Tweeting for sanity
@aspiringmama: Toddler for sale. Cute, full of spunk, and apparently nocturnal. Would be perfect for an adoptive vampire family. Or someone in Australia.
It’s 12:30 and Buttercup is finally passed out in my mother’s bed.
My brain is fried. My nerves are shot. A bottle of wine and a straw would be nice.
Her being wide awake and wired so late tonight was all my fault for getting her down for a late nap and then passing out with her. We both crawled out of bed around 6 p.m., and well, it all kinda went downhill from there. I spent an hour and a half in her bed and the princess sleeping bag on her floor trying to get her to sleep, people. By the time I finally gave up, Buttercup proudly pranced out of her room because she totally knew she won this round.
On the plus side? She got to kiss The Daddy good-bye and tell him to be safe at work before he left for the night. On the not-so-plus side? It’s taken me 45 minutes to write this post because my brain is that scrambled.
I have an article I was supposed to write tonight for Bookieboo, but am thinking it’s in everyone’s best interest if I wait till the morning when I’ve recovered a bit. Writing anything more involved than a 200 word bitch-fest about how my kid only turns nocturnal when I have a deadline would just be a sad little exercise in futility.
Going for silver? Or just going crazy?
“Are you crazy? Why not just stay fat and get pregnant and then worry about the weight when you’re done?“
The question has been posed to me by many of my friends multiple times.
The first time the conversation came up was at a get-together with some college buddies. Buttercup was a little over a year old at the time, and that fits in with the usual timing before people start that “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” thing before asking when the next baby is coming along.
“No way in hell am I getting pregnant before I lose this weight,” I vehemently responded. “The first time sucked enough and I was in pretty decent shape. I don’t need to add 30 pounds to the equation. Maybe we’ll go for silver when Buttercup turns 3.”
A lot of time has passed since that discussion and I’m still dodging the question. The last time it came up with friends was after learning a mutual friend was pregnant with her second child. Her oldest is just a little younger than Buttercup, so it made sense to everyone else to look at me like I was nuts for holding out. That clock ticking and all.
Before I could give my practiced “I need to lose the weight first so I can have a better chance at a healthy pregnancy” speech, The Husband answered for me.
“Nah,” he said laughing. “Pauline would rather torture herself by getting skinny first so she can get fat and have to do it all over again.”
Well thanks a lot, asshole.
To his credit, The Husband has not pressured for a new baby yet. Nor has he looked at me sideways for still dealing with the same poundage I left the maternity ward with almost three years down the road. But sometime between the first “Just stay fat and deal later” conversation and the last, I’ve started wondering if I really am crazy.
Since I’ve actively started trying to find my waistline again in the Land of Cellulite, Thunder Thighs, and Muffin Tops, I’ve yo-yo’d like a champ, started and quit various weight loss plans because they weren’t working for me, found out I have to make nice with my body and my PCOS and Insulin Resistance before the scale will agree to be my friend, and started (and gotten pretty far into) a book that was supposed to be the Big Motivator for me to finally get off my ass and make things happen.
After doing the math (which, trust me, didn’t take very long) I’ve learned that I’ve lost a grand total of 11 pounds in 7 months. And that was before I got all pms-y and gained 4 back with that nasty little monthly bloat that likes to point and laugh at my self-esteem.
And considering the fact that Buttercup is just a few months away now from her third birthday and I’m still rockin’ my fat pants with all the snark I can muster, I may have to re-evaluate things pretty soon here.
Granted, nothing is happening until my doc gives the green light. Nor am I asking her to at the next check-up. But I’m not in a never-ending limbo anymore. The Husband will be 37 in July and I’ll be 33 in December. No matter what happens with the scale, I have to put up or shut up before the year is out. Not on getting pregnant, mind you. Just on the decision as to when to um, start that Olympic training.
And because my life operates under the Laws of Murphy, this was all a long-winded way of saying: Watch me suddenly figure myself out, lose 20 pounds, and find myself pregnant a week after I start shaking my wild thang in skinny(er) jeans…and then have to do it all over again.
I’m sure that at that point, I may have to concede that my friends were right.
I must be completely certifiable.
****This post originally appeared on Bookieboo.ning.com!
****And the photo? That’s me at 36.5 weeks. I became a mom 3 days later.
Open mic: The end of the rainbow
I’ve been getting a crazy amount of hits with “Roy G. Biv” as the search term. My ego thinks that’s pretty snazzy. So I dug through my word doc and decided to post one more. If the hits keep coming, I might get brave enough to revise a few of the weaker poems and start querying. I’d love comments!
The end of the Rainbow
At the end of the Rainbow
Are Violet and Gold
But no one pays attention to
Violet
They can see her just fine
But since the beginning of
Time
It has always been about where Gold
Is hiding
Proof I was hot before motherhood
It’s time for proof.
Real. Hard. Proof.
Because I once was pretty hot stuff.
I was 21 here. The Husband, who at the time was till The Boyfriend, and I were on Mackinac Island on our first weekend getaway about six months into our relationship. Look at me rockin’ the “How demure am I?” pose.
And by the way, don’t get all excited about the beaut-e-ous hair. In an effort for full disclosure (and total lack of giving a damn, anyway) this was the result of finally learning about the secret black women have been using forever to hide and blend nappier-than-hell hair. It’s a weave, girlfriend. I just hopped on the bandwagon a little late because my Mexican relatives had no idea how to handle my “what are you, anyway?” tresses.
Note to self: must blog about the fact that The Boyfriend couldn’t figure out the weird bumps (tracks) near my scalp and was greatly relieved to learn I didn’t have a horribly misshapen head when I finally came clean about the fake hair.
In 2002, I said “I do.” I was 24, in charge of my own hair (read: goodbye weave), and feeling pretty in my wedding dress. My sisters and I said “Cheese” for the camera before we trekked off to church and I became Mrs. The Husband.
Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s a waistline!
Me on the Honeymoon in Niagara Falls. This is honestly what I’m dreaming of waking up looking like one day. Curvy, toned, and smiling. And yes, The Husband bought me that little bear.
My brother-in-law got married in 2004. And no, it did not end happily ever after. Then again, neither did my relationship with the scale. My curves are already softer. At the time, I figured this was bad. Really, really bad. Nothing like hindsight to put things in perspective when it comes to the size of one’s ass, is there?
Note to self #2: Must blog about the pressed curls and The Husband’s brutal honesty. Trust me on this.
Aside from the ponytail explosion, I think I look pretty damned good in this photo. It was October of 2006 and The Husband and I were on Mackinac Island for a vacation with BFF Mel and her other half, BFF Bob. I was 25 pounds down from my heaviest (at the time) and happy at 200 lbs. With just 15 more pounds to get to my wedding weight, I learned I was pregnant the day after we got home from our trip. Oh, the irony.
Five and a half months pregnant here with Buttercup in 2007 and very happy with how I was looking. I still had an hourglass and from behind, no one knew I was pregnant. The Husband liked to point out that because my DD’s were still bigger than the baby belly, it was easier for me to be mistaken for just eating too much at lunch.
Yes, I look like hell. And yes, it’s also the day I was admitted to the hospital for crazy dangerous blood pressure levels. I gained 20 pounds in the last 6 weeks and boom…Buttercup was born at 37 weeks.
Bff Mel, me, and Buttercup a year later at the birthday bash. I have traded in my maternity clothes for a newer wardrobe from Lane Bryant. Basically the same shit, minus the elastic waist band.
March 2009. My sisters and I had just arrived at my new home in Arizona. Yes, I have a waistline. But it’s grown to match the proportions of my still-too-big hips and ass.
It’s December 2009. Don’t we look cute? Well, from this angle all is good. Then we see the next photo…
…and my double chin just blows it right out of the water. Let’s focus on Buttercup, shall we?
***
And there ya have it, folks.
Words can blur reality. But photos tell the truth no matter how much you may have managed to convince yourself that the MILF card in your wallet hasn’t expired yet.
Special guest for a special cause
I’ve become a lot of things in my life.
A student. A bratty teenager. A blushing bride. A journalist. An aspiring writer (on my own terms).
But becoming a mother is the one that has finally shown me what my parents meant when they sighed and said, “You aren’t going to understand until you have your own.”
I get it now. I do.
Like any parent, I’d do anything for my child. And what follows here is a guest post by Juliette Terzieff about an ever-growing number of moms and dads willing to do the same for a world of children suffering from rare diseases. I’ll be wearing jeans on Feb. 28. Will you?
***
Most mothers will do anything to protect their child’s best interests and help them succeed. It’s part of being a mom – a reflection of that overwhelming, all-encompassing love that we feel for our tiny mini-mes.
So I guess it’s hardly a surprise that battalions of mothers (and fathers!) out there have joined together to support the campaign effort to raise awareness about Rare Disease Day, February 28. The slogan for this year’s campaign is “Hope – It’s in your genes.”
These parents are simultaneously just moms and dads like any of us, and amazing individuals willing to step forward and try to make a difference. They, and the campaign, deserve our support.
The campaign is simple, as campaign organizers explain:
“[an]occasion to inform or remind people that rare diseases need to be paid special attention to, because:
The lack of specific health policies and the scarcity of expertise translate into delayed appropriate diagnosis and difficulty of access to care.
Rare diseases are life-threatening or chronically debilitating diseases with a low prevalence and a high level of complexity. Patients with very rare diseases and their families are particularly isolated and vulnerable ….
The rare disease patient is the orphan of health systems, often without diagnosis, without treatment, without research, therefore without reason to hope.”
While it may sound like an oxymoron thousands of rare diseases affect tens of millions of people around the world – 30 million in the U.S. alone.
The Global Genes Project is helping to drive the campaign with information and ways to get involved found here.
There are several easy ways to get involved:
- Wear jeans and/or a denim ribbon on Feb. 28 to show your support.
- Follow campaign supporters/leaders like @GlobalGenes @RareDiseases @RareDiseaseDay and @CRDNetwork on Twitter – and Retweet their campaign messages.
- If you are on Twitter, Tweet out to your followers on Rare Disease Day and trend #raredisease and #blog4rare
- If you are a Facebook user, get involved, become a fan of the Global Genes Project here.
- Blog about Rare Disease Day like mom @sneakpeekatme did on her blog “Sneak Peek” – Then send a link to your blog to another mother-activist @supercatcalhoun who is publishing a running directory of Rare Disease Day blogs.
- And, of course, follow me @SpecTeams and come join the #specialteams – a community for parents, caregivers and supporters of ill or special needs children – for more information, support and opportunities on efforts like Rare Disease Day.
This post originally appeared on Juliette Terzieff’s website.
Mama wants a new hash tag
Remember this post? If you’re not in the mood to click on the link, let me just summarize for you and say that it’s the one where I finally admitted defeat and canceled the weekly #famwritechat where parent writers could support each other in our goals to keep our wits about us, the kids fed and accounted for, our spouses and partners happy, and our creative selves satisfied.
It was a great idea in theory but I just didn’t have the time to commit to a proper execution. That, and the fact that mom and dad writers alike are already slammed with one too many obligations, so another appointment to add to the list made for some pretty quiet parties.
Instead, Twitter Pimp Queen @Jeannevb has suggested the use of a hash tag. I like #famwriting. Yes, there already is an #amwriting hash tag in place and it’s frequently used by a great mix of talented people. But because I’m always chasing my own tail and generally going crazy with family shhhtuff, I jump at any free moment I am gifted for a chance to write.
I’m thinking there are other parent-writers in the same position, whether it be when the kids are napping, before they’ve woken up, while they’re at school, or while you’re hiding in the bathroom with the netbook feigning an upset stomach for five minutes alone to think through a scene.
So here’s the deal: if you wanna play you call the time, the shots, and how often you feel like tweeting about your writing/family craziness. Whenever. Wherever.
Consider it an open house invitation.
Hope to see you there.
Paging procrastination! Clean up on aisle 10!
I’ve been staring at my computer monitor for an hour now, but I can’t say I’ve gotten anything productive done. The Husband went to bed at 5:30 p.m. (pesky midnight schedule has him on a totally different planet than the rest of us in the house) and Buttercup passed out on our hour-long walk this evening.
Little girl was tired, to
o. I got her out of the stroller, out of her jacket, and upstairs to bed without her waking up.
Long story short? I was free to do whatever I wanted by 8:30 p.m.
Short story long? It’s 10:11 and I finally stopped drooling over purses on Piperlime, ended my gchat with Juliette because she has to go to bed, and decided I better get blogging so I can force myself to write chapter 16 tonight. The goal is strictly quantity. Quality can kiss my ass until I’ve gotten beyond the blinking cursor on a blank page.
Anyhoo, it occurred to me that my problem is that I am nowhere near used to the concept of Time to Myself. Normally my writing time is sandwiched in between getting Buttercup in bed (which is a production and takes for-effing-ever) and The Husband out of bed at 9 p.m. so he can be out the door for work at 11 p.m. And after cleaning up the kitchen from making his dinner and meal for his lunch cooler, I can finally sit my ass down about midnight to work on that Getting Famous thing.
But Buttercup was a breeze tonight. And The Husband is off tonight, so he’s sleeping in till midnight. And because he thinks I need more sleep, he’s going to kick me off the computer at about 12:30 so I can maybe get eight hours in for once.
He actually told me last night that I need to figure out how to handle things a bit better so I can get my writing done earlier so I can sleep more. I understand that he meant this in a way that expressed his concern for me burning myself out by staying up until 3 a.m. and then waking up with Buttercup at 8:30, but I just looked at him and blinked.
Because really, there was absolutely no response to that. Except for maybe, “Oh? We hired a maid, housekeeper, and a nanny? Or are you sniffing glue again?”