Bursting into Costco last Tuesday morning, on a covert mission for one gallon of milk and a rotisserie chicken, we definitely looked like some weird trio of Dick Tracy comic book villains: Jeremiah, aka Pukeface, was still decked out in his feety frog pajamas at 11 a.m., a little bit of spit-up and just a touch of snot covering his arms and neck; Me? I was like The Shadow, no one knows where I go when I'm completely concealed by my post-pregnancy uniform of all black sweats. And Erin "Tutu" Mahoney, in a pair of sunglasses, some way-too-tight purple leggings and her ubiquitous hot pink tutu - well nobody wants to mess with her.
Our evil powers? The baby could probably puke or poop all over any copper who tried to ruin our mission for giant packages of paper towels and toilet paper. I could evade all line-jumpers with my camouflage attire and cat-like reflexes. And Erin, well she could spin for hours in that tutu, grabbing free samples of yogurt and tiny pieces of pork on toothpicks with some serious ninja-like ballerina moves.
It was definitely a sight. But then again, we look like that wherever we go.
"I'm gonna wear this today, OK Mommy?" That was yesterday when she pulled some random polka-dot socks from the back of the drawer, paired them with a pink halter top and green shorts and completed the look by clipping her hair into a "Snooki." (Yes, I know, I have to stop watching Jersey Shore when she's in the room.)
The tutu, of course, was the piece de resistance. Some silly mistake I made last year, buying this stupid dime-store dress-up Barbie thing for her to spin around and play in which somehow made it into the daily rotation. No outfit is complete without it. When I say she wears it with everything, I mean it. Even pajamas get the tutu treatment before she goes to bed. I can usually pry it away from her once a week in time for laundry day and I've enforced a strict "no tutu at school" rule but other than that, it goes everywhere: The Supermarket, the bank, the playground - even Christmas, Easter and a couple of family parties. I'm starting to get creative with my explanations just to change things up.
"She was drunk when we got dressed this morning," I told some woman at the park last week.
I must remember that not everyone gets my strange sense of humor. I must remember to go to another park.
"She's drunk right now," I told someone else as I ran after her in the frozen food section of Pathmark, trying to prevent her from knocking over cases of pizza bagels with her pirouettes.
Maybe I have to lay off of this drunk thing. Or start going to Stop and Shop.
I think it would be OK if the tutu wasn't completely shredded from an excessive amount of trips in the washing machine. It would probably be even better if there weren't two more tutus that she layered under the first ratty one. (I bought them in the hopes that we could get rid of the first one...didn't work. Yes, I am an enabler, I know.)
But as I was 30 minutes into an argument with her recently over why she shouldn't wear tights and tutus on a hot May day, she had a very real retort.
"Why?"
I honestly did not know what to say. Why shouldn't she wear what makes her feel pretty and comfortable and sort of like a superhero? Don't I do the same thing with my slimming black sweatpants? (I tried to wear them to that wedding, but apparently there's some sort of "rule" about that.)
And if spinning around in a bank or the frozen food aisle makes her happy then why shouldn't she do it? After all, there's only so many years you can logistically get away with stuff like that. I think once you turn eight or nine it's sort of frowned upon.
So I'm putting my own hang-ups aside and celebrating my three-year-old's fashion joie de vivre. You might even see me sashaying through Target or on the school pick-up line next week in something less safe than my comfy sweats. Think they sell tutus in my size?
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This
“Mommmmmmyyyyyyyyy! Look at me. I can do a split!”
One foot up on the coffee table, the other one of the couch, Erin, clad in nothing but a red bikini and socks, was eating black olives and chocolate pudding and trying desperately to get my attention with her latest gymnastic acrobatics. Like the bikini and the olives weren’t enough.
In my arms, Jeremiah wailed. The microwave beeped. The phone rang. The TV blared. I juggled baby and splitting three-year-old while trying to pour and construct a bottle. The whole Gorman world was literally falling apart. In the driveway, Pat was hoisting a refrigerator from a borrowed pick-up truck into the garage. Erin, in her bikini, shook her hips and waved to him from the front door. I think I could actually hear the neighbors whispering about us from across the street.
In my defense, we had just got in the door from Target. What started as a quick trip for one pair of summer sandals for baby turned into an all-day shopping excursion that yielded summer bathing suits for the whole family, a couple of packs of pudding, a can of black olives and a refrigerator, of course. Believe it or not, unpacking all of those wares was actually the hardest part of the day.
“Everything ok over there?” my mother asked when I finally answered that ringing phone. “It sounds a little hectic.”
Hectic. Good word.
“Yes. Hectic,” I said. “Can I give you a call back?”
At 11:45 pm, after baths had been taken and bowls of pudding pried from little fingers, one kid fell asleep (sans bikini) on the couch and the other in his car seat. So I started the nightly ritual of sifting and tidying the mounds of toys and dishes before I passed out myself. As I was chipping flecks of orange Play-doh off of the coffee table, I remembered that I never returned Mom’s call.
Tomorrow, I said. If anyone understands, it’s her. And as I scooped up all 35 pounds of Erin, settling her in bed before ushering little chub-rock into his cradle, I dropped kisses on both of their foreheads and thought about how many times my own mother had done the same thing at the end of an insane day.
After all of the messes and madness, we always ended the marathon days of our childhood with a kiss and I love you. No matter how chaotic things got – when my sister spread peanut butter on the living room table, when I flipped over my tricycle and slid down the driveway on my two front teeth – she never lost her cool. To this day, I cannot recall ever hearing her shout, yell or even threaten. Instead, she was our best playmate, our closest confidante and teacher of those colossal daily life lessons.
And at the end of the day, we always had fun.
She let us jump on the bed. She let us hop in puddles and taught us how to make mud soup when it rained. When she hung the laundry on the clothesline in the backyard and we ran through the sheets and wiped our messy hands all over the towels, she ran with us. We played cops and robbers in the big bed. We enjoyed crazy roller-coaster-esque rides in the Supermarket shopping cart.
She held our hands, closed her eyes and spun us around until we all fell dizzily to the floor. She danced with us in the living room like no one was watching. And we laughed. A lot. In all that she did, she showed me exactly how to be that same wonderful mix of playmate and teacher for my own kids.
As I finally crawled into bed sometime after midnight last night and considered all of my own chaos – the bikini dancing, the crying, the Play-doh and yes, even the pudding – I thought of mom and how effortlessly she always handled all of those disorderly moments in such a completely composed fashion.
Yes, this was a good day. But tomorrow, I will spin and dance and make things even better. For that, I thank mom.
One foot up on the coffee table, the other one of the couch, Erin, clad in nothing but a red bikini and socks, was eating black olives and chocolate pudding and trying desperately to get my attention with her latest gymnastic acrobatics. Like the bikini and the olives weren’t enough.
In my arms, Jeremiah wailed. The microwave beeped. The phone rang. The TV blared. I juggled baby and splitting three-year-old while trying to pour and construct a bottle. The whole Gorman world was literally falling apart. In the driveway, Pat was hoisting a refrigerator from a borrowed pick-up truck into the garage. Erin, in her bikini, shook her hips and waved to him from the front door. I think I could actually hear the neighbors whispering about us from across the street.
In my defense, we had just got in the door from Target. What started as a quick trip for one pair of summer sandals for baby turned into an all-day shopping excursion that yielded summer bathing suits for the whole family, a couple of packs of pudding, a can of black olives and a refrigerator, of course. Believe it or not, unpacking all of those wares was actually the hardest part of the day.
“Everything ok over there?” my mother asked when I finally answered that ringing phone. “It sounds a little hectic.”
Hectic. Good word.
“Yes. Hectic,” I said. “Can I give you a call back?”
At 11:45 pm, after baths had been taken and bowls of pudding pried from little fingers, one kid fell asleep (sans bikini) on the couch and the other in his car seat. So I started the nightly ritual of sifting and tidying the mounds of toys and dishes before I passed out myself. As I was chipping flecks of orange Play-doh off of the coffee table, I remembered that I never returned Mom’s call.
Tomorrow, I said. If anyone understands, it’s her. And as I scooped up all 35 pounds of Erin, settling her in bed before ushering little chub-rock into his cradle, I dropped kisses on both of their foreheads and thought about how many times my own mother had done the same thing at the end of an insane day.
After all of the messes and madness, we always ended the marathon days of our childhood with a kiss and I love you. No matter how chaotic things got – when my sister spread peanut butter on the living room table, when I flipped over my tricycle and slid down the driveway on my two front teeth – she never lost her cool. To this day, I cannot recall ever hearing her shout, yell or even threaten. Instead, she was our best playmate, our closest confidante and teacher of those colossal daily life lessons.
And at the end of the day, we always had fun.
She let us jump on the bed. She let us hop in puddles and taught us how to make mud soup when it rained. When she hung the laundry on the clothesline in the backyard and we ran through the sheets and wiped our messy hands all over the towels, she ran with us. We played cops and robbers in the big bed. We enjoyed crazy roller-coaster-esque rides in the Supermarket shopping cart.
She held our hands, closed her eyes and spun us around until we all fell dizzily to the floor. She danced with us in the living room like no one was watching. And we laughed. A lot. In all that she did, she showed me exactly how to be that same wonderful mix of playmate and teacher for my own kids.
As I finally crawled into bed sometime after midnight last night and considered all of my own chaos – the bikini dancing, the crying, the Play-doh and yes, even the pudding – I thought of mom and how effortlessly she always handled all of those disorderly moments in such a completely composed fashion.
Yes, this was a good day. But tomorrow, I will spin and dance and make things even better. For that, I thank mom.
Monday, April 19, 2010
For Jeanine, Because She Holds My Hand
The first time I met Jeanine, she was wearing a bright yellow SuperDance T-shirt, cut-off knee length jean shorts a la "Dirty Dancing" and those pointy-toed patent-leather puffy bow shoes that all the popular girls rocked in 1991.
"This girl is cool," I thought and immediately landed myself a best friend. We were 14 and it was that easy. Nice clothes, cool shoes, same homeroom, let's hang out.
On Sunday, as she sat next to me in St. Clare's church and held my hand while the priest baptized my son, I started reflecting on how many other times Jeremiah's fairy godmother (Erin's words) has held my hand over the past 19 years.
"I love you," she whispered to me on the morning of my wedding, both of us all primped and pretty, mascaraed and hairsprayed, crying like morons right before I walked down the aisle.
"I can't believe I have to go live with a boy now," I answered, turning our tears into giggles, smooshing her makeup back into place with my thumb.
It wasn't the first time we were blubbery, lovey-dovey messes and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Our friendship has survived countless milestones over this two-decade run: weddings, funerals, break-ups and more. Throughout it all, my bond with Jeanine has only gotten stronger.
"She picked on you yesterday, so she can't do it again today," she said to me countless times during freshman year of high school, holding my hair on the bus stop every Tuesday morning, while I emptied my nervous stomach onto Hylan Boulevard in wretched anticipation of being totally embarrassed in Mrs. Gerathy's first period Global Studies class.
"We will definitely be friends forever," she recited to me in poem-form as we stood arm-in-arm in black velvet dresses at each other's sweet sixteen parties, lighting best friend candles, bawling our eyes out over some inside jokes and completely nonsensical 16-year-old stories.
When whatever-his-name-was cheated or dumped or lied, we cried and laughed and then cried again on the phone until 2 a.m. We covered our ears and hid in the bathroom when her mom tried to tell us all about the birds and the bees. We came pretty close to burning her house down when our 15-year-old-selves decided to make pancakes from scratch for the first time without any previous experience. Ever.
We wore white caps and gowns and held hands on line during graduation even though the nuns threatened us with rulers to keep our arms straight at our sides. And in college, we partied and puked and danced and promised to always close down the club - even when we had gray hair and grandchildren.
"Nothing is ever going to be the same," she told me when her mom died ridiculously young 12 years ago, as we both sat Indian-style on her living room floor, sobbing uncontrollably, polishing the cream-colored shoes that her mother would be buried in the next day.
She was right, of course, but every October we hold hands and wear pink and relive some of the happier moments as we walk in a circle at Clove Lakes Park.
"Can you believe we've been friends for this long?" I asked her recently when we connected for one of our marathon phone calls - one of those catch-up ones that covered everything that happened in the previous week or so.
"It's crazy," she replied. "I can't remember a time when you weren't in my life."
In a word, our relationship is intimate. I know why she hates flowers. She knows that from far away, it looks like I have six toes, but I don't. She'll beat up anyone who makes fun of that. Even if she fights like a girl.
When I ask "how's life?" and her "everything's great" has a little squeak at the end, I know for a fact that everything indeed is not great. I also know that if I called her with a problem in a snowstorm, when her house was on fire and all of Staten Island was enduring a massive flood, she would drop everything to come over and make my life right.
We even managed to make ourselves related somewhere along the line - my sister married her brother. We set it up. Mostly so that we could spend holidays together for the rest of our lives.
"So happy you're up here with us," I whispered right after they doused Jeremiah's head and Jeanine helped me pat him dry - both of us naturally tearing up and laughing a bit over little man's outfit. (That seersucker suit and side-cocked pea cap is total proof that the two of us should not be allowed to go shopping together alone.)
"I love you," came her reply as she pulled me in closer and smacked a big one on my left cheek.
"Love you too," I answered, reaching down, grabbing both of her hands tight, my mind racing through all of the laughter, tears and memories that we've shoved into these days, weeks, months and years.
And that's when it hit me: These years that I've spent being best friends with Jeanine were filled with so many wonderful moments. And each one has been so special because she was along for the ride.
Can't wait to see what the next 19 will bring.
"This girl is cool," I thought and immediately landed myself a best friend. We were 14 and it was that easy. Nice clothes, cool shoes, same homeroom, let's hang out.
On Sunday, as she sat next to me in St. Clare's church and held my hand while the priest baptized my son, I started reflecting on how many other times Jeremiah's fairy godmother (Erin's words) has held my hand over the past 19 years.
"I love you," she whispered to me on the morning of my wedding, both of us all primped and pretty, mascaraed and hairsprayed, crying like morons right before I walked down the aisle.
"I can't believe I have to go live with a boy now," I answered, turning our tears into giggles, smooshing her makeup back into place with my thumb.
It wasn't the first time we were blubbery, lovey-dovey messes and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Our friendship has survived countless milestones over this two-decade run: weddings, funerals, break-ups and more. Throughout it all, my bond with Jeanine has only gotten stronger.
"She picked on you yesterday, so she can't do it again today," she said to me countless times during freshman year of high school, holding my hair on the bus stop every Tuesday morning, while I emptied my nervous stomach onto Hylan Boulevard in wretched anticipation of being totally embarrassed in Mrs. Gerathy's first period Global Studies class.
"We will definitely be friends forever," she recited to me in poem-form as we stood arm-in-arm in black velvet dresses at each other's sweet sixteen parties, lighting best friend candles, bawling our eyes out over some inside jokes and completely nonsensical 16-year-old stories.
When whatever-his-name-was cheated or dumped or lied, we cried and laughed and then cried again on the phone until 2 a.m. We covered our ears and hid in the bathroom when her mom tried to tell us all about the birds and the bees. We came pretty close to burning her house down when our 15-year-old-selves decided to make pancakes from scratch for the first time without any previous experience. Ever.
We wore white caps and gowns and held hands on line during graduation even though the nuns threatened us with rulers to keep our arms straight at our sides. And in college, we partied and puked and danced and promised to always close down the club - even when we had gray hair and grandchildren.
"Nothing is ever going to be the same," she told me when her mom died ridiculously young 12 years ago, as we both sat Indian-style on her living room floor, sobbing uncontrollably, polishing the cream-colored shoes that her mother would be buried in the next day.
She was right, of course, but every October we hold hands and wear pink and relive some of the happier moments as we walk in a circle at Clove Lakes Park.
"Can you believe we've been friends for this long?" I asked her recently when we connected for one of our marathon phone calls - one of those catch-up ones that covered everything that happened in the previous week or so.
"It's crazy," she replied. "I can't remember a time when you weren't in my life."
In a word, our relationship is intimate. I know why she hates flowers. She knows that from far away, it looks like I have six toes, but I don't. She'll beat up anyone who makes fun of that. Even if she fights like a girl.
When I ask "how's life?" and her "everything's great" has a little squeak at the end, I know for a fact that everything indeed is not great. I also know that if I called her with a problem in a snowstorm, when her house was on fire and all of Staten Island was enduring a massive flood, she would drop everything to come over and make my life right.
We even managed to make ourselves related somewhere along the line - my sister married her brother. We set it up. Mostly so that we could spend holidays together for the rest of our lives.
"So happy you're up here with us," I whispered right after they doused Jeremiah's head and Jeanine helped me pat him dry - both of us naturally tearing up and laughing a bit over little man's outfit. (That seersucker suit and side-cocked pea cap is total proof that the two of us should not be allowed to go shopping together alone.)
"I love you," came her reply as she pulled me in closer and smacked a big one on my left cheek.
"Love you too," I answered, reaching down, grabbing both of her hands tight, my mind racing through all of the laughter, tears and memories that we've shoved into these days, weeks, months and years.
And that's when it hit me: These years that I've spent being best friends with Jeanine were filled with so many wonderful moments. And each one has been so special because she was along for the ride.
Can't wait to see what the next 19 will bring.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Hey, Prince Eric, Wipe That Smug Look Off of Your Little Plastic Face
Last week, as Erin played happily and mostly every toy in the house got along with one another, all hell suddenly broke loose in the imaginary world of princesses and dolls.
"Eric was mean to Sleeping Beauty, so she's crying in my backpack," Erin announced very authoritatively, taking me by the hand to witness her favorite blond-haired princess Barbie doll, hands posed over her face, zipped tightly in her Tinkerbell school bag.
"He's in love with Mermaid and he's going to marry her instead," she continued. "That's why Sleeping Beauty is so sad."
I had no idea any such drama was unfolding in my living room. But apparently, it's been brewing for a while.
Let me break it down: At Christmas-time, my mom and dad bought a six-pack of princess dolls which Erin adores. Sleeping Beauty, Mermaid, Jasmine, etc. They all got along famously - playing dress-up, beauty salon and sleepover, you know, all the usual stuff that dolls do - until some additional gifts arrived from Aunt Jeanine.
"It's Prince Eric!" Erin shouted when the plastic-coiffed smug little womanizer arrived, that sly grin of his peering at us through the plastic box.
The next morning, all of the BFF princesses quietly started to bicker.
"Mermaid and Cinderella both want to hold hands with the Prince," Erin said.
There were so many things wrong with that statement, I simply didn't know where to start. I tried to reason a little, asking why the girls no longer played happily together. I got a very real reply.
"Eric picked one princess to kiss and the rest of them are mad," she said.
"Tell me about it," I wanted to respond. "Wait til you're 22 and..." But I bit my tongue. After all, this is my three-year-old innocent daughter we're talking about.
How in the world does she even know anything about kissing and boyfriends? I refuse to let her watch any of those big-kid shows: Hannah Montana, High School Musical, iCarly, etc. Until she's a teen herself, they're off-limits - no matter how much she begs. And I've protected her little eyes and ears from anything risque - we're strictly a happy-slappy, princess/fairy household. Disney movies are the only movies she's ever seen. How could she learn the dramas of dating by watching "Finding Nemo?"
But as my husband and I were hashing out our new found problem the other day - Pat made the revelation: "You know all those Disney movies she watches end with the Prince kissing the Princess, right? And they get married and live happily ever after."
Holy crap, he's right. It all seems harmless, but when everything she sees is focused on marriage and magical, wake-you-out-of-your-sleep kisses, that's what she's going to concentrate on too.
The idea brought me back to a discussion I had with some of my students a few years ago. I was teaching an Intro to Communications class at St. John's and the text devoted a few pages to what they labeled "the Disney effect."
It's a philosophy adopted by many, stating that Disney movies are loaded with gender stereotypes. Women are either portrayed as princesses, queens or homemakers (Cinderella, Snow White - think about it and it starts to make sense) whose main mission in life is to wait around for a prince to come and make their lives complete.
If there's a powerful female in the movie, she's almost always evil (stepmothers, sea queens, etc.) and continually tries to thwart any chances for the princess to reach her main goal of marriage. But in the end, one big magical kiss makes everything OK.
Without even knowing it, I've subjected my daughter to a skewed vision of life. How will she grow up to be a strong, independent woman, when every shred of evidence points to the fact that some prince on a white horse needs to kiss her first?
I know it sounds a little extreme and I'm not one of those crazy, blame-it-all-on-Disney kind of moms, but if the glass slipper fits...
So we've come up with some temporary solutions: Prince Eric is hiding in the trunk of the car for a while, a sort of time-out for all of his philandering. We're weaning Erin off of the books, movies and other princess paraphernalia too, filtering in some non-threatening pals like Care Bears and Dora the Explorer. (She never had any kissing scenes with Boots, right?)
We'll see if any of it works.
But a new player emerged in the saga on Easter Sunday. Mom put Malibu Ken in Erin's Easter basket. He's still in plastic, spending a little time with Eric in the trunk. Once they can learn to behave like gentlemen, we'll let them back in the house.
"Eric was mean to Sleeping Beauty, so she's crying in my backpack," Erin announced very authoritatively, taking me by the hand to witness her favorite blond-haired princess Barbie doll, hands posed over her face, zipped tightly in her Tinkerbell school bag.
"He's in love with Mermaid and he's going to marry her instead," she continued. "That's why Sleeping Beauty is so sad."
I had no idea any such drama was unfolding in my living room. But apparently, it's been brewing for a while.
Let me break it down: At Christmas-time, my mom and dad bought a six-pack of princess dolls which Erin adores. Sleeping Beauty, Mermaid, Jasmine, etc. They all got along famously - playing dress-up, beauty salon and sleepover, you know, all the usual stuff that dolls do - until some additional gifts arrived from Aunt Jeanine.
"It's Prince Eric!" Erin shouted when the plastic-coiffed smug little womanizer arrived, that sly grin of his peering at us through the plastic box.
The next morning, all of the BFF princesses quietly started to bicker.
"Mermaid and Cinderella both want to hold hands with the Prince," Erin said.
There were so many things wrong with that statement, I simply didn't know where to start. I tried to reason a little, asking why the girls no longer played happily together. I got a very real reply.
"Eric picked one princess to kiss and the rest of them are mad," she said.
"Tell me about it," I wanted to respond. "Wait til you're 22 and..." But I bit my tongue. After all, this is my three-year-old innocent daughter we're talking about.
How in the world does she even know anything about kissing and boyfriends? I refuse to let her watch any of those big-kid shows: Hannah Montana, High School Musical, iCarly, etc. Until she's a teen herself, they're off-limits - no matter how much she begs. And I've protected her little eyes and ears from anything risque - we're strictly a happy-slappy, princess/fairy household. Disney movies are the only movies she's ever seen. How could she learn the dramas of dating by watching "Finding Nemo?"
But as my husband and I were hashing out our new found problem the other day - Pat made the revelation: "You know all those Disney movies she watches end with the Prince kissing the Princess, right? And they get married and live happily ever after."
Holy crap, he's right. It all seems harmless, but when everything she sees is focused on marriage and magical, wake-you-out-of-your-sleep kisses, that's what she's going to concentrate on too.
The idea brought me back to a discussion I had with some of my students a few years ago. I was teaching an Intro to Communications class at St. John's and the text devoted a few pages to what they labeled "the Disney effect."
It's a philosophy adopted by many, stating that Disney movies are loaded with gender stereotypes. Women are either portrayed as princesses, queens or homemakers (Cinderella, Snow White - think about it and it starts to make sense) whose main mission in life is to wait around for a prince to come and make their lives complete.
If there's a powerful female in the movie, she's almost always evil (stepmothers, sea queens, etc.) and continually tries to thwart any chances for the princess to reach her main goal of marriage. But in the end, one big magical kiss makes everything OK.
Without even knowing it, I've subjected my daughter to a skewed vision of life. How will she grow up to be a strong, independent woman, when every shred of evidence points to the fact that some prince on a white horse needs to kiss her first?
I know it sounds a little extreme and I'm not one of those crazy, blame-it-all-on-Disney kind of moms, but if the glass slipper fits...
So we've come up with some temporary solutions: Prince Eric is hiding in the trunk of the car for a while, a sort of time-out for all of his philandering. We're weaning Erin off of the books, movies and other princess paraphernalia too, filtering in some non-threatening pals like Care Bears and Dora the Explorer. (She never had any kissing scenes with Boots, right?)
We'll see if any of it works.
But a new player emerged in the saga on Easter Sunday. Mom put Malibu Ken in Erin's Easter basket. He's still in plastic, spending a little time with Eric in the trunk. Once they can learn to behave like gentlemen, we'll let them back in the house.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Thanks Jillian Michaels, For All of the Pain in My Thighs
Apparently, the Kellogg's Special K diet doesn't work when you only eat the little bits of chocolate out of the box of Chocolately Delight cereal. And Slim Fast shakes are not supposed to be consumed as a side dish to your daughter's leftover french fries either - no matter how delicious they might taste together.
These are the lessons I've learned in the past six weeks as I've slowly struggled to shed the lingering 25 pounds that are plaguing my plans to fit into dresses for various weddings, engagement parties and christenings that currently decorate my calendar. Seriously, why does everyone in the family and firehouse have to celebrate such big affairs when I look my absolute worst? The nerve.
You know those ridiculously thin moms who smile and say they just simply can't find the time to eat? Those skinny-minis who claim running after the baby keeps them so active they don't even need to work out? Well, I hate those mothers.
I love food. I always have. And no matter how many tasks I have to squeeze into any given marathon day, I always find time for lunch. And a snack.
My friends and family say I look good, but what else do you say to a new mother?
"Wow, you really packed on the pounds there. Do you plan on taking that off or do you like all of the extra insulation?"
And any shades of slenderness on my part is all smoke and mirrors. It's amazing what you can do with a pair of Spanks.
That's why I started working out again last week.
Mainly because I washed the only pair of jeans that fit me and I couldn't button them. If I don't lose any weight, those jeans will just have to remain dirty until I do lose five pounds. My ego can't take another turn in the dryer. I'm also tired of wearing a girdle with my sweatpants.
So I tried level one of the 30-Day Shred - one of those Biggest Loser DIY workouts I used to zoom through after I had Erin. (Or at least I remember zooming through it.)
Jillian Michaels wasn't so nasty on this DVD before I got pregnant.
Why is she yelling so loud? And why is my heart beating so fast?
I did so many lunges I needed help sitting on the bowl the next day to pee. But I didn't feel svelte and sexy, I was just sore. And I only mourned "ice cream time" even more. (It was every night at nine.)
Time to get serious. Back to kickboxing. Three nights in one week. I must have a death wish. Is it actually possible to break something doing a jumping-jack?
Next up, Weight Watchers. Points. Yes, I can do this.
Off to Pathmark to buy a week's worth of healthy foods.
Wheeling through the produce section I'm confident. Bell Peppers for my salad. Bags of fresh baby spinach and bushels of vine ripe tomatoes - uncooked, they're 0 points!Told you I could romanticize food.
Meats are next. Boneless breasts of chicken - I'll marinate and grill. This actually sounds appealing.
Next aisle.
Entenmann's full line sale. Ooh. Louisiana Crunch Cake. Chocolate Donut Sampler Pack. Abort. Abort. Time to focus, Jess. Think bathing suits, halter tops. Turn away and look at the soap, the mops. Anything to divert attention.
Somehow I survived. And I've made it to day three of this diet. No big weight loss yet, but at least there's no gain. And I've actually found a few tips, tricks and delicious diet foods along the way.
If I could only figure out how to make my thighs stop throbbing, I'd be set.
These are the lessons I've learned in the past six weeks as I've slowly struggled to shed the lingering 25 pounds that are plaguing my plans to fit into dresses for various weddings, engagement parties and christenings that currently decorate my calendar. Seriously, why does everyone in the family and firehouse have to celebrate such big affairs when I look my absolute worst? The nerve.
You know those ridiculously thin moms who smile and say they just simply can't find the time to eat? Those skinny-minis who claim running after the baby keeps them so active they don't even need to work out? Well, I hate those mothers.
I love food. I always have. And no matter how many tasks I have to squeeze into any given marathon day, I always find time for lunch. And a snack.
My friends and family say I look good, but what else do you say to a new mother?
"Wow, you really packed on the pounds there. Do you plan on taking that off or do you like all of the extra insulation?"
And any shades of slenderness on my part is all smoke and mirrors. It's amazing what you can do with a pair of Spanks.
That's why I started working out again last week.
Mainly because I washed the only pair of jeans that fit me and I couldn't button them. If I don't lose any weight, those jeans will just have to remain dirty until I do lose five pounds. My ego can't take another turn in the dryer. I'm also tired of wearing a girdle with my sweatpants.
So I tried level one of the 30-Day Shred - one of those Biggest Loser DIY workouts I used to zoom through after I had Erin. (Or at least I remember zooming through it.)
Jillian Michaels wasn't so nasty on this DVD before I got pregnant.
Why is she yelling so loud? And why is my heart beating so fast?
I did so many lunges I needed help sitting on the bowl the next day to pee. But I didn't feel svelte and sexy, I was just sore. And I only mourned "ice cream time" even more. (It was every night at nine.)
Time to get serious. Back to kickboxing. Three nights in one week. I must have a death wish. Is it actually possible to break something doing a jumping-jack?
Next up, Weight Watchers. Points. Yes, I can do this.
Off to Pathmark to buy a week's worth of healthy foods.
Wheeling through the produce section I'm confident. Bell Peppers for my salad. Bags of fresh baby spinach and bushels of vine ripe tomatoes - uncooked, they're 0 points!Told you I could romanticize food.
Meats are next. Boneless breasts of chicken - I'll marinate and grill. This actually sounds appealing.
Next aisle.
Entenmann's full line sale. Ooh. Louisiana Crunch Cake. Chocolate Donut Sampler Pack. Abort. Abort. Time to focus, Jess. Think bathing suits, halter tops. Turn away and look at the soap, the mops. Anything to divert attention.
Somehow I survived. And I've made it to day three of this diet. No big weight loss yet, but at least there's no gain. And I've actually found a few tips, tricks and delicious diet foods along the way.
If I could only figure out how to make my thighs stop throbbing, I'd be set.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Build An Easter Bonnet, With All The Frills Upon It? Get Me My Glue Gun
The news arrived sometime last week - typed on a slip of paper in Erin's backpack: "Easter Parade to be held on March 30, creative, fancy hats required."
My inner bedazzler immediately jumped for joy. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I had four prototypes sketched out in my head. I was channeling Judy Garland, humming Irving Berlin, picturing Erin grandly strutting through the gym arm-in-arm with the likes of Fred Astaire and Peter Lawford.
I could hardly wait to get home and whip out my glue gun.
"Did anyone start making this hat yet?" one mother asked the next day at pick-up time.
"No," someone else countered. "I'm completely dreading this."
"Me too," another mom added. "I guess I'll just pour glitter all over it and try and make it look presentable."
I nodded along.
"Such a pain in the neck," I said.
Fifteen mothers all agreeing over the extracurricular nuances of preschool.
Normally, I'm on the same page as everyone else. The at-home projects, wrapping paper fundraisers and holiday goody-bag patrol can be completely overwhelming. But because I'm a closet crafter, this was an entirely different story.
How could I admit in front of all these people that I had already been to three stores, cleaned Michael's clear out of glitter eggs and was planning a family hat decorating dinner party to celebrate the occasion?
To be clear, I'm no overachiever. It's just that I've had a strange fascination with the arts and craft world since I was a kid. When my friends were riding bikes on the weekend, I was doing needlepoint. Hopscotch and hide-and-seek? Nope. I was making my own friendship bracelets, hooking rugs and trying my hand at a complicated paint-by-number.
My sister predicted that I'd be making tissue-box cozies by the time I was in my thirties. She was close, I suppose.
Last Friday night, I spread all of my craft-store bounty on my mother's dining room table and went to work.
"Love this!" my mother - a fellow crafter - said as she pulled yellow glitter eggs and strings of lime green grosgrain ribbon out of my bags.
For hours we cut, glued, laughed and introduced Erin to our weird and creative world. The house was ensconced in the warm smells of melting glue sticks. The sound of crinkling cellophane filled the room.
"Could it get any better than this?" I thought as my mother and I fastened strips of velcro to a pink straw topper and filled in the gaps with very realistic-looking fake blades of grass.
"She might have the most outrageous hat in the whole parade," my mother commented as we put the finishing touches on a bonnet that now measures more than one foot tall and weighs about three pounds.
"I can't see, mommy," Erin said as we placed this monster on top of her head. "It's really heavy."
Crap. Judy Garland's hat never made her fall over in that movie, right?
So we made some adjustments, took a couple of the heavier items off and added a chin strap to fasten this thing down. Is it wrong to hot glue it to her head on the day of the parade?
It might be a little outrageous, yes, but it sure was a lot of fun.
My inner bedazzler immediately jumped for joy. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I had four prototypes sketched out in my head. I was channeling Judy Garland, humming Irving Berlin, picturing Erin grandly strutting through the gym arm-in-arm with the likes of Fred Astaire and Peter Lawford.
I could hardly wait to get home and whip out my glue gun.
"Did anyone start making this hat yet?" one mother asked the next day at pick-up time.
"No," someone else countered. "I'm completely dreading this."
"Me too," another mom added. "I guess I'll just pour glitter all over it and try and make it look presentable."
I nodded along.
"Such a pain in the neck," I said.
Fifteen mothers all agreeing over the extracurricular nuances of preschool.
Normally, I'm on the same page as everyone else. The at-home projects, wrapping paper fundraisers and holiday goody-bag patrol can be completely overwhelming. But because I'm a closet crafter, this was an entirely different story.
How could I admit in front of all these people that I had already been to three stores, cleaned Michael's clear out of glitter eggs and was planning a family hat decorating dinner party to celebrate the occasion?
To be clear, I'm no overachiever. It's just that I've had a strange fascination with the arts and craft world since I was a kid. When my friends were riding bikes on the weekend, I was doing needlepoint. Hopscotch and hide-and-seek? Nope. I was making my own friendship bracelets, hooking rugs and trying my hand at a complicated paint-by-number.
My sister predicted that I'd be making tissue-box cozies by the time I was in my thirties. She was close, I suppose.
Last Friday night, I spread all of my craft-store bounty on my mother's dining room table and went to work.
"Love this!" my mother - a fellow crafter - said as she pulled yellow glitter eggs and strings of lime green grosgrain ribbon out of my bags.
For hours we cut, glued, laughed and introduced Erin to our weird and creative world. The house was ensconced in the warm smells of melting glue sticks. The sound of crinkling cellophane filled the room.
"Could it get any better than this?" I thought as my mother and I fastened strips of velcro to a pink straw topper and filled in the gaps with very realistic-looking fake blades of grass.
"She might have the most outrageous hat in the whole parade," my mother commented as we put the finishing touches on a bonnet that now measures more than one foot tall and weighs about three pounds.
"I can't see, mommy," Erin said as we placed this monster on top of her head. "It's really heavy."
Crap. Judy Garland's hat never made her fall over in that movie, right?
So we made some adjustments, took a couple of the heavier items off and added a chin strap to fasten this thing down. Is it wrong to hot glue it to her head on the day of the parade?
It might be a little outrageous, yes, but it sure was a lot of fun.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I Met Up With The Gambler - We Were Both Too Tired To Sleep
When I was about six- or seven-years-old, I formed a strange sort of fascination with all things Kenny Rogers. Don't ask how it happened. But if I had to pinpoint a reason, I guess I could blame my parents - they were fans of his music and they never stopped me when I belted out "Lady" in the shower or decided to sing a rendition of "The Gambler" at a school talent show. (Yeah, it's a painful memory, thanks mom and dad.) Whatever the reason, by the second or third grade, I was a full-fledged Kenny fanatic.
A few weeks ago, when searching my own internal songbook for any sort of lullaby not currently covered by the Wiggles, I somehow returned to my Kenny Rogers roots.
"Sing to me mommy," Erin requested during a particularly difficult bedtime session: Pat was working a 24, baby Jeremiah was unusually fussy and three books, a couple of cookies and some serious hypnotics had done nothing in terms of helping my toddler fall asleep.
She couldn't be serious. I'm the girl that people usually ask to stop singing. I get booed at karaoke. People change seats at church. As Pop puts it, I can't carry a tune in a paper bag.
But she pleaded and I was desperate, so I tried Twinkle, Twinkle. She loved it. I moved on to Itsy, Bitsy. Big hit. I pulled a Peter, Paul and Mary favorite out of my back pocket and she totally rocked out to Puff the Magic Dragon. But there was only one problem: We were one hour into this ritual and she was still wide awake. Command decision: I needed to move away from kid friendly and move on to something completely non-stimulating.
I dug deep: The Eagles, Peaceful, Easy Feeling. Nice. She's dozing. But I only know the refrain. I start humming the rest, she opens her eyes. How 'bout Billy Joel? Piano Man. I sing "the microphone smells like a beer," and she starts to giggle. I realize all of the songs that I truly know by heart are bar music from a variety of jukeboxes - totally inappropriate for bedtime. Damn you Waterside. Damn that Budweiser minor I picked up in college.
And then it came to me.
"On a warm summer's evening, on a train bound for nowhere, I met up with the Gambler, we were both too tired to sleep."
She's completely still. Are her eyes closing? Yes!
"So we took turns a-staring, out the window in the darkness, til boredom overtook us and he began to speak..."
I could have stopped, two lines and she was snoring. Jeremiah even liked it. He stared open-mouthed, eyes wide open. I think he was in awe of my lyrical interpretation. But then again, it probably was gas. Either way, I was impressing myself, so I sang some more.
"He said son, I've made a life out of reading people's faces, knowing what their cards were by the way they held their eyes...and if you don't mind my saying, I can see you're out of aces, for a taste of your whiskey, I'll give you some advice."
How could I remember all of these words after 25 years?
"So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow, then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light. And the night got deathly quiet and his face lost all expression, if you're gonna play the game boy, you gotta learn to play it right."
This is like poetry.
"You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table, there'll be time enough for counting when the dealings done."
Could this possibly be my answer to bedtime woes? A couple of verses about dead cowboys and whiskey? I tried it a few more times that week and each night it worked like a charm.
A few nights later, I read the obligatory books - Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty - before Erin turned to me and asked for a little music.
"Can you sing that song about the train again?" she said.
"The Gambler?" I countered.
"Yeah, the one with the cards and the whiskey," she said.
Awesome, I thought, I really hope she doesn't tell her preschool teacher that I sing her songs about beer and whiskey at night.
And so the tradition of Kenny continues. Bedtime might be for stories and cuddling, but in the Gorman house, I take requests.
YTJ4AW96DW94
A few weeks ago, when searching my own internal songbook for any sort of lullaby not currently covered by the Wiggles, I somehow returned to my Kenny Rogers roots.
"Sing to me mommy," Erin requested during a particularly difficult bedtime session: Pat was working a 24, baby Jeremiah was unusually fussy and three books, a couple of cookies and some serious hypnotics had done nothing in terms of helping my toddler fall asleep.
She couldn't be serious. I'm the girl that people usually ask to stop singing. I get booed at karaoke. People change seats at church. As Pop puts it, I can't carry a tune in a paper bag.
But she pleaded and I was desperate, so I tried Twinkle, Twinkle. She loved it. I moved on to Itsy, Bitsy. Big hit. I pulled a Peter, Paul and Mary favorite out of my back pocket and she totally rocked out to Puff the Magic Dragon. But there was only one problem: We were one hour into this ritual and she was still wide awake. Command decision: I needed to move away from kid friendly and move on to something completely non-stimulating.
I dug deep: The Eagles, Peaceful, Easy Feeling. Nice. She's dozing. But I only know the refrain. I start humming the rest, she opens her eyes. How 'bout Billy Joel? Piano Man. I sing "the microphone smells like a beer," and she starts to giggle. I realize all of the songs that I truly know by heart are bar music from a variety of jukeboxes - totally inappropriate for bedtime. Damn you Waterside. Damn that Budweiser minor I picked up in college.
And then it came to me.
"On a warm summer's evening, on a train bound for nowhere, I met up with the Gambler, we were both too tired to sleep."
She's completely still. Are her eyes closing? Yes!
"So we took turns a-staring, out the window in the darkness, til boredom overtook us and he began to speak..."
I could have stopped, two lines and she was snoring. Jeremiah even liked it. He stared open-mouthed, eyes wide open. I think he was in awe of my lyrical interpretation. But then again, it probably was gas. Either way, I was impressing myself, so I sang some more.
"He said son, I've made a life out of reading people's faces, knowing what their cards were by the way they held their eyes...and if you don't mind my saying, I can see you're out of aces, for a taste of your whiskey, I'll give you some advice."
How could I remember all of these words after 25 years?
"So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow, then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light. And the night got deathly quiet and his face lost all expression, if you're gonna play the game boy, you gotta learn to play it right."
This is like poetry.
"You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table, there'll be time enough for counting when the dealings done."
Could this possibly be my answer to bedtime woes? A couple of verses about dead cowboys and whiskey? I tried it a few more times that week and each night it worked like a charm.
A few nights later, I read the obligatory books - Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty - before Erin turned to me and asked for a little music.
"Can you sing that song about the train again?" she said.
"The Gambler?" I countered.
"Yeah, the one with the cards and the whiskey," she said.
Awesome, I thought, I really hope she doesn't tell her preschool teacher that I sing her songs about beer and whiskey at night.
And so the tradition of Kenny continues. Bedtime might be for stories and cuddling, but in the Gorman house, I take requests.
YTJ4AW96DW94
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