Archive for the "Me Being a Mom" Category
My baby just lost her first tooth!
Unfortunately, it was lost and, ahem, swallowed while she was eating a bag of Target popcorn. It’s all very fitting, really. So tonight, we’re going to write the tooth fairy a note and leave it under Maddie’s pillow, explaining the mishap. I’m sure she’ll understand.
I have officially reached the stage of “Is she pregnant or is that a beer gut?” You know, where maternity clothes are still too roomy and your pre-pregnancy clothes don’t flatter. Or button. And you kind of expect everyone to just know that you are with child, but not everyone does, nor are they as obsessed with that fact as you are. Sometimes they might kind of get confused and don’t know what to say to you so they just avoid the topic altogether until you find a way to bring it up all nonchalantly in the conversation like, “Oh, I’m just on my way to pick up some lemonade at the store and DID YOU KNOW MY BABY IS THE SIZE OF A LEMON?” And then they’re all, “I thought you might be pregz! Congratz”, but you know that during your entire conversation, they were staring you straight in the eye and pretending to listen, but were really just having an intense inner-struggle over whether or not to bring up your belly.
Or you know, they just didn’t notice because you don’t look that much different yet and you’re just paranoid. (No, YOU’RE paranoid!).
Something I’ve noticed is that maternity clothes are only super cute when you’re not pregnant and happen to be walking by the maternity section. I walked through the section on the regular whenever I wasn’t pregnant and it was the same thing errytime… awww, to have a cute belly and dress it all cute and be all cute! When you’re actually pregnant, it’s NOT THE SAME and everything makes you feel 900 years old and 900 pounds. So I’m trying to stretch out the regular clothes as long as I can.
Enter, this item. I saw this cute-ish metallic-ish sweatshirt and wanted to see if it would work.
I quickly learned it did not. ABORT. ABORT.
After a handful of items that did not fit the bill (and having two melting down children in the dressing room with me) I just went with my cami for the shot.
P.S. The rubber band trick is totally the rage with my pants right now. And it happens to be one of Maddie’s tiny little ponytail holders, so I expect it to snap at any given moment.
You know that scene in The Sandlot where they’re having a camp out and telling the scary story? At one point, they’ve reached complete unity in their understanding of this foul creature, and simultaneously they all eerily whisper, “THE BEAST.”
I’ve used this special cart before and I guess it was like childbirth, in that I completely forgot how painful and grotesque the experience actually was. “Sure, kids! Hop on!” says I, Cool Mom. I mean, I could have carried a handheld basket because I really only had to buy like 2 things, but oh please. Too simple!
Pushing this over the yellow bumps of death at the entrance was enough to leave me gasping for air. I had to take a breather at the Dollar Spot. From there, it continued to spiral down into a pit of despair. Despair and surprisingly, laughter. This thing is like, 9 feet long, and with the Christmas crowd out and about, it took extreme caution on my part not to run over everyone in my path! I kept busting up laughing because turning corners was just ridiculous. I have no other words to describe it. And I was getting stuck on racks of clothing and and and… the list goes on, my friends.
The best part of the experience was noticing who gave a turd about my misfortune and who didn’t even mind. I think I ran over about 9 toes and no one got annoyed. I had a few moms laugh along with me, nodding their heads in sympathy, but my favorite was an older Asian man in the canned food aisle. We were at one end and he turned and began walking toward us. I was already trying my hardest to move the cart to the right side to make enough room for him. As he got closer, he started laughing and smiling with THE most sincere expression I’ve ever seen. It was the sweetest thing. He’s like, “That looks like a tough one!” chuckle chuckle. I bet he’d make a good grandpa. I kind of wanted to hug him. He might have called security at that point, but yeah.
Anyway, this thing? Funny, but never again. I brought it up on Facebook and all my friends chimed in with their own stories. Everyone knows the legend of The Beast.
Update: A few friends and I have started tagging our photos on Instagram that fall #outsidethecrop. Take a look at what others are posting and if you’d like, include your own. :)
I posted this earlier today on Instagram with this caption:
Was going to share some of my drugstore beauty buys for fall and then saw dead Spiderman and all the lovely power cords in the distance. Just a reminder of who I really am outside the crop box. #momlife
I immediately thought, “Dang, I need to write about this!” I realized how often I’ve posted very strategically cropped, staged, planned photos and pretended they were my real life. I think we’re all guilty of it in some shape or form. Raise your hand if you pause to grab “the cute mug” and make sure there are no chips in your nail polish before snapping a shot of you drinking your morning coffee. I get it! We all like pretty things and it’s inspiring to see that type of stuff. I mean, how boring would life be without cute nail polish? Uh, VERY. But I started thinking about myself and the whys behind my perfectly planned shots. Why am I painting this picture of myself? Why did I force my kid to smile and stand still? Why do I care about the spacing between my new lipsticks? I’m telling ya, it got pretty deep in my brain parts for a few seconds there.
I’m not the first one to talk about how Instagram/Facebook/the internet is a place to pretend (oh how I love some of those Instagram parody videos). There’s a reason the crop box exists. We can pick and choose what to reveal to the world in that tiny square and that’s totally okay. It’s YOUR life, after all. If that photo above had a pair of my underwear crumpled up the background, you best believe I would leave that out. Or like, a dirty diaper or body hair or something. That’s a no. Too real. I’m just realizing that for me and what I put out for the world (or my 10 friends) to see, I do like showing the whole, real picture sometimes. I think it’s important to show that my house is messy and my kids can be complete brats and I have a double chin if I don’t tilt my head a certain way and some days I totally mess up when I’m filling in my eyebrows and other days, they look fantastic. That’s LIFE, man. And we’re all living it imperfectly.
I have a friend who jokes with me when she comes over to my house. She’ll say, “Did you frantically mop the floor before I got here?” because she knows me. I have struggled with that ‘perfection’ thing my whole life. Did you know I took gymnastics as a kid? No? That’s because it was ONE class and I never talk about it. I sat there and watched the older girls who had been going for years, doing flips and all this circus craziness and I couldn’t even walk a straight line because I was so uncoordinated. I ran out of there crying to my mom and told her I never wanted to go back. Why? Because I didn’t even want to try if I wasn’t going to do it perfectly on the first shot and I didn’t want to fail in front of everyone. Issues, much? As my Grammy would say, “IT’S A CLUE!”
I’m so thankful that I have friends and family who know the real me and love me anyway. I’ve played pretend and strived for perfection for too long. Newsflash: It’s unattainable. I’m the one with the dirty kitchen floor who hates to mop and I won’t freak out if you drop by my house unannounced before I get a chance to clean… anymore. I will make you wait outside until I hide my underwear though, because that’s just sick.
A few months ago, the girls in my family went on our annual shopping trip to San Francisco. We always have such a great time with each other and it’s become this fun little tradition for us, so this year I decided to take Maddie along. She was a surprising delight. No meltdowns at all! She had a great time with the “big girls” and was in her own corner of heaven at the Sanrio store.
On the way there, we stopped off at a gas station and she picked out a snack… Sour Patch Kids.
I was thrilled with her choice because 1) I love Sour Patch Kids and 2) I was probably going to
devour most have a few of them. But they were technically hers, so I made a quiet vow to myself to definitely not hide them in my purse “for safe keeping” in hopes she’d forget about them so I could sneak a few here and there without her noticing. Because 1) this has happened a lot in the past and 2) did I mention I really really love Sour Patch Kids? A very specific vow because I know my weaknesses, people.
Long story short, I broke my vow and literally took candy from a baby. BUT, it was all in the name of saving my child from harm. Sugar… HELLO? Totally valid. In fact, I would argue that I am a good mom because of this. I actually wouldn’t mind a little award of some sort. Or a trophy. Mother of the Year. PRESIDENT, even! I’ll call my health plan Morganacare.
A month passed without a word. I thought I had gotten away with it. But as we were driving in the car one day, something triggered a memory in Maddie’s smart kiddie brain and she said, “Hey mom… what happened to my candy we bought in San Francisco?” I was like, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Play it off, Morgan. I acted like I didn’t know what she was talking about. Eyes straight ahead. Don’t let her see you tremble.
But she must have sensed the guilt. ”Did you eat them all up!?”
“Yes, honey, but umm, that was a long time ago. They’ve been gone a long time. Sooo, umm, next time we’re at the store we can get some more.” Take away all my awards. IMPEACH HER! IMPEACH HER!
All that to say this: Yesterday, as she was drawing some pictures, she brought one up to me. Keep in mind, we haven’t spoken a word about the SPK incident in weeks.
I asked her what the picture meant.
“That’s you. And that’s the candy in your hand that you always take from me. You always eat my candy. That’s what you do. Say sorry for yourself, please.”
I’ve stared at this picture for hours, analyzing it’s deeper meaning. Why do I look like a baby? Why do I have crazy eyes? Are my legs broken? Is that a knife??? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?
I think the next step is obvious: Buy more next time.
(I’ve learned a lot.)