NEVER AGAIN!

Never again. Never again will I step foot in a restaurant with my two-year old. If you even hear me utter the words “we’re going out to breakfast, lunch or dinner with the kids”, tie me up and lock me in a closet, make sure I have some water though, as I tend to get thirsty quickly, only five ounces though, anything more and I’ll be sure to wet myself.

We went to Applebee’s for dinner, yes fancy schmancy, we were so stepping out. As we entered the waiting area - my two-year old like a spy from CIA was eyeing the joint to see what he could infiltrate. As soon as the hostess said “follow me”, he took off and headed straight for the bar (the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!) he was fascinated with the high top tables and kept circling them like a hawk. When I tried to pull him away--the screaming, the kicking, was totally unbelievable, he was screaming like I was waterboarding him to try to find out where he put the remote. My only thought was - it’s a table kid- get over it!

From the moment we opened the menus the little bugger was up, down, under the table, jumping from side-to-side, climbing on our feet for a solid 12 minutes, then with a snap of the fingers he escaped and went running like Flo Jo throughout the entire restaurant. Even though I’m doing speed work for my half marathon, I couldn’t catch him; note to self-speed work may need to be cranked up as I’m still slower than a two year old. We navigated the restaurant weaving in and out of waitresses with trays, bar-backs with stacks of glasses and when I finally caught him for reasons I can’t explain I thought a time-out, for him, myself and the entire restaurant, would be in order, so off we went to the bathroom. Besides I needed to attend to some business. Not sure why I attempted the bathroom with a two-year old, I guess I was on a runners high and thought at least he’d be contained. Besides if we went back to the table, where my husband was completely useless, totally ignoring us, and pretending to read the menu, I am sure I’d scream at him “It’s Applebee’s not Le Bernardin order a burger and move on”.

Nevertheless, I got in the stall, took the Mary Lou stance; with one hand on the little bugger so he didn’t touch a thing, and with the other I successfully excavated and implanted a tampon all the while the little man screamed on a constant loop of “Is that your peeney Mommy? What you putting in your peeney Mommy?” Let Shaun White try that move. As I did my dismount, we washed up and headed back to the table. I tried my best to entertain him with games of eye spy, coloring and yes, even singing. I failed miserably. Just as I was about to stand on my head and do a double corkscrew on the table the little bastard pulled a Houdini. Still exhausted and wobbly from my ten minute squat in the bathroom I waited for my husband to be chivalrous and take off after him, but nope, wasn’t going to happen. I ran after him and was relieved when he pulled a fast one and double-backed to the table. To my delight the appetizer was there. I foolishly thought we were in the clear, the light was shining now and the storm was about to end. Cue the evil laughter ‘cause people the tortilla chips went flying through the air. I was in awe of his magnificent arm it was like watching Jeter throw a runner out at first. His precision was magnificent which I noticed when one of his chips dive bombed a very understanding elderly man at the next table. At this point I was dripping in sweat and about to blow, and, yep, he took off like a bat out of hell. Like a turtle, and with much resistance my husband finally got off his ass and chased him; after about 20 minutes I realized that the other half of my family did not come back. I speculated that they left us in the restaurant, debated that they may of gotten hurt, questioned that perhaps my husband was at the bar doing shot after shot.

As I put my last bite of salad to my lips, I had a smile on my face, a fully belly, and a pleasant meal with my six year old son who was completely oblivious to what was happening, I looked up to see the other half of my family approaching the table. What I saw before me was a very teary eyed 2 year old, and a Daddy that was spent. All I could think of was “Payback’s a bitch”.

Run Baby Run!

I started running two years ago, and when I first stepped foot on that track at 5:30 a.m. on that very cold January morning my goal was to run a 10 minute mile. A few months ago when I ran a 10k, I looked up my results, and was in total shock, I clocked a clean 10 minute mile. Stoked but still shocked I went bouncing over to my husband and asked him if he’d ever thought he’d see the day I’d run a 10 minute mile-his answer was no (note to self – no fellatio this week). Honestly, I didn’t think I’d do it either. When I started running I was at a 15 minute mile, and it was complete torture. As I gradually lost weight, (53 pounds and counting) I got faster and I began a love affair with running. Two years later, I’m a cocky son-of-a-gun and now I want a 9.3 minute mile and I have a feeling that once I hit that, I’ll want a 9 minute mile.

Why can’t I be satisfied with a 10 minute mile? It’s a solid pace, something I am proud of.I’m never going to be Kara Goucher so why am I reaching for more? And really I’ve been a slacker most of my life, I never pushed myself in school was satisfied with B’s and C’s so I had to stop and ask, when did I get so darn motivated? The answer: Confidence. I strapped on the balls, pushed hard and got results, then I pushed even harder and got better results. Why didn’t I learn this at 20? I could’ve used this moxie through some HUGE life hurdles? Like dealing with my father’s MS, my rage, almost failing out of College, maybe that promotion that I wanted but never pushed for, or perhaps the last six years when I was lost in a sea of despair, oh I mean a sea of a big ass belly and a flat ass.

Now the questions penetrate my brain about this new attitude. Will my kids suffer? Will I be throwing 100 pitches to my six year old every night? Will I call my brother-in-law the Division 1 Head Football Coach to get some tips on how to hone Matthew’s (he’s two) Hulk like abilities? Am I going to be the Mom that screams at them for getting a 90 on a test, when I was a solid 80 (averaging this out of course) student? I see those training scenes from Rocky and The Karate Kid and think with a little motivation I can help my kids accomplish so much and then a scene from Mommie Dearest will pop into my head and I’m like wow I could so become that crazy obsessive “No More Wire Hangers” type of parent.

Crazy right? All this because I can run a 10 minute mile. I mean seriously, that’s great and all and I’m glad I want to push myself to get faster and stronger but when I think about it the one person who should be applauding my endurance is my husband, if he knew what was good for him - obviously he hasn’t made the connection between his favorite pastime and mine.

Time Flies When You’re Having Fun!

Six years ago today, I gave birth to my first little bugger. I honestly can say that I don’t know where the time has gone. Six years flew by with a snap of my fingers, I can remember every detail about his delivery and our first night home yet I can’t tell you what I did two hours ago. I was the stereotypical, SNL episode mocking of a first time mom, maybe even a tad crazier. I named my blog during his first three months of life, little did I know I’d have a blog, I actually thought it’d be a book, a girl could dream, right?

Nevertheless, whoever said that once you became a mom caring for a child would come naturally is a damn fucking liar. That goes for all my friends and family who said “don’t worry it all comes naturally” every time I insisted that I had no idea how to care for a little itty bitty baby. When I said I had no idea, I meant I NO IDEA. My sisters and closest friends all had babies before me; it was a very rare event that I held their children; I was uncomfortable, afraid to break their children and then never ever see them again. It took a good four months before I felt comfortable holding and nursing my own baby, and it was at the end of his first year when I was completely comfortable and could actually call myself a “Mom”. It was a year after that when the mere thought of having another child popped into my head was not terrifying.

The first three months of my baby boy’s life was torture for me. The pediatrician’s were on speed dial, and I called them like they were my personal assistants. I called for everything, and I mean everything. At one point, the pediatrician told me that the overnight line was for emergencies only. Um, so the temperature I should keep my home on wasn’t an emergency? Well, for me it was. 68 was too cold, and 72 well, he’d stop breathing and die of SIDS in the middle of the night. I was that new mom, the one that kept a feeding, pooping, number of diapers log. I logged the actual time, the number of minutes he nursed, which side, and if he fell asleep during nursing. Along with that I logged every time I changed him, including the consistency of his movements. Yes, oh yes, I did. My friends and family were astonished at how nutty I became. When I tell people that I could not boil water the first three months of his life, I am not lying. The actual thought of making dinner paralyzed me. Thankfully (for my husband), my mom made dinner for us for the first 4 months and my mother-in-law washed and folded all the baby’s clothes for that long as well. I was a lucky girl. You have no idea the excitement I had when I had the courage, strength, and communication skills to pick up the phone and dial out for dinner, I think it was month four and that feeling was beautiful.

I have to admit that I did suffer from post-partum depression (PPD); however I had no idea until one of my close friends told me. Picture this – it was month three; I am out to a diner with some friends, spouting out all my woes, my stresses, my thoughts that I was useless, worthless, incapable of anything, and out of the mouth of my close friend Shannon pops “You have Post Partum”. Well, for the rest of that meal, I couldn’t concentrate on a thing. I may have ordered liver, ate it and would have never known the difference. I was paralyzed with fear. I finally had a name attached to my feelings, yet all I knew about PPD was Andrea Yeats. Would my case be that severe? Was this really happening to me? Oh shit, ya think if I went to the bathroom and hopped on a plane to Hawaii anyone would notice? The fact that I was called out shell-shocked me for a good two weeks, not that I had suffered from PPD but that I was in so deep that I had no idea. Couple that with my lack of confidence, general anxiety, and my quest for perfection in everything I do, well I guess you can say I was kind of useless.

Sleep deprivation didn’t help me either, nor does it help anyone for that matter but ask a new mother if she knew what sleep deprivation was before she had a child, I bet she’ll say “HELL NO”. I know I didn’t. What I knew was that in my lifetime I experienced several severe hangovers, coming home at five a.m. to go to work at nine – at that time in my life, I would have welcomed that walk in the park; it would have been a much needed break and a fucking escape from a baby that didn’t sleep. I also had the baby that nursed every two hours for about four months, slept in 20 minute intervals, and couldn’t poop to save his little life. I actually had my mother come over at some insane hour to shove a thermometer up his ass because I couldn’t handle it. And honestly the satisfaction of seeing poop shoot from his tush still brings tears of happiness to my eyes. At one point, I had only had 12 hours of sleep in three days; I was literally losing my mind. I experienced a tremendous amount of “what if’s”. Like: “What if fell down the stairs while holding the baby, fell on top of him, and suffocated him?” or “What if when I was showering the baby cried himself to death?” Guess who brought the bassinet in the shower after that one? Did I ever want to harm him? NO. My PPD was exasperated by my lack of confidence in my ability to do the right thing. These thoughts were terrifying. One time, I accidently hit his head on the door frame, I called my husband in hysterics in the middle of the night (he’s w/ the FDNY) and than for the rest of time we were in that apartment, I had to enter the room sideways or backwards. Call me crazy, I can handle it.

My pediatrician couldn’t have said it better, he said that the month before your baby arrives you are a productive member of society and three days after you deliver, you are sitting in a corner with your thumb in your mouth babbling “ba ba ba ba ba ba ba”. Well, Dr. that is exactly how I felt, and I wouldn’t change it for the world, well, no, that’s a lie, and I’d change a few things. Nevertheless, when you’re in the thick of disaster, you never think you going to get out, recover, or survive. Six years have flown bye, and my big little bugger is a wonderful, respectful, fun little character and still a horrible fucking sleeper, that rat bastard!

Happy Birthday Baby Boy!

Fear Not

Drowning, Abductions, Choking, Oh MY! I keep myself awake at night thinking about all these terrible things that could happen to my children. These are fears that send me running for a bag of Lays along with getting run-over, home-invasions, and fire (I get some sense of security when my FDNY hubby is home, I know he can handle at least one thing besides playing solitaire on the PC). I realize that the chances of these things happening are rare, well maybe not too rare but the odds are probably NOT against me. Illogical perhaps, scary as Jason sure and definitely a little bit crazy. Absofuckinglutley. And here’s how crazy--I have a ritual before bed each night, I set-up booby traps by every door and window, then I check on the kids to make sure they’re breathing, next I take the cell phone into my bedroom and turn off the lights to make sure I can dial 911 in the dark, and last but not least I run several different escape plans through my head before I close my eyes. I know, I know, crazy as drunk doing the Macarena.

You’d think that I would have had homing devices implanted in my kid’s asses or at least wrap them in bubble wrap before they left the house. Hey, now that I think about it - not bad ideas. The homing devices would be magical when they are teenagers because I’d know where they were at all times. I can see it now: I’d have a map in the my closet covered with little red push pins as I tracked their every move and maybe I could rig it so an alarm would sound when they hit the local 7-11 to try and buy beer with a fake ID of some random 52 year old man. Now that would give me peace of mind.

Ahhh a mom can dream, but since that’s not happening, how do I find the balance? I need to make sure my kids are protected from the ills of the world and give them enough freedom so they’re not neurotic messes and afraid of their own shadow by age 15. Do I prohibit them from doing anything that is remotely dangerous or send them out there to break every bone in their body? How do I successfully implement the “Don’t talk to strangers” spiel when I reprimand them when they don’t respond to a stranger in Target who have just asked them their age. Now that one is a 100% walking contradiction. Note to self, stress to the kids it’s only okay to talk to strangers when their with Mom and Dad.

So does anyone have any idea where the happy medium exists between becoming an over-protective neurotic Mom or the cool laid back chick that has it all under control? Maybe the answer is to take a little crazy from one and a little chill pill from the other. Like, I let them walk to their friend’s house when they are 15 but they have to call me when they arrive. Perhaps the perfect combination of instilling the right amount of common sense in my kids so they know to run when they see a white van, ’cause it’s always a white van right? Or a guy walking a dog, or a ball on the train tracks or a too big bite of chicken, or a… Oh shit, time for the chill pill.