2001.

I think these Walmart thieves came into my life for a reason (very zen buddha thinking of me!).  In reflecting on the situation, I'm the fool, not them.  I am now someone's mother, and my divorce has left me with a shaky financial foundation that must be rebuilt.  Faux Walmart.com trips, my Starbucks runs, "needing" a $20 Josie Maran lip gloss, etc. only chip away at that foundation.  Now, I'm a firm believer in enjoying life, but debt is not fun, and I think I need to close my purse strings a little tighter...at least for a bit.  Down the road, when I'm chasing EJ down the beach in Turks and Cacos, clutching my Louis Vuitton beach bag (or in reality, on the classy beaches of the Jersey shore), I'll feel a little lighter knowing that I'm evading the quick sand of credit card debt.  And, since I have to make a quick Sephora run tomorrow, I'll definitely start on Monday.

Like Mother, Like Son

I despise onions.  Allegedly, this all started in 1983 (suspiciously the year my sister was born) at a White Castle “restaurant.” According to the only eyewitness, my mom, I threw up in the parking lot after eating a hamburger and begged to know “what the gwoss white thingys on top” were.  The rest is history, and 31 years later, I can't eat onions.  It’s been a struggle, and I am super awkward at Mexican and Italian restaurants, but somehow I’ve been able to make it this far and have had some amazing onion-free meals.

My onion phobia is a little tricky to explain on first dates because it inevitably leads to the revelation that I also don’t eat anything that is transparent with lines—celery, shallots, etc.—and then I seem like a raging weirdo.  Fortunately, I have been making some progress in peeling back my layers of fear (bam…pun intended!), and my number one roommate, also my mom, is now making homemade soups with onions and pureeing them in our Vitamix.  And, baby girl likes her some creamy soup.

The point of all this, you ask? Lately, my son EJ has been flexing his “I’m independent” muscles, which has translated into him making a stank face and throwing pieces of non-preferred food on the floor during meals.  I know this is what toddlers do, but it’s annoying nonetheless.  Since I am incredibly cerebral, self-aware, and enlightened, I’ve just made the connection that EJ’s food-aversive behavior mirrors what I have been doing to my friends and family for the better part of three decades.  “We’ll take an order of nachos with no salsa or guacamole,” “Can we just get a white pizza?” “Can you tell me how your risotto is prepared?” “Can I have shrimp fajitas with just peppers?” “I can’t eat this because the lettuce tastes like it came in contact with a red onion.” Eesh. 

So, I just want to say to my loved ones that I’m sorry and I’m working on it.  I hope EJ can work through his food issues soon too.

Memoir of a Divorce

This is not funny and lighthearted enough for Throwback Thursday, but it's a throwback nonetheless so I figured I would share it on a Tuesday to keep the alliteration going.  I wrote it nearly two years ago for an essay contest about regret, and I remember frantically trying to finish it the night before labor was induced and I had EJ. Anyways, I came across it the other day and was instantly transported back to that time in my life. Some people I know are having hard times right now, and finding this again was a wonderful reminder that bad times are finite, and there is always good ahead.  Two years later, I'm happy with my life and am a different person...but only because I went through this.

Forty weeks pregnant with my first child.  It’s been a kind pregnancy, but my little one’s movements now seem arduous for him and are indelibly uncomfortable for me.  I am ready for him to come.

By the light of day, I am a confident, excited mother-in-waiting.  My time is consumed with a never-ending slew of parental tasks, all of which I do gladly, absentmindedly rubbing my belly.

The nights are much different.  As I shift uncomfortably in bed, I feel raw and exposed, a spotlight of pitch black highlighting my truth.  I am scared and alone, nervously anticipating single parenthood and the new version of my life that has been thrust upon me by two callous souls. Hours pass by as I try to block the bad thoughts and once again chastise myself for canceling the damn singing chicken.

I don’t know when it all started, but I know exactly when it ended.  March 12^th at 11:23 p.m.  That was the night I confronted my husband, the supposed love of my life, about a discrepancy on our phone bill.  That discrepancy was a series of text messages and calls to an unfamiliar number.  Looking back, it was actually the cliché adultery scene you hear about.

My husband initially acted confused, but then his lip started to tremble and his eyes welled up. I then knew he was having an affair with his coworker. I was five months pregnant and it was the week of our fourth wedding anniversary.

I didn’t even cry.  The shock and hurt momentarily dried my tear ducts.  I don’t even think I yelled.  I remember thinking, this isn’t my life, this shouldn’t be happening to me.  I had married a great guy after dating for several years and we did everything you are supposed to do…right down to planning for a baby that we both wanted.

Regardless, I found myself looking at the clock, noting the time of death of our relationship, and then staring into the eyes of my best friend who had instantaneously become a complete stranger.  Throughout tears and an abundance of sorries, my husband was never able to say the right thing, nor did he beg for my forgiveness.  I knew that the damage was irreparable and the relationship was over.

From the moment I found out about the infidelity, I chose to take the high road and not put additional undue stress on myself or the baby.  Never did I partake in any yelling, cursing, breaking dishes, throwing clothes on the lawn, or anything else that seems satisfyingly badass in a woman-scorned movie.  My entire marriage just crumbled tidily before my eyes.

A few days after my discovery, a dear friend called me.  I had fled home to seek refuge in my mother's house, and had spent my days and nights curled in the fetal position.

“Want some cheering up?” she chirped.  I responded with a grunt, turning to face myself in the mirror and thinking how old and haggard I looked and felt.

“I did something.  Do you or do you not want to know?” she continued.

“Do,” I replied, my ambivalence palpable.

“I did some snooping and SHE is having a party tonight at a bar near where I work.”  

A guttural-sounding gasp escaped my mouth.  I pictured her having a fantastic, fun night acting as if nothing was wrong.  Like a family hadn’t been completely broken. My husband would probably even be there.   I hadn’t spoken to him in days.

“Anyways, I’m sick of women like her and men who cheat.  It is not okay!” she preached.  I sighed.

“So…..So I hired a singing telegram to serenade her and tell everyone in attendance what disgusting, vile creatures she and your husband are.  Oh, and the singer is going to be dressed in a big chicken suit.  It symbolizes what they both are and I don’t want anyone in the place to miss it!”

Silence from me.  I checked the mirror again and inadvertently, a smile had spread across my face.   The laughter was not far behind.   It was the first time I had laughed in what felt like eons.  Suddenly, it wasn’t me who felt embarrassed or ashamed.  It could be the both of them being mortified in front of coworkers and others.  They deserved it.  Maybe their night would be ruined, just like my nights had been and would continue to be.  Maybe for just a few moments, they could feel as small as I felt.

My joy was short-lived as my gaze shifted back to my reflection.  I looked at myself and noticed that my smile had taken on an eerie joker-like appearance.  I didn’t look victorious; I looked crazed.  At that same time, my baby kicked and I was brought back down to reality.  This was not me.

“You have to cancel it,” I ordered, some strength edging its way back into my voice.  “It’s just not worth it.  Let her have her party and pretend.  She knows what she is.  They know what they are.  And frankly, if they don’t, it’s not my job to show them.”

“Fine, your call,” my friend replied glumly, telling me she loved me and murmuring something about having to quickly cancel the transaction.

I looked back at myself.  The shadows were still there, along with a faint line etched into my forehead by brows that had been furrowed for days.  But, I looked like me again, and the spark in my eyes flickered back, if only for a brief moment.

           

As I stare into the darkness, and play and replay the it’s-not-fair game in my mind, I wholeheartedly envision that a singing chicken would have given me a sense of peace, making the adulterers feel some of the pain I’ve felt or perhaps help explain how my marriage fell apart. 

Thankfully, I have finally decided that this thinking is selfish.  It’s the thinking of a single girl who’s been scorned.  That’s not me anymore.  I am someone’s mother, someone’s light, someone’s beacon.  And that person doesn’t go out seeking revenge.  That person doesn’t revel in someone else’s misery.  She forges ahead and tries to make a glorious life for her child and herself. 

Now, as labor is imminent, when the chicken pops into my mind and the revenge pulse starts to quicken, I turn on the light, get out of bed and walk to my son’s crib.  I stare longingly and lovingly at his ocean-themed sheets, the hand-sewn quilt adorned with his name, and the whale decals I’ve affixed to his wall. 

There are two whales swimming along—a mother and son.  She’s showing him the way forward, both of them smiling brilliantly.  And in that moment, I know that when I finally meet my little boy, so soon from now, that there is no room for anger, only love.  Chickens don’t belong in my house.  They live far away from here, and they deserve one another.  I’ll take my little whale and swim happily off into the sunset.

Exit Strategy

There’s nothing about January 1^st (aside from the whole new year thing) that makes it a good time to start over, so I’ve stopped making New Year’s resolutions.  There’s no point.  I hibernate all winter, which is the antithesis of rebirth and embracing the new. Yes, I always have a few good days of dressing up, being energetic, and working out in me, but other than that, I’m pretty much a bear all season, literally and figuratively.  

Today, as winter exits and spring begins, I find myself wanting to think about renewal, rebirth, and gasp, fruits and vegetables.  Therefore, I’d like to articulate my resolutions for spring.  Since I love some frivolity, my “foo foo” goals include running a 10K on Memorial Day, finally getting away on some mini-breaks (am feeling British today), and making some fantastic plans for EJ.  I would also love to have 6-pack abs, make a perfect soufflé, and learn to speak Italian fluently, but I’ll save those last few for one of my weekend lists.

More and most importantly, my main objective for spring is to work to find some beauty in every day. I’ve kvetched about this in the past, but as the last few days and weeks have painstakingly shown me, the good and bad times of life are in a constant ebb and flow, and if you aren’t able to find specks of joy during the horrendous times, you’re going to waste a lot of precious moments being pissed off.

People around me are sick right now, and I don’t mean goopy-eyed or runny nose sick.  Bad sick.  Knock-the-breath-out-of-you, catastrophic sick.  It’s horrible and sad; the perfect reason to curl up in a ball and scream about how unfair life is, which is exactly what part of me wants to do for them.  But, I can’t and won’t.  I will not squander our time focusing on the boo hoo instead of the woo woo.  Amidst the sad and the hard, I will help them laugh and find something to enjoy.  A meal, a movie, a joke, a video of EJ running around in his diaper…pear-shaped physique displayed loud and proud. And, if enough of these tiny moments accumulate, they’ll break up the dark…just like the stars in the night sky.  Happy Spring. 

Newborn Fashion Faux Pas

"Don't worry, the hospital takes care of everything for you." Famous last words.

This is what a good friend told me when I asked what to bring to the hospital for my unborn child. I took that to mean I should pack nothing for him, and just worry about bringing my comfiest sweats, lip balm, mascara, and a hair brush. Oh, and Vogue and Elle and my i-Pad to catch up on my reading. After all, I would just be laying around, right?

I got through labor pretty unscathed, and the first 48 hours of motherhood were easy breezy. Cute baby rolled in, cute baby rolled out, visitors, cute baby rolled in, lunch...you get the point. However, I was then told that there would be no more of the baby being rolled in and out or changed for me, and that I now needed to get gone and take him with me. I mean, I knew it was coming, but it still seemed sudden. 

This is how our departure went to best of my recollection:

My cute baby, EJ, is rolled in by the nurse on duty. I nurse him, kiss him, tear up a little, and then try to give him back to the nurse to be rolled back to the babysitting room.

Nurse: No, it's time for you all to go. You can get out his things and get him dressed.

Me: In what?

Nurse: His clothes.

Me: Long pause.Crickets.I don't have clothes for him. I was told you guys took care of things.

Nurse: Incredulous look.You didn't bring clothes for your son!? I've never heard of such a thing.

Me: More meekly. I was told you guys took care of things?

Nurse: We don't provide clothes for the babies too. That would be ridiculous. 
Busies herself around the room, mumbling about how she's never seen this in twenty years, can you imagine if everyone did this, etc.

Me: Look over at Vogue on the table. Think about fashioning pants and a top for EJ. Realize don't have tape. Getting frustrated and embarrassed. Nurse is still mumbling. Have had enough.  
Okay, I get it, I messed up, but it's not like you're buying the clothes! Can't you help!? 
Solemnly stare at EJ while trying to show I'm not wearing a wedding ring and hoping she can somehow tell my husband cheated and I'm currently in the process of divorcing him. 

Nurse: Sigh. I guess I'll have to go find him something to wear.

Me: Sigh.Thank you. Also, will there be lunch before I go?   
Look down immediately, as this was probably not the best thing to say.

Five minutes later...

Nurse: Heavy sigh.  We had some donated baby clothes in the NICU.  This is what I found.
Shows two onesies...one in size preemie and one that is 9 months.

Me: I guess we have to go with the bigger one.  
I take it; it smells a little like mold or cheese or moldy cheese.  Look on the back and it has NICU812 written on it in permanent marker. Look at poor EJ.  Has no idea he's about to look like a prisoner.  Get him dressed.  Both legs fit through one of the leg holes.  My mother is mortified and won't even look at me. 

Nurse: Are you all ready? And, no, you won't be here long enough for lunch.
My mom, EJ, and I all but run out of the room and never look back. Months later, as I sit to put together EJ's baby photo album, I realize there are multiple pages in the beginning entitled "Home from the Hospital." Oops.  Decide to leave in the model family's pictures and call it a day.  

In his closet, EJ has his prisoner NICU812 onesie perserved for when he's older.  We'll laugh about it one day.