Frumptastic!

I think it happens to all women at some point, particularly if they've gotten into some kind of lifestyle rut:

-a long term relationship (you know, the kind where you stop going out and start ordering pizzas and going to Blockbuster and you kid yourself because you're just SO comfortable being with him on your couch in sweats),

-working long hours and being so exhausted that the idea of putting on makeup is unattractive because you know that about 12 hours later, you'll just need to take it off again,

-you're a newlywed and you've gotten your bling and your thing and quite frankly, it's time to put the darn fishing pole away

-you're a mom and you've been home for awhile. THIS would be me.

We spend many holidays with my husband's family at their farm in New Hampshire. It's a place like no other....beautiful views of Mt. Chocura, a 13 acre apple orchard, farm animals to delight kids of all ages, amazing home-cooked food and the crispest air you've ever breathed. It's a place where you can leave your hair down, literally and figuratively. I don't pack a hairdryer, I don't pack my makeup....just my floss, toothbrush and maybe some moisturizer to slap on as I'm getting myself ready for the day.

When I was working, it was wonderful to get comfy in my sweats, pull up a ponytail, and take a break from the beautification drudgery of my Monday through Friday gig. Now, though, I've been home for almost 8 months. No more daily makeup. No hair styling. No matching my outfit. In the first few post-partum months, it was a coup to change out of flannel pajama bottoms and into maternity sweat pants before 1pm. I always took my showers (10 minutes minimum with water hot enough to potentially burn skin...that's how I like 'em!), brushed my teeth and wore my moisturizer (I'm now listening to my mother's sage skin advice, I've never seen a blemish on that woman's face), but other than that, there was no fancifying my look.

So, up in New Hampshire this past holiday, I was surrounded by family. One of the women there is a mom also and her son is about 3. Her hair was done.....her makeup looked great. She had a cute outfit and fun furry boots. She looked fantastic.

I took a look at myself in the mirror before we sat down to eat. Maternity sweatpants, with stains. Maternity t-shirt, with stains (appropriately placed too in the one area-ok, two areas, you really want stains, hair in a 1994 hair comby-clip, no makeup, Sasquatch brows. And the Pièce de résistance.....the non-skid socks from the hospital that I got when I had my second baby.

I knew I was in trouble. I had slipped. I realized that I had become. Frumpy. Frumpilicious. Olli Olli Oxen Frump. On a gadda da Frumpa. Frumpelievable.

I'm trying my best to turn this sinking ship around. I had a quick and dirty plucking session. I have filed my nails. I've banished my maternity wear to my workout wear-drawer, and thanks to a gift from my Dad...I've gone shopping. I didn't go crazy because I'm hoping to be down another size in the next few months, but I did get some fun stuff. Wanna see?

My first choice could still be deemed Frumpulous, but they're NOT. I swear. Yes, they're clogs, but they're save your black clogs. Look good with black or brown clogs. And some beautiful cashmere-blend sweaters from my favorite store. Oh, and two things for the kids.

So, it was all about a Mommy Makeover when I went shopping this weekend. Feel-good Mommy. Look-good Mommy. I'm going to take off my long sleeve gray t-shirt and kittycat pajama bottoms before 12 noon, Mommy.

So, thank you to CHRIS...my pretty Mommy inspiration. I'm turning down the ponytail holder and going for the cool headband. I'm throwing on some concealer just for the hell of it. I'm choosing my fun new shoes over my tattered slippers. And, although I'd love to dive in with facials and maybe a pedicure every few months, I'll hang here for a bit in the stratosphere between Frumpy and Fabulous.

Patrol

Warning: this may gross you out.

I hear that all parents have an experience like the one I had today. The moment when we're installing a carseat in our minivan, wiping rice cereal off of a ceiling, or attempting to negotiate with a toddler and it hits us: we're parents, and our carefree life is gone. Forever.

Necessary disclaimer: I love my life and husband and children and wouldn't change any bit of it.

Today was promising in that I was going to actually cross things off of my 'to-do' list. Tidy bathroom, check. Organize coupons, check. Wrap most of Christmas gifts, check. After one baby went down for a nap, my toddler roused herself out of a solid two and a half hour snooze and I went in to assess the situation and ready her for lunch.

The smell hit me before I could open the door.

Aaah, yes. The nap-crap. Nothing like pooping in your sleep, I guess. Everything just...relaxes. So, in I go. I notice a suspect bulge in her sleeper (a brand spanking new one, of course!) and the reality of what had occured hit me like a brick.

'Good afternoon, Peanut. Did you....um....take your diaper off?'

Nods affirmatively.

'Oh....okay. Let's see how we....okay.'

'Poop!'

'Yes, honey. Poop. You sure did. Wow, it's actually in the foot of your sleeper. Wow. Wow!'

'Wow!'

I ponder: do I just drop her in the tub or attempt to remove offending material on changing table first? I decide to take her to the changing table to assess the damage.

There is a lot of damage. Hard to look at damage. Can't breathe through my nose damage. How the hell am I supposed to make a dent in this, damage. I think I just saw a raisin, damage.

After the initial cleanup efforts, I take said toddler into the tub. It ain't pretty in here, either. I suddenly foresee some Comet scrub and elbow grease in my very near future. Aforementioned toddler is pissed about having to stand in the shower, and especially dislikes my 'Silkwood-esque' scrubbing of her torso. Amidst my showering of praise, 'You are doing SUCH a good job while Mommy cleans you, good girl being so patient' I realize that I'll need to eventually pick up and clean the sleeper that I tossed immediatley into the toilet (yes! that WAS my best option).

And so that is when I had my moment; I'm really not in Kansas anymore and there MAY be shit on my elbow.

In truth, the whole operation probably only lasted 20 minutes. The memories, however, will last a lifetime. And later, when loading the dryer with the twice-washed garments, I saw it.

A raisin.

Back

I have this thing where I don't want to sound like a broken record, or a hypochondriac...or both. So I try and not talk about it when I'm in pain, physically. But I haven't been able to hold back lately, it's just too hard and it just hurts too damn much. I've been inflicted what millions of people suffer through, at varying intensitites, every single day. I have a bad friggin' back.

It's the little things, really. Sitting on the can. Laughing. Picking up one the kiddos. Sneezing makes me almost cry. Rolling over in bed? Knives. Sitting. Sitting! I can't even sit. A three hour drive to New Hampshire had me sweating bullets until I rememberd that I had some Percocet left over from the c-section...hollah! Back pain? What back pain? Who's waving at me from the woods and why does he have on a green Dr. Seuss hat and how come I feel like kind of throwing up?

So, after 5 weeks of chiropractic adjustments and an MRI scheduled for next week, I'm actually feeling better. But the worst part of all of it was the fear. Am I going to feel like this forever? Is this my life from now on? Will my only form of exercise be walking? Will I be able to use my beautiful new elliptical machine gathering dust in my living room? Will I be one of 'those people'? You know, the one who is known for her back pain. Will it be what I talk about because the pain is such a part of my life that it feels weird not to? Will I purposely avoid talking about it because I don't want to bore people but secretly wish people knew really REALLY how much it fucked up my life?

So, I'm trying to chill out a little bit. I'm trying to relax and remember to take inventory of how healthy I really am. To appreciate how good and strong and able I am. To remember that I've had two children in two years and that my body is amazing. To be aware of it more often instead of lashing out all the time about my no good back and my extra baby weight and my hormonal acne and all the other crap that I complain about (at least to myself). Maybe that's why my body sends me these messages. Knock it off, appreciate what you have. You have a lot more than others do. Go take a walk.

And be grateful.

Hair

I know. Hair? What the hell. It just so happens to be a thing in my life right now. Hair. Gobs and gobs of it. In my shower drain. On every piece of flooring in my home. On all of my clothing. In my toddler's fingertips as she holds it up to me and says...'ditty'. In my infants mouth. In every broom pan I sweep into, there it is. I'm really not sure if it's hormonal or the normal changing of the follicle or whatever, but it's really starting to get annoying. I realized just yesterday, that hair has always been a real pain in the neck.

It's true. I have 'good hair' in the sense that it's thick and there is lots and lots of it (all thanks to genetics), and I've had some great hair cuts in my lifetime. But I don't know if I've had a really fair relationship with hair; I always seems a bit pissed about it. A bad cut, a spot of dry scalp, the way it falls out of my ponytail when I'm starting to exercise, so much that I really must stop and re-pony. The bang or no-bang discussion, or when banging, a snip too short which makes me look like I'm 8, or the quasi-bang, when you SPECIFICALLY ask for no-bangs (i.e., don't frigging touch them please) and they end up getting trimmed to JUST the length where they aren't really bangs, but they won't fit in the ponytail. This of course results in ridiculous overuse of the hair clip, whether it's the cute kind with the little butterfly or the Goody brown ones that held your head together on prom night.

I have a hairdresser whom I 'love' in that she's done my hair for years. She KNOWS my hair, you know? She knows to tread lightly on the bangs and that I need some help in the body department (i.e., I need layers and lots of thinning out). BUT, each and every time I get a snip, I go home aggravated. And I stay aggravated for about 3 days until I get over myself, over my hair, and back on to things that really matter (but I dare you to find a woman who says that the bang/no bang decision is one to be taken lightly). My husband is perpetually perplexed.

"Why don't you go to someone else? You always seem to not like your hair."

"Well, I could....but Margaret totally knows my hair. And she gives me a great deal." (this I toss out to end the conversation because he's a penurious fellow).

"I know but it just seems that you never like your hair when you come home. I mean I think it looks great, but maybe it's time to find a new stylist." Note: he did NOT, would not, would not EVER use the term stylist. I'm adding this as my own embellishment because I fear the word 'haircutter' would kill the overall gestalt of the conversation.

And here is where it gets funny.

"I know, but I just feel kind of bad, you know, going to someone else."

YES! It's the truth. I don't want to cheat on Margaret. I don't want her to see me in 6 months and realize that I've been with someone else. She'll know, too. They always know!

"You have some new layers in here. I thought we were just growing it out..."

"Um...yeah. I, um...got a trim. Because I was in New Hampshire. And it was really shaggy and it was in my face and everything." And the haircutters came out of the deep dark woods, threw a black sheet over my head and clipped me against my will. I'm not sure why I needed to toss New Hampshire in the mix, but maybe she won't be as hurt then. When I really got it cut in the next town over.

"Huh."
And then you know what comes next.
"Wow, they really did a number on your hair."
Dammit! It's bad enough that you feel like crap for cheating, now they have to rub it in your face that your hair is now a hot mess and that really, they'll need to do some serious 'reshaping' to save it.

And so it goes. After you apologize and baaaah like a sheep for 20 minutes, it's all back to normal. No, sorry...after you apologize, baaah like a sheep and spend $42 on a guilt purchase of a new shampoo and conditioner, it's all back to normal.

After a few days, when your hair starts to feel like it's yours again, you fall back into the routine. You figure out how to work with it, what to put in it, and most importantly, where the ponytail sits. Just right.

WORK

Work has taken on a whole new meaning for me lately. I've made the transition, you see, between working in the workplace to working IN the home. I love that phrase, 'I work in the home' versus 'I work outside the home'.

I'm not sure which frustrated woman started this, but if I could thank her I would. I remember hearing this phrase a lifetime ago, and I must admit I probably chuckled a little bit. 'Oh here we go, this woman doesn't want ANYONE to dare think she's not working hard so she has to use that friggin' phrase. God forbid someone doesn't give her credit for changing diapers and washing dishes.'

I'm really sorry. I was 23. I couldn't help it.

So, I have a whole new appreciation for the phrase now. Because it IS work. Lordy lordy, is it ever. I've never multi-tasked like this. I've never balanced and managed quite like this. And I've never been so friggin' tired. Ever. My husband, bless his heart, knows how hard it is. Or at least he pretends to know. He even says, 'I have it easy, going to work everyday. It's like a vacation compared to what you do here all day long.' See? So smart. I don't even care if he's buttering me up. I don't even care if he's saying to ensure that he'll get some lovin' now and again. I really don't. I just like hearing it.

I actually thought about my OLD workday, as a school teacher. Rigorous, absolutely. Days included working in classrooms, small group instruction, departmental meetings, team meetings, administrative meetings, after school meetings, writing education plans, collaboration with other teachers, lunch duty, cafeteria duty, bus duty, parent meetings, and progress report writing. I'm forgetting many things, I'm sure, but that's ballpark. It was work, but it was fun! I got to work with great children and great adults, and my day was peppered with many laughs and many opportunities to go potty on my own, have a snack when I wanted, and strolls down the hall to think about my next step, my next meeting, my after-school plans.

Here's how it went today: 2:30 am, nurse the baby, bottle feed to top her off. 5:30 am, ditto. 8:30 (I know, it seems super late but I'll take sleep in pretty much any form these days) the whole house is awake, and diaper duty starts. Breakfast prepared for toddler with finicky desires and Celiac Disease (started out as gluten free cocoa krispies with soy milk, quickly de-escalated to a Hebrew National hotdog and sauteed potatoes and broccoli from the night before), I eat (shovel) and baby gets her favorite boob/bottle combo. Pack small diaper bag for 'Mother Goose is on the Loose' story hour, planning for toddler snacks, bottles for infant, water for me. Manage hungry toddler through aforementioned story hour (especially when she has full-bodied tantrum because I dare put her snack away so she can bang on the drum, or wave the scarf or pretend to be a monkey), manage further another child who is obsessed with the buckle of my youngest daughter's seat, apologize to other mothers because I have snacks and they don't and their kids want some, and then pile children back into car. And that's all before 11:30. I'll stop there. You get the picture.

Don't misunderstand; it's the best job I've ever had. Highest job satisfaction rate I can imagine. Bonus hugs aplenty. And then perks I could never have envisioned before, like riding back from a story hour and seeing that my two girls are looking at each other and smiling, the oldest one reaching over to her baby sister.

So yes, I miss the hustle and bustle of work life, and the different identity it gave me. But this? I wouldn't miss this for the world, and I'm lucky I don't have to.

Torque

Many of you know my family spent some time at Children's last week while our daughter was being evaluated. She was diagnosed, thankfully, with Celiac Disease, an intolerance to gluten. With a proper gluten-free diet, her intestines will heal and she will lead a normal life. We are beyond grateful that a diet change is the only course of action we need. We know how lucky we are, especially after spending even a few moments in the lobby.

I went for a follow-up visit this week, to see a nutritionist. I rolled into the parking lot 20 minutes early, knowing that with stroller set-up and pedestrian walking greens, I would be to my appointment right on time. I have a double stroller, natch, because I have two small children. I love this stroller, if you can love a stroller. Check it out here. Well, upon set-up, I realized that with all of my walks with the girls, the top part of the handle had come unscrewed. The screw was there, and I knew that a few quick twists with one of those thingy dingy Phillips head would do the trick. Would I have that in the car? Yes, I would. Why? Because my stepfather Frank, makes it a point to scare the hell out of us and force us into having an emergency kit. I have to admit, we've laughed a few times at the Rubbermaid tub in my trunk, filled with flares, spark plugs, anti-freeze, oil, a poncho (you know, in case it's wet or you have to pee on a boat) and yes, a small tool kit.

I knew I had no chance hefting around a 23 pound toddler and a growing infant in her car seat WITH a diaper bag (filled to the brim with two sets of diaper sizes, clothing 'just in case' and 97 snacks for my fussy and now gluten-free toddler) and my purse. I was a few minutes late due to my last minute stroller-project, but I was thrilled I didn't have to reschedule.

This reminded me of my driver's ed days. Frank was always even keeled and even toned in our driving time together. "Regulate your speed." "Turn on your high beams." "Turn off your high beams." "Jen, turn off your high beams." and on and on. He likened driving a standard to having the proper amount of, you guessed it, torque. (I'm still not sure to this day what it means.) So, despite my eye-rolling (not me!), huffing and puffing, and arguing about your 'good intentions', I know I'll eat a little crow on this one, and I don't mind a bit.

Does crow have gluten?

Poop

Poop. It's the new black. It starts of course when you're a new parent and you analyze every single diaper to ensure that you're giving your baby enough milk (or formula or a hybrid). Did she do two poops today? Check. Did she wet 10 diapers today? Check. Sigh. Okay, we're not starving her...fabulous. You then start to shove your face into your baby's shorts with wild abandon...no shame at all. If you can't tell, you'll peek. It's all part of becoming a parent, and poopspeak becomes part of your everyday vernacular. Example:

"Hey baby...how's the day going so far?"

"It's good. She went down for about 45 minutes and ate like a banshee when she got up."

"Cool. How are her poops?"

"Well, the first one was like a rocket. I had to do the laundry and give her a bath because it was up her back and in the folds of her neck. Smelled kinda sweet though. The second one was like a huge lump...really stinky. It took like 3 wipes to clean that up....it was stuck to her bum, must have been her formula poop."

"Good, good. What do you want for dinner?"

And so it goes. You can easily differentiate those who know poop and those that only know their own poop. If they get a wiff of your kid, their nose looks scrunched up and you can tell they're offended and horrified and wish the hell you'd just clean it up, and fast. I will say, for the record, that this very idea was squashed when my singleton New Yorker friend not only woke up with my toddler (I was sleeping with the newborn), but cleaned her VERY poopy morning bum. And you know how those can be. Fragrant and mushy. Niiiiice. (Thanks Kathryn).

So lately, our oldest has a bit of a thing. She's been sick, you see, and although she's on the mend, it's been all about her poop. We talk about her poop ad naseum, and for good reason. It's really all about the texture. Too much liquid means she could be getting dehydrated. Too little liquid and I feel the need to trick her into drinking Pedialyte. It's an interesting twist on pillow talk.

"How many poops today? I mean, I got three so were there any more?"

"Yeah, she had that doozy after dinner. Remember? We had to give her a bath right away. We had to do two rinses."

"Oh right. It's funny...she made that face at the dinner table...you know, her face got all red and her eyes watered. She was holding on to her little booster seat, I think her knuckles were white."

"Haaaa. So, eh....you look pretty nice tonight..."

Or something like that.

I know this is temporary. But the poopspeak will continue, I mean..we have potty training right around the corner! I can imagine after that, too, we'll keep talking about it. "Did you do a poop in the potty?", and the like.

So for now I'll stay in the moment, and enjoy my times with my girls on the changing table...making funny faces and singing poopy songs. Before I know it, they'll be wearing big girl underpants and wanting time alone in the bathroom.

Hold on...I smell something.