For those who like to keep score
Guess how much I love you.
It’s a game almost every parent plays with their child. 
“I love you more than...” Fill in the blank. It’s fun, creative, and best of all, free entertainment.
Buttercup and I are playing this a lot lately, thanks to a new board book her Nana sent as a Valentine’s Day present. It’s titled, of course, “Guess How Much I Love You.” And it’s brilliant.
I won’t ruin the book for you and your little ones. I’ll just say that you’ll smile each and every time you read it, finishing in a dramatic whisper…because in this version, the parent wins every time.
Validation
Men can be assholes.
Mine can be a really big one. It’s a fact he is proud of. And really, it’s part of his charm. (And really, being a Mexican male born under the sign of the Leo makes for serious asshole potential. But let me re-emphasize that this is a point of pride for him. It was for my father, too.)
The Husband is brutally honest. Always. And he’s impossible to reason with when angry. I’ve learned to let the volcano explode, bite my tongue when gingerly negotiating the hot lava spewing forth without getting burned, and bide my time. Usually, 24 hours is just about right for me to smile, wink, and poke him in the chest with an “I accept your apology.”
This is when The Husband blinks at me. A few times. He’s clueless.
So fill him in. “Remember when you(insert really stupid thing you said/did/insinuated/thought/imagined here)?”
“Um, yes,” The Husband says, smiling now because he knows where this is going.
“Well,” I say, with a great flourish, “You may now thank me for accepting your apology. Just a kiss is fine. No words are necessary.”
He opens his mouth to say something and I hurriedly out a finger to his lips.
“No, seriously. Let the moment speak for itself. We don’t want to tarnish it with silly little promises of ponies and diamonds.”
He’s usually laughing by now, which is always my goal. It means whatever he vented about and I bottled up is now forgotten, forgiven, and done with. Then we move on.
But men can also surprise us.
You know, by not being assholes.
We found out today that my cousin’s wedding, which has long been planned for early July, has suddenly been moved up to the end of May. I almost choked when I saw the date because I’ll be on my way back to Arizona from the writer’s conference I already paid for in New Mexico, and there’s no possible way we’ll be able to see her walk down the aisle back in Michigan.
The date shift presents a whole cascade of problems. Because we had been planning for a July visit, my mother agreed to watch Buttercup for me while I am working on making myself famous at the conference. Because The Husband has a job which doesn’t allow for predictability, he can’t step in and take the time off needed to be the sole caregiver for the time in question, which means that now instead of just me, The Husband, and Buttercup missing the wedding, my mother will have to, as well.
I felt horrible for a minute. Ok, maybe five. But before I could get too far into my ethic guilt, my mother assured me she is fine with watching Buttercup. And that she has the six months she’s planning in Michigan to see my cousin and celebrate.
Thanks, Mom.
Then The Husband opened his mouth to say the words that I’ll always remember.
“You’re not giving up what you’ve wanted for the last 20 years. Forget the wedding. You’re going to the conference. You’re going to get your book published. And that’s final.”
I wanted to kiss him. See, you might read that as my macho-man giving me orders. Or him being an asshole again.
But it was so much more.
It was validation. It was belief in my dream.
It was the sweetest thing he’s ever said to me.
Seriously?
One of the little talents I am proud of is my penchant for snippy titles. For books. For articles. For blog posts.
Today’s is not so memorable, but I can count the absolute WTF horror still stuck in my brain from learning that Jon Gosselin is in talks with Playgirl to parade his schlong for the world to see. Really?
Really?
Kate’s gonna go on Dancing with the Stars and Jon’s gonna get naked?
My. Brain. Hurts.
I remember purchasing one issue of Playgirl when in college. I honestly can’t remember why I did. There was some hotty movie celeb I was drooling over and just had to have it. But when I got to the much anticipated spread, I found myself looking at everything but the goods.
A strong face? Wide shoulders? Strong arms to fantasize about being held in? A tight stomach? Hell, even an ass tight enough to bounce a quarter off of were all nice things to go gaga over before throwing the magazine away and denying I ever bought it.
But the actual, ahem, package? (Because really, people, even the word itself is unattractive) It’s just not something I want to see.
Guys get in trouble for mooning over cleavage all the time. But I don’t know of any female who’s ever forgotten what a coworker was saying because she was too busy staring at his crotch.
Whatever. Jon can pass Go and collect his reported $20 grand (plus the $10 grand bonus for every inch over four inches) while Kate tries to explain to her children why Daddy’s a jackass and I go and throw up at the mere thought of the train-wreck to be. (No, I’m not saying she’s mother of the year, but I think she might win this round of Who’s the Better Parent cuz um…he’s getting naked!)
Gag!
Blech!
Ugggh!
And seriously? Remind me not to click on any celeb news links in the future. I’m much happier when I’m clueless.
Screw the baby book
On February 21, 2010, Buttercup learned how to peddle in our kitchen. And because I know that all my good intentions involving commemorating the event sometime, somewhere, are never going to actually happen, I’m just gonna do it here.
It’s my blog. My kid. And the only way I’m able to remember what happened yesterday when tomorrow comes.
Way to go, baby. Mama loves you.
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.