Tag Archives: motherhood

What’s in a Name?

Posted on March 19, 2012 | 2 comments

source: onesmartbrotha.com seriously. that's my source.

We can’t all be Dwayne Wayne. Even the actor that played Dwayne Wayne on A Different World, Kadeem Hardison, had a pretty stellar name.

Dwayne Wayne was never invisible. He never got away with anything. Even the tiniest of actions were noticed and hijinx ensued. Remember when Dwayne ran for Student Concil President. The Reverend Jesse Jackson even noticed and came to visit Hillman College. He got attention. And it wasn’t just the glasses.

I don’t think I want to be quite as high profile as Dwayne Wayne.

But I wear glasses. And still, sometimes, I am invisible.

“Where are my pink shoes, Mom?” “What’s for dinner, Mom?” “Do I have PE today, Mom?” “Great dinner, Mom.” “Don’t forget to call and get a life insurance quote, Mom.”

Mom gets attention. But sometimes it feels like no one sees me.

When MQD and I were dating he started calling me Mom. It was cute. I liked it. He was acknowledging that Mom was who I am, and that he was okay with it, and he understood it (the best he could.) When Em decided she was going to start calling him Dad I followed suit. It’s easier to change your name if everyone in the house joins in.

And now we have a new baby in the house so there is an awful lot of sickeningly sweet “Can you see your Daddy?” “You look just like Mommy…”

I think for a lot of couples some of the most intimate moments are spent in bed. Not like that. But staring at the ceiling. Or in the dark. When you can speak your mind and no one can see your face. Eye contact becomes unnecessary when you are moments from falling asleep. The trust is implied.

With a newborn in the house sleep is at a premium and pillow talk is non-existent. But we find the time. Lucy is settling in to her own routine. After Em goes to bed she will give us about ten minutes of smiling at the ceiling fan. Occasionally we even get a few minutes on a Saturday afternoon.

This weekend Em was out and about and MQD and I were on a “mini-date.” “Mini-date” is marital code for let’s have a conversation and not screw around on our phones while we talk. We get the intimacy that we used to get in those late night conversations on the floor with our two month old instead of in the sack. But I’ll take it where I can get it.

So, we were on the floor in the living room with Lucy Goose, making faces. Talking, laughing. MQD said something stereotypically female and chuckled. And then in case I had not seen the hilarity in his comment he added “That’s what it’s like talking to you.”

“Yeah. But I’m not a lesbian, you can’t act like that. There’s one girl in this relationship.”

And without a moment’s hesitation he added “No. There’s three girls in this relationship.” Not in our family. He said in our relationship.

And that is how it should be for now. Our family dynamic has changed. And now our relationship must evolve to include all three girls, I suppose.

In the moment I kissed him (and wrote down this conversation in my phone quickly.)

But later it stung. I don’t want there to be three girls in our relationship. Not all of the time anyway. Sometimes I want to be his girl. His only girl.

A long time ago be said “you look hot, Mom” and I felt my knees crumble. He like-liked me. And he loved me for who I was. Seven years my junior this adorable 25 year old boy he really liked me.

Years later those seven years don’t seem like a very big deal.

And Mom? Now she wants to be Kelly again. “Can you do me a favor? When it has nothing to do with either of our kids can you please call me by my name?”

That poor guy can’t win. But he rolls with it. First I wanted him to fall in love with Mom. Now I want him to see Kelly again. It shouldn’t matter what he calls me. He tells me dinner was good every night. And that he loves me every morning.

Later that night he tossed it back at me “Thanks, Kel.” And I smiled.

It’s just a name.

But Mom is never going to wear those sick heels in the back of her closet. And Mom is totally never going to fit in those leather pants. Mom actually wants to know what exactly is an occasion to which one might need to wear leather pants. But Kelly is going to wear those heels. And dammit, she’s gonna wear them with those leather pants. Anywhere she damn well pleases. Soon.

Now to decide on my glasses.

The Perfect Accessory. And the whole "I can read street signs and see the TV" is a nice bonus.

2 Comments

Posted in Parenting

Tagged dating, Dwayne Wayne, glasses, motherhood, Parenting, relationships, shopping, style

In the weeds

Posted on March 14, 2012 | 4 comments

My wonderful friend and blogger Colleen had me write a guest post over at The Family Pants. (Go pay her a visit!!!)I was going to write about why I love Colleen and then something funny happened at the park that had me thinking about my past. Colleen is married to a restaurant person, so maybe that is why she puts up with me. What follows is what I wrote for Colleen.

Robert Fulghum said he learned all he needed to know in kindergarten. He was lucky. I had to wait tables for ten god damned years. When I got a job as a waitress at nineteen years old I never imagined that I was embarking on what would be ten years of training for motherhood.

This girl was 22 years old. She worked two jobs and thought red hair dye was a good idea. She could take an order from an eight top without a pen. She thought she didn't know a thing about motherhood.

Perhaps first and foremost I learned to drink booze out of a coffee cup. And not make an “I’m drinking booze” face. How, even, to wince in a “ooh boy this coffee is hot” way instead of a “Jeez , there’s a lot of bourbon in this bourbon and ginger” way. This is a handy skill when your kids are old enough to recognize anything that vaguely resembles an indication of grown up time. Wine in a wine glass? Instantly, they need you. Wine in a coffee cup? Business as usual.

It was in the dining room of a restaurant I learned that everyone I work with will likely step right over something as if they don’t see it. And that it is a colossal waste of my time and energy to wonder if anyone else will go get the vacuum. If that something is wet and maybe gross, the length of time your coworkers might let it sit there gets exponentially longer.

It wasn’t waiting tables that taught me this next thing, but rather the after hours activities, but it was valuable nonetheless. I learned that no matter how late I stayed up the night before I will have to drag my ass out of bed the next day. And start fucking smiling at people who want things from me.

It taught me that wearing a dirty shirt is fine. No one cares. Even if you slept in it the night before.

It taught me that there is nothing wrong with day drinking. If you are off work you’re off work. Seize the moment. Carpe the shit out of that magnum and don’t answer your cell phone. Because that day off you think you have – it could end abruptly with one single phone call. The only way to absolutely get the day off no matter what is to drink enough that you are a danger to yourself and all those around you.

I learned that sometimes there is no shame in over-serving someone. And that if you don’t have any rigid expectations it can even be fun. A kid on their second bag of skittles is not too different from a grown man knee-deep in Budweisers. Eventually they will both get extremely upset, possibly even cry and tell you that you just don’t understand them. Just don’t let them drive or play with their favorite toy. Because it will get broken, and somehow it will be your fault.

I learned that someone always has it worse than you. I would count all the change in my apron only to discover I had somehow made fifty-nine dollars on a fucking Saturday night. I’d slug back my shift beer and drop my pint glass in the dish pit on my way out the door and realize that the dishwasher was still working. And he came in before me. And he probably works breakfast somewhere else. And he never makes two hundred bucks in a night. The dishwasher is the lady I see now at the grocery store with three kids under three that has not slept more than 45 minutes in years. I smile at her kindly, and then I run the fuck away before she can ask me for any help.

I learned that when you are in the eye of the shit storm, “in the weeds” they call it in the restaurant, when everywhere you look people want something, and everything you suggest is wrong and everyone you speak to got up on the wrong side of the bed no one can save you but you. Eventually the day will be over. And tomorrow? All those assholes won’t be there anymore. It might be a whole bunch of new jackasses with special requests, trying to see a movie that starts in 30 minutes and ordering a well done steak, but it will be new. It will never be as bad as today in the same way. It might get worse, but it won’t ever be the same. Insanely, this is comforting.

Perhaps the most useful skill of all is the most commonly employed.
If you are a mother you practice this, I guarantee it. Waiter blinds. Waiter blinds are a skill cultivated by seasoned wait staff allowing the waiter to walk right by a customer while they are staring you down, doing everything they can to send you the “I want my 57th glass of iced tea right NOW” message with their eyes. The seasoned waiter can ignore them without ruining their tip. Because they are not convinced you can see them. Even though you are right in front of them. You must stare intently in another direction, perhaps at the kitchen door as if to say there is hot food in the window that could save lives if you get there in the next ten seconds. The skilled waiter might even wave and greet a fictional customer just out of a table’s range of sight.

But whatever you do you do not make eye contact and you do not allow yourself to stop looking in the direction you are already looking.

Mothers have a similar skill. Only we learn not to just avoid someone looking at us. We can ignore a short person repeatedly hollering our name. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.”

With my oldest daughter now six years old I am like the seasoned waiter. I can ignore her without other mothers even suspecting that it is me she is hollering for. Another mother sitting on the same park bench might very well look over her shoulder thinking “where is that kid’s mother?” That is the parental equivalent of someone else refilling your table’s iced tea because you looked way too busy.

This afternoon we were at the park. I was reading and wiggling the stroller with my foot as my 7 week old slept. I was in professional mom gear. Yoga pants, vibrams and a shirt with puke on it. (In my defense I did actually exercise today, not to the point of vomiting, but you get my point.) If you looked closely you’d have seen that the tell tale sign of breast pads (the faint appearance of gigantic nipples which are actually the result of wearing washable cloth breast pads and a sports bra) was slightly off. Instead it appeared that I had not humongous saucer sized nipples but rather nipples the size of playing cards. Rectangular nipples.

If you noticed then you’d know I really am a pro at this mom shit. Ran out of the house with no breast pads? No problem. Still in the diaper bag are the postpartum maxi pads. Cut one of those suckers in half, cram it in your shirt and you’re in business.

Where was I?? I got distracted, forgive me, I don’t sleep. I was setting the scene. I had my kindle in my hand. On the park bench “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom!!” Suddenly this was the best and most important book in all the world. Nothing would divert my attention from this book. I had the good fortune of wearing sunglasses so I could see that the big kids were fine. I kept reading, jiggling the stroller with my foot. No feelings were hurt because my daughter was under the impression I could not hear her!! I read for a good three more minutes. Three minutes in uninterrupted mom time is a lifetime.

I felt renewed.

Em continued to holler. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.”

As if I had just now heard her for the first time I yelled back “whatcha need Em?”

“Nothing.” She smiled. “I love you.”

Sucker punched by my six-year-old. Way to make me feel like an asshole. Just like that two top of women who ordered the exact same thing (a salad and a half sandwich and soup with an iced tea) and then they had me split their check in two. The pair of women that I just knew would give me 15% even though I was bringing the funny.

Emily shouting “I love you” across a soccer field. The only thing that prepared me for that moment was that two top of middle-aged women. The table I ignored after their fourth refill of iced tea and their plates had been cleared. Yeah. Sometimes that table would leave me a twenty dollar bill each on their checks of $12.54.

And I’d think “Man, I am an asshole.” And not five seconds later I’d think “nah… I am kind of awesome. I earned it.”

4 Comments

Posted in Family, Parenting

Tagged bartending, handy skill, motherhood, Parenting, restaurant business, robert fulghum, vacation

Thing 1 and Thing 2

Posted on February 25, 2012 | 7 comments

They say (and in this instance the “they” I speak of is actually my mother) that no two kids have the same parent. I was thinking about just how true that statement is yesterday afternoon while I was in the shower.

Lucy was on the floor, right outside the shower. The sound of the shower generally has the same calming effect as the vacuum (and that kid loves a Dyson almost as much as her mama.) I had just put conditioner in my hair when her wiggly sounds went from cheery to filled with rage. Emily’s mother would have leapt from the shower, conditioner still in her hair, soap in her eyes, one armpit shaved and tears in her own eyes to determine what was ailing her sweet baby.

Lucy’s mother poked her head out the curtain and started down the path of insane nonsense singing “Luuucccyyyyy….. Can you not see I am in the shower???!!! I realiiiize this statement has no poooowerrrrr….. you seem not to give a shit, if i have shaved but one armpit!” and so on. I’ll spare you. She is only a fan of my songs about half the time, there is no reason I should subject anyone but family to these tunes. (Now would be a good time to mention that I actually had a Voice teacher in college fire me. Suggest that perhaps my singing training would be over that semester, I had come to the end of the line. I was hopeless.)

All my songs bring to the table is my witty and charming lyrics. This I come by genetically. My own mother’s top hits I can still recall. A song penned to horrify my brother “Brassierre!!! Let me whisper in your ear, about my favorite brassiere….”

Not all songs were intended to embarrass us. Occasionally they were delightful, as close as we got to positively sinful. A song popular around Thanksgiving, to be sung at full voice to the dogs. A song perhaps my mother regretted the moment it came from her mouth as it was quickly adopted as an all time favorite. I share with you now, my mother’s greatest hit “Poultry.”

“Poultry gives you gaaaas! You blow it out your…” We rarely even got to the “ass” part as the giggles were convulsive by then.

I digress. Kids. They all have different parents, even in the same family. I was more fearful with Em in the beginning. More doting. Lucy gets a better mother, in some respects. I know what I am doing. But does she get the shaft because I don’t leap to her aid in a nanoseccond? I don’t think so.

It was the first time that we were all home alone without Dad. Just me and Em and Lucy Goose. I was making Em a sandwich. I had put Lucy down for the first time all day. And she started to cry. “Hang tight, little mama, your sister needs to eat, too.” In a family of more than one child sometimes we have to wait out turn. Emily was important, too.

Lightbulb.

So is Mom. I never would have let Em cry for twenty seconds while I finished a shower. But somehow the realization that sometimes Lucy will need to wait a moment so I can care for her sister led me to the understanding that it isn’t wrong to let Lucy wait one moment so I can care for myself. If Emily’s needs are valid, aren’t mine?

It took less than sixty seconds to get a cup of coffee and a glass of water.

As a mother it is unspeakably painful for me to hear my children crying. 60 seconds. I can take it that long and then I crumble and run for them, arms open. But did you know you can eat a hardboiled egg, finish a shower, get fully dressed and brush your hair, make your bed, pee, run a pile of crap up the stairs and put it in the room where it belongs if not actually put it away… you can do any one of those things in only 60 seconds. And when you return, arms wide open, you are forgiven immediately. For taking 60 seconds.

Maybe she forgives me only because the singing stops when I return. You think the one about shaving my armpits is awful, you should hear the one about peeing all alone. Suffice it to say Eponine’s “On my own” from Les Mis was my inspiration.

For the record this message was reviewed and approved by Thing 2. I realize she looks like she is watching a horror show but that is a face of approval.