Finding the Humor in Things

One of the things I have discovered about myself since I became Erik's mother is that I feel things so acutely now. I no longer can turn off my emotions like I used to do and am proud to wear my heart on my sleeve. In fact, this is the reason I still write here. Good days with Erik make me feel as if I'm walking on a layer of clouds. On the other hand, before I had an off day as a mother, I really didn't understand what a "bad day" was. Before Erik, I heard mothers tell stories about being slathered in their infant's vomit at work or standing in line at the grocery store while their child asked embarrassing questions about strangers' bodies at three million decibels. The tales were amusing, albeit slightly unbelievable, but until I could place myself in their shoes, I didn't really understand that these reports were likely only part of a chain of unfortunate events in one day that made these mothers wish they hadn't gotten out of bed. Now that I am walking the path of motherhood, I know how impressive it is that they did get out of bed and will do the same the next day to try even harder to create a happy life for their children, even if it requires smiling through a face covered in baby burp. Once time passes, most mothers seem to forget the bad and remember the good anyway.

This is from one of my favorite humor blogs. I read it and laughed, so I will share it with you. Hopefully, you are walking on clouds today, but if you aren't, this will show you that you are definitely not alone.

"Stench, Flies, and Animal Crackers"

Symbiotic

The mountains stand silent guard
steeped in the ailing remnants of night,
prepared to accept the first blush of sunrise
over earthtone puffs of frosty sage

I stand guard over my towheaded boy,
still sleeping and mumbling of firetrucks and excavators.
I'm armed only with a cup of rapidly cooling coffee,
prepared to accept his first contagious grins
that come when he opens sky-colored eyes.

I sigh and allow the great wall inside of me
to lift with a creak to admit the memories and thoughts
that insist upon haunting me like rude houseguests,
and feel them trickle into my once wonderfully sleep-numb brain,
simply too heavy to hold back for another hour.

My heart aches sweetly as I watch him
slumber in a koala bear-curl, clutching the tattered remains
of a formerly perfect, fluffy stuffed puppy
received at my perfect, pastel baby shower.
I marvel at the feelings in my heart that still reach me
through so many years of twisted scars and damage.

This child lives because I care for him.

I am reborn this morning as he unknowingly returns the favor,
even as he sleeps.

I live because he cares for me.

New Beginnings

For once I woke up this morning not feeling like a frumpy old lady hiding in baggy clothing. My new attempt at taking care of myself has paid off in three months. Big time. I am unable to state I simply reached my weight loss goal anymore, as I have lost much more than I imagined I could or would. Once I set my mind to it, I lost a grand total of 30 pounds through good old-fashioned diet and exercise. I am a walking Weight Watchers advertisement. When one of my friends suggested I join with her three months ago, I never imagined my life would change like this. I don't do meetings, so I signed up on line and have been tracking myself. The eating disorder I have been babying for years that has kept extra weight on my body died a surprisngly quick death. All I needed was some sort of direction. Some sort of battle plan.

To celebrate, Shaena accompanied me to the neighborhood tattoo/piercing parlor Friday, and I chose a small, bejeweled stud for my navel. Even through I have four holes through my ears, they were placed eons ago in a jewelry store. I don't recall setting foot in a tattoo parlor before. I sat on a sparkly red bench in the sunlight streaming through a window draped with plastic stars while a couple very quiet, hip-looking, nervous young women stared at me, likely wondering what in the Sam Hill a woman my age was doing in a place like that. A very voluptuous, liberally studded young thing invited me back into a room with many windows and had me lie on a table that brought back brief but unpleasant medical memories. The young things looked on through the doorway as I lifted my shirt slightly and she examined my stomach. She stood me up in front of a mirror and marked on me with a purple ink pen before inviting me to relax again on the table and placing drapes around my freakishly deep belly button, talking nonstop through the whole procedure. I am unable to tell you exactly what happened next, as I decided to stare at the ceiling. Shaena stood at my side and watched clamps placed on my flesh, which I found quite uncomfortable. I was told to take a deep breath in and then slowly exhale, at which time she apparently pushed a giant, hooked needle through me without any sort of warning (or anesthesia) whatsoever.

AHHHHHHH, KELLY CLARKSON!

I felt a strange rush of warmth to my stomach, as if I had just consumed a shot of tequila. I pondered exactly what was happening to me physiologically. My body seemed to be under the impression I was wounded, but the sensation quickly passed, and I stood up. Done.

I was off to a fajita dinner with unbuttoned britches.

Today I turn 37. I feel pretty good about that because I feel like I'm healthy once again and I'm ready to let the world see me just a little more. I am over 10 pounds lighter than when I became pregnant and weigh about what I did when I walked down the aisle with sparkling hopes and dreams from the implied promise of a perfect life waiting for me. In a way, I feel like I'm starting over and stealing some of those hopes and dreams back. My innocence is long gone now, and I am old enough to know that life isn't as perfect as I once hoped. I can accept that, for the most part. At least I'm learning to.

I have new strength and a pretty, new battle scar.

Bring it on.

Numbness.

There is a pale scar just above my pubic bone that marks the location of the incision doctors created the day Erik came into the world after nine disappointing hours of pathetic, inefficient labor. I witnessed my contractions enthusiastically spike on the monitor by my bed while the nurses flushed generous waves of Pitocin, a labor-stimulating drug, into my blood, but the pain never came. Eventually my baby grew tired and weak in my womb, and we were quickly wheeled to the operating room, where we were surrounded by masked, anonymous faces and my body was rocked with strange, involuntary shock-shudders.

After my baby's birth, my scar was punctuated with shiny staples. The nerves had been rudely severed and were no longer able to communicate with my brain.

Numb.

It was then that the baby on my chest began to cry. He cried and cried for months with no end, and that numbness spread throughout my entire body via each tiny, exhausted capillary. There were no coos or smiles from this baby. He drank from me, cried, and slept. I cried, too. When I dared to look down into his scarlet, suffering face, I was horrified. I felt absolutely nothing at all.

The numbness was complete.

As many months came and went, our lives changed. The crying subsided. One day without warning, a smile appeared like an upside-down rainbow. A tiny, beautiful promise of more.

And there was indeed much more to come.

The scar on my body is barely visible now. It has healed more efficently than any of my previous scars have and threatens to disappear entirely, which, quite honestly, makes me a little sad. I'm proud of that scar because it reminds me of the very beginning of this journey. It reminds me of the very last day I was filled with the innocence that will never return and the very first day I met someone who would forever change life as I knew it. Someone who would eventually teach me what it means to feel each experience in this life.

It's amazing.

Today when I run my fingers over that scar, the numbness is completely gone.

Real Moms

I have been tagged for the first time by Lizard Eater with the "Real Moms" meme. I'm so sorry, LE, that I am tardy posting on this subject! Without further ado, here is my response.

Real Moms Carry Kleenex

Since I became a mother, I have discovered that every pocket in my clothing contains either an empty string cheese/granola bar wrapper or one of those tiny packages of Kleenex (this in itself is disturbing, because I don’t recall ever buying them).

As a mother, you can no longer carry one of those adorable, beaded, postage stamp-sized purses like you used to. Remember the days of carrying only your identification, a tube of lipstick, and a couple $20 bills?

Being a mother requires being prepared for any natural disaster or act of God. If we suddenly became trapped in my vehicle for an entire week, I would likely emerge wearing a fresh coat of Cover Girl Almost Nude lipstick carrying a still sweet-smelling, smiling, well-nourished 2-year-old.

These days, my purse contains an extra diaper, wipes, baby powder-scented diaper disposal bag, an extra dose of reflux medication, Tylenol, iPod conveniently loaded with episodes of Sesame Street, packets of 50 SPF sunscreen, and a variety of portable snack foods -- and that’s just the top layer. This, of course, does not include my own personal hygiene and beauty products or items related to my own work or play. When my cell phone rings from the bowels of my purse, it is often impossible to locate it before the caller is sent to voicemail, as the phone itself works its way down beneath layers of these essential items far out of reach. There is a small circle permanantly etched on my checkbook cover from where a bottle of bubbles once precariously balanced in my purse as I toted it to the park.

It’s amazing a relatively small (read: 33 gallons) satchel can accommodate what my life requires. I think I have an explanation for this phenomenon. There are days I am quite positive that if I plunged my arm down through the depths of the paraphernalia in my purse, my hand would mysteriously emerge through a layer of winter clouds over a land called Narnia.