Me--again, I like to be alone...

2011 wasn't that bad..I had more highs than lows (only 1 if you don't count the McRib incident).

The low of 2011 was the Wang Family Winter from Hell.  From January 1 until the end of March, I was home 1 day for every 6 work days because of snow, one of the girls was sick or I was sick.  Then there was time that Ching took off from work as well because of the same reasons.  We started to resent each other and assign blame for issues beyond our control.  While we were silent, our thoughts were the same.."did you wash your hands and sanitize?" Eventually the snow melted and we all got healthier.  Kindness was now a part of the household (and our flu shot appointments were made in August.)

I had highs this year but a few stemmed from one event.  I went on a girls trip to Vegas!  Me--again, I like to be alone.  But a friend of mine was turning 40 and I wanted to see her and a few other women that I hadn't seen in ages.  I was willing to take the risk and leave my comfort zone.  Because of this trip, I:
1.  Lost 12 pounds!  There were three basis tips to my weight loss.  I tried an exercise that my body wasn't used to to kick start the metabolism--it was running for me.  Every day at lunch I run for 30 minutes.  My second tip--I brought my lunch to work so I wouldn't get a lunch from the cafe that consisted of a huge amount of cheese, bacon or pepperoni.  Thirdly, I stopped eating my girls' dinner leftovers.  You know a few chicken nuggets here, a remaining cheese stick there could equate to a second dinner!  I had to lose the weight because..
2.  I got rid of my mom jeans!  I am a product of the 80's..jeans should make my butt look huge and flat, the waist high, the zipper about 8 inches long and if I sport a camel toe, so be it.  These new jeans make me look totally different and I feel cool.

I kept telling myself that I was cool even thought I was scared stiff about leaving my family and being around people that I hadn't seen in a very long time.  What if I made a fool of myself?  What if they thought I was annoying?  But I ended up having a great time..didn't throw up or soil myself, wet my pants, or lose a lot of money.  Imagine that..having fun around people.  Perhaps I could expand on that in 2012.

Agile like a cat, stealth like a ninja...

(Quick warning--this story contains the words penis and skank..personally I usually just take offense to the word skank.)

I pride myself on a quick, witty comeback.  Verbal skills-agile like a cat, stealth like a ninja --that's me!  ( I don't have athletic grace--you need to give me this one.)  In 2011, there was a particular exchange with Mr. Ching Wang that I have labeled the Zinger of the Year.

JCW:  I watched The Town last night.  You were right, it was quite good.
CCW:  I liked it...Blake Lively is so hot.
JCW:  The girl who played the skank?
CCW:  Exactly.
(Oh Christ..)
JCW:  So did you know she is currently dating Leonardo DiCaprio?
CCW:  Really?  (Clearly deflated, like #1, he isn't married and #2, he had a shot.)
JCW:  He started dating her after he broke up with Bar.  (I am twisting the knife now because of the skank comment.  If I tried to pull off skank..I would just look dirty.  Ching thought Bar Rafeali was hot too)
CCW:  God..I just wish..I just wish I could be Leo's penis for a day.
JCW:  (Not missing a beat) That's ironic Ching because I wish I could just have his penis for a day.

BAM!!  JCW 1, CCW 0   Here's to many more in 2012!

It does remind me to take my Prozac each day...

With 2012 just a few days away, I am making a wish that I see significantly less of the following things in the new year:
1.  The name Kardashian..it's not the baby like voice that they all use, or all that eye make-up (remember when we used to make fun of Tammy Faye Baker?  How come we don't make fun of Kourtney, Kim, or Khloe?), it's the mother..making a 10% comp on everything that her kids do ranging from homemade porn to fake weddings.  She sullied E Entertainment television and even the letter "K".
2.  Adele..I used to love listening to her music on the radio.  Rolling in the Deep has the best lyrics coupled with the most controlled vocal ever made.  But Holy Christ, if I hear Someone like You one more time during my morning/evening commute, I might take a razor to my left wrist.  (I will find the positive.  It does remind me to take my Prozac each day.)
3.  Stories of famous people going to rehab/prison.  I understand they are getting help or doing time but there is part of me, when I read the story, that is jealous.  Imagine the solitude..sometimes I wish for solitude (but with the prison/rehab version, I would have to dodge a big woman named Tiny.)
4.  LOL and LMFAO--I hate these acronyms.  If you have to use them to tell the reader that what you are saying is funny...IT'S NOT FREAKIN' FUNNY!  If Laurel ever comes home using these two acronyms..I will have to wash her mouth out with soap.
5.  Housewives residing in NY, BH, ATL, NJ and anywhere else that Bravo has invaded.  These women are  crazy and cruel. Most of them are in financial ruin trying to live a lifestyle that is out of reach. Some aren't even married!   I feel like I am watching monkeys pick bugs out of their fur with one hand while throwing their own poo with the other.  And I am intrigued and feel dirty every single time.

Not asking for world peace..just a few tidbits here and there...

Until Laurel and Rachel move out...

Ching and I saved for several years for our home.  Almost two years ago, we finally sold our outgrown condo and moved just a few blocks away to a nice but modest home in the desired school district.  While our names are on the mortgage payment, this house isn't ours and it won't be until Laurel and Rachel move out.

The kitchen is the first room that I see as I walk in the house--the room that I most frequent and feel shackled to on a daily basis.  While I used to love to cook, every mealtime is sapping my culinary prowess since every meal now consists of angel hair pasta, nuggets or mac and cheese.  My refrigerator is covered with both artwork that I was too scared to throw away, and the freakin' pick up/drop off calendar (yeah, that's a topic for later).  Currently there is a narcissus on my island.  Laurel brought it home from school--a recent product of a growth unit. Secretly I have stopped watering it.  I am hoping its going to die--the flower smells like pee.

My dining room..you look to the left and see a cabinet of beautiful china and crystal, you look right and there is a tiny art table in the corner with a mound of some sort of project and scraps of paper everywhere. (Look down and you will probably see remnants of last night's dinner that Rachel shook her head too.  Obviously I missed that spot.)

I went to the dark side with the living room.  I always thought that people who have the "look but don't touch" living rooms had to be assholes. Well, now I am an asshole. My point of this room is to just mark a small territory with nice furniture that is not juice stained. Maybe just a small part of the house where one would have some quiet time reading a book or just appreciating the quiet. (I rarely get to use this room.)

Our family room is a room for everyone but it is overrun by toys..of all size--small MacDonald's Happy Meal crap toys, to medium toys that Laurel just had to have because Ching is a softy, to the large ones sent by Ching's family trying to overcompensate for the fact that the girls' birthdays were three months ago..months before the gift was sent.

As you head upstairs, the den/guest bedroom does have toys (that are hidden when we have guests).  Of course the both girls' rooms have toys.  I am close to using my mom's technique of making Laurel's room look neater by just closing the door.  The room that gives me the most frustration is the bathroom that they use.  There is always a dried toothpaste gob in the sink, toothpaste staining a fresh towel, toilet paper touching the floor and bath toys all over...Granted that's an easy fix, just shut the curtain.  I know it is just a matter of time when I am trading in the toothpaste gobs for gobs of glitter make-up that I will deem inappropriate. (And Laurel will shout that she hates me.)

There is only one touch of Laurel in our bedroom but it's pretty distinct.  A couple of years ago, she went to Plaster Fun time with Ching.  For Mother's Day, she painted and gifted me a Diego (yeah, from the show). He has a bright pink face with blue hair.  It sits nicely on my dresser.  It took me several months of getting used to that thing. There were plenty a morning when I would rollover and it would scare the shit out of me.  (But Laurel made it with love..that's what I tell myself.)

Explaining the finished basement would seem redundant but I do have a nice corner of it that is my second most frequented room..it's for laundry.  I am the only one that uses that room.  Just a little spider is in this room but that freakin' spider has a couple of webs.   My laundry room isn't mine either...son of a bitch!

I consider myself a smart woman...

Tonight, I spent a few minutes trying to figure out where I put the box of mac and cheese? I took it from the shelf I then, within 30 seconds it disappeared.  What the hell happened to my mind?  Honestly, I blame the joy of motherhood.  Little by little it seems to have sapped some of my intelligence and sanity.  At work (the other job that I have), I am actually using flashcards to learn new financial acronyms and phrases. Jesus..Laurel is learning how to read with flashcards!  My recent mush brain reminded me of an essay that I wrote (again when Laurel was 18 months) called, "I consider myself a smart woman." Enjoy.

I consider myself a smart woman.  I like to read.  I am up on current events.  I try to challenge myself daily at work.  I consider myself a whiz using the copy machine and I figured out DVR on my own.  But becoming a mother has questioned my intellect in two areas:  common sense and the ability to remember small details. I would see women who were in a constant flurry of doubt and disarray.   With disdain (the same disdain I would use when I saw a small child boarding an airplane), I would wonder, Good Lord, how did they get that way? Well, payback is a bitch.  Now, shamefully and apologetically, I am one of those women and I am just trying to make it through the day.


Before I was pregnant, I could remember everything-trivial, work related or otherwise.  I was a master at knowing things like “who won the Academy Award for Best Picture in 1994?”  I could name that tune in a sec.  Now, no one would want me on their Trivial Pursuit team. Details, small or large, totally escape my memory.  I forget where I parked my car.  I forget to make an 18 month pediatrician visit for Laurel which resulted in a total mea culpa and they managed to squeeze her in.  I go upstairs in my house and forget why I went upstairs, even if I still am holding the laundry basket.

When I was a girl, I remember stapling notes on my mom’s book bag. She was teacher, hence the bookbag, and I would ask her if she could stop at CVS and pick up something like a notebook, colored pencils, etc. that I needed for school.  Very frequently she would say yes, but if I wanted her to remember the request I would have to staple a big bright note, that said, REMEMBER JUDE’S NOTEBOOK, on her book bag.  I thought it was quirky but it worked.  I just couldn’t understand how she didn’t remember.  This was back in the early 80’s.  We didn’t have post-its back then—that is what I use today.

I have to be incredibly list driven.  My daughter goes to bed at 7:45.  I usually like to wind down or go straight to bed by 9:00.  That means that I have 75 minutes to get ready for the next day.  I start the 75 minutes by making a list.  If I don’t, the task won’t be remembered therefore won’t get done.  I cannot take a fleeting thought for granted.  One random Thursday night, after the bath water drained out of the tub, Laurel, who likes to sit in the tub, regardless of water, pees in the tub.  So I get her out, cleaned up, dressed, and ready for bed.  Right before I put her to bed, I sprinkle a boat load of Comet in the tub thinking I am going to go back and scrub it.  I put her to bed but forget about the tub even though I am putting things away in the same bathroom.  You would think the smell of Comet would have been a clue but, no.  I didn’t remember the tub until we got home from a weekend trip.  Now Sunday night, I am scrubbing dried pee and a Comet paste out of the tub.

I am not going to remember your birthday or remember to send in your wedding RSVP.  Thankfully my wedding anniversary is engraved into my wedding band and a major holiday.  I save the little memory I have for anything to do with Laurel and PIN numbers.  This may sound cruel but Ching has to fend for himself.

I don’t know if making Laurel sucked the memory right out of me or what.  The baby effort seemed to suck my common sense out too.  I doubt myself a lot more than I did pre-Laurel.  Daily, I have some sort of humbling experience while I asked myself either “Should I have known or noticed that?” or “Why didn’t I know that.”? 

Illnesses are a key contributor to these questions.  I had conjunctivitis a few time growing up.  I know what it looks like.  Why then, did I not notice that my daughter’s eyes were gunky for a whole weekend, take her to daycare on Monday to be told (gently) that my daughter shouldn’t be there because she has pink eye?  Sometimes I don’t notice that she is warm, therefore have a fever.  Once I thought she just had a lingering congestive cough but in actuality, pneumonia.

While pregnant, I would ask other mothers, how will I know what to do?  They would tell me that I would just know.  There was no mention of how many tries it took before I would “know”.  I am not good at live and learn.  I want to know it right away and be very good at it.  I also think that Laurel would appreciate that. I don’t think she came into this world with aspirations of being a guinea pig. There is no amount of intellect that will prepare you for a 2 am crying jag—could be you or your child.  The common thought is that your child is at the mercy of good parenting.  But honestly, sometimes I feel like I am at the mercy of her.

Little by little, I am learning not to get behind the 8-ball.  Last year, the nanny had to tell me that Laurel needed mittens.  This year, she will have mittens by September 1 regardless of an Indian summer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this last year.  I was using my gloves..why didn’t she have any?  (I’ll fess up.  She didn’t have a hat either.)


Small steps...

Politely Walked Away..

As I still digest the happenings of Christmas season present, I thought I would entertain you with the happenings of Christmas past.  Ching and I try to spend an equal amount of time between his family and mine.  Last Christmas, we were in Ohio with his aunt and uncle (and their children).  His Aunt Angela and Uncle Ming-Luh (pronounced Loo) are the closest he has to parents and their daughters are as close as he is going to get to having sisters.

It is always hard to spent Christmas away from your own family because other families tend to have normal routines that an outsider would label as quirky like using potato flakes rather than real potatoes.  (I offered to peel potatoes several times)..All the Caucasian spouses (Lisa's husband, Debbie's husband and me) not only wonder what traditional dishes are going to be served in between the Chinese ones but also where the hell was the liquor?..Ching's family aren't really drinkers.

I have always gotten along with Lisa and Debbie, the only Ivy League educated stay-at-home moms that I know, but last year, there were several instances when I just had to politely walk away.  Like Debbie asking if we would like to contribute $250 to Angela and Ming-Luh's Christmas gift.  Apparently they wanted to give them an Ipad.  While it was pricey, we agreed to contribute and were there when it was given.  A+M were grateful but less than enthused.  It went unopened for 3 days.  They had no urge to use it.  Debbie didn't find out if it was a gift that they would use before we all chipped in.  Really?!  I politely walked away.  Strike 1 for Debbie....

Now Lisa....Ching talks to Lisa a little more than Debbie.  Lisa and Ching went to college in Boston at the same time (he at BC, she at Harvard)  Since I am on Facebook, I thought it would be another way to stay connected. I asked her if she was on Facebook..she told me that she didn't have time.  Lisa is a stay at home mom with a live in nanny that cooks for them.  Apparently I have plenty of time...I didn't say anything and politely walked away.  Strike 1 for Lisa...

(The stay gave me such a headache.  I wasn't sure if I had a headache because I was keeping in my snark or that I wasn't drinking what they were offering as coffee.  They drink Taster's Choice..you know, the instant coffee with iridescent flakes.  I am not a coffee snob (I would suck on the bean if I had to) but that stuff takes like crap...)

And that leads me to Angela.  She loves Ching and has been very nice to me but Holy God!  I wear a size 8.5 shoe!  My foot is not going to fit into your size 7 used flip flop sandals with the big Boca rhinestones.  No matter how much you don't want to waste them..find someone else because I can't wear them.  If you ask me on Sunday and they don't fit, they are not going to fit on Tuesday.  Mild strike #1 for Angela..

But strike #2 was the be all, end all.  Angela told me that I should have Rachel (who was 5 months old at the time) sleep on her stomach because her face is very round.  Sleeping on her stomach would elongate her face because apparently long faces are better than round ones.  Holy Crap..first of all, Angela--have you met my husband, your nephew?  His face is the definition of round..secondly HOLY CRAP!  Ching heard this and chuckled uncomfortably.  I held back and politely walked away.

I counted down the days until I could come home.  But it is quite possible that Ching was counting down the days this year...

Nice Jude/Naughty Jude (That's a candy cane!)

Because it is Christmas Eve, I do want to recognize the gifts that I am given everyday in regards to my family.  My girls are happy and healthy and my man, Ching is supportive and kind.  When he asked what I wanted for Christmas, I told him that I truly had enough.  Merry Christmas.

Now to balance things out, I do have to tell you another story that solidifies my entry of mother of the year.  Last Sunday, Laurel and I were making Christmas cookies.  I asked her to pick out a cookie cutter.
L:  "I am going to use the J first."
J:  "What J?
L:  "This one.  You know, J is for Jesus, right?"
J:  (Because my filter isn't on).."Oh Laurel, that isn't a J, it's a candy cane!
L:  "Oh.."
Oh Christ (damn, strike #2..sorry.) I just crushed my kid's religious belief with my own heathen ways. What if she wants to study the Philosophy of Religion, or Theology or become a nun? (that last one is a stretch)  Quickly I try to recoup.
J:  "Laurel, I think it's a great thought because Christmas is Jesus Christ's birthday."
Of course, I still felt guilty so I let her use all the frosting that she wanted with the sprinkles, chocolate chips and marshmallows.  If you see our cookie tray, please compliment the J's, but they are absolutely not candy canes.

The whole idea has a creepy-stalker-tattling feel..

That freakin' elf is driving me nuts (no, not that person.)  It is Elf on the Shelf that is driving me insane. As if I (or any parent) don't have enough on their plate during this time of year to remember to move it every night.

In case you are not familiar with the Elf, let me explain.  It is a little boy elf doll about the size of a Barbie Doll.  A child believes that every night he zips up to the North Pole to report to Santa if they were good during the day.  Basically, he is a narc and he is teaching kids that it is all right to snitch.  When he returns (from the North) during the night, he finds a new spot to sit.  There lies the responsibility of the parent to find a "new spot" for this elf.  In the new spot he is there to watch you..all day with his big freakin' eyes..until the next trip to the north.

First of all, Laurel sleeps with her bedroom light on and hates bugs.  For some reason, she is okay with the thought of an elf prowler flying in and out of the house.  The whole idea has a creepy-stalker-tattling feel to it.  (Oh, by the way, our elf's name is Mike.  Very generic..apparently having parents named Ching and Jude makes her choices very plain.)

Secondly, she is an early riser and the first thing she does is look for this elf so if I forget to move it during the previous night, I am screwed.  What Elf on the Shelf has taught me is how to be quick and lie as convincingly as possible.  Thanks Mike..I already know my limits as a mom..you just helped me put another notch on the belt of awesome motherhood.  This morning Laurel noticed that Mike didn't move from his previous spot so I lied and told her that Daddy was up late, watching the Boise St/ASU game.  Because Daddy was up, Mike
didn't feel comfortable flying in front of him.  I told her it was very likely that Mike will make a special trip while she is at school.  As soon as I tell that lie, I have to haul ass upstairs to speak to Ching before he greets Laurel.  We have to make sure our stories are straight.

I know I just a few years of Laurel's belief (until she turns into a cynic like me).  Perhaps I will miss her innocent wonder down the road, but right now, not so much. Actually now that I think about it, Mike may disappear and I will lie about him just staying "up North."  Look who has the upper hand now..

(Merry Night before The Night Before Christmas..Laurel loves this day.)

I hope I have enough vodka...

This is not the type of text that you want to get on your drive home from work:

"Hi, just wanted to let you know that Laurel is in a mood."

Oh crap..you never get the text that says she is in a great mood.  My first unfiltered thought was "Oh Christ, I hope I have enough vodka at home (tsk..bad mom).


My second thought is why is she in a bad mood?  She has the world by a string.  She is in kindergarten..no homework or academic pressures. Too young for puberty- her skin is totally clear.  She isn't trolling for a date to the prom (which means she isn't getting shot down. Jude--bitter table for 1? It's still there for you.)  College apps?  Nope. Lack of job? Nope.  Dead end job?  Nope.  Rachel probably ate a favorite crayon or something.


My third thought was that I am grateful this didn't happen during the morning drop off.  When this mood happens in the morning, it totally sucks.  Call it what it is.  The other morning, Laurel could not stop crying.  The harder she would try, the worse it would become.  And I couldn't pull out any of my second weapons (Santa, scolding, comforting, bribing..nothing) because that would backfire and make her cry more.  Of course we are inside the school when this was happening so teachers were giving me the "What did you do?" look. Rachel is having a grand time dragging a rubber trash can down the hall squealing with glee.  And all I could hear was the tick, tick, tick of the clock, telling me that "you are so freakin' late." Then I feel guilty that I am thinking about being late rather than my daughter who is in a constant puddle of tears.

As I open the door, it's eerily quiet.  I am told that Laurel wants to be left alone, doesn't want to be around anyone for awhile.  She IS my daughter!

The sane assumption is that you wait...

There is a new morning sport in my suburb that separates the women from the girls.  It takes place on the side streets around 7:30 am. No joke..It's the game of chicken..and the players are serious.

I live in Newton, MA.  There are parts that are very affluent (not my part).  Frequently you will see construction trucks parked on the side of the road.  The construction trucks are there to do a renovation on an 8000 ft home, building a new monstrosity or perhaps installing a moat.  Since the street is narrow, the parked truck is partially in the road so you have to go around it, into the opposite lane.  The sane assumption is that you wait (behind the parked truck) and let the opposite traffic go through first and then you go around the truck and swerve into the the oncoming lane hopefully free of traffic.  Basic principle-- waiting for your turn.

Holy crap, that is not happening!  White knuckled moms, gripping the steering wheel of their fat 2012 Suburbans, are barreling through, narrowly side swiping my cool 2003 Corolla.  Call me a chicken but I got the hell out of their way.  I doubt where they are going is so important that they can't wait but I just got my kids out the door on time. I am already ahead for the day. I am not messing with some crazy who is probably rushing to Starbucks to get her half caff, no whip, sassafrass latte.  I have mentioned before that I get a little agitated during my morning commute.  This puts it to another level and I have the girls in the car so I can't even use my choice non-Mom words.  I mean, I just took a shower..these women are making me pit down to my socks!

I take risks; I'm tough. (I had Rachel sans epidural.) But this is insane..I am not going grill to grill..I will remain a girl on this one.  You'll see my car waiting patiently behind the truck.

Yes, they are comparing her name to craps....

Yesterday someone commented on Laurel's beautiful name.  This never gets old..it warms my crusty heart everytime.  While Laurel has expressed that she doesn't like it and would like to be called Barbara, I have never regretted the choice.  

I first heard the name in 1986 on the CBS soap As the World Turns.  Sierra was pregnant and she didn't know if the father was the evil Antonio or dullard Craig.  But nevertheless, she picked out Bryant for a boy and Laurel for the girl.  She said that the name Laurel sounded beautiful, strong and wise.  I couldn't agree more. Unfortunately, she had a boy, he was saddled with name Bryant and of course, the baby daddy was Antonio.

I loved the name so much that I was afraid to tell Ching.  What if he said no?  Luckily, my warrior like childbirthing skills convinced him that I should make the name choice.  We also thought the name was more like her when she was born.  The name sounded calm and when she was born, she was very calm.  (Honestly, she was drugged out of her skull. Since I had an epidural shortly before birth..she was feeling the epidural.  She was three sheets to the wind.)

Not everyone was keen on the name.  Ching's family was not for Laurel's name at all.  Since Mandarin Chinese was the first language for the older generation Wang, they had a very hard time saying it. Apparently, L's and R's are very hard to say and Laurel is a power combo of the two sounds.  Ching could of told me but honestly it wouldn't have made a difference.  Ching's Aunt Angela had a very difficult time mastering the name.  Her daughters told her to think of "low roll" as if she were rolling dice (yeah, they are comparing her name to craps).  Low roll merged into Laurel.

Even the aunt, who could say it, didn't hide her displeasure as was evident in a one sided phone conversation after she was born.
CCW:  "Her name is Laurel Alexa"
(pause)
CCW: "Laurel"
(pause)
CCW: "No, Laurel.  LAAAUUURRREEEL" (yeah Ching, slow and loud..that helps)
(pause)
CCW: "L-A-U-R-E-L."
(pause)
CCW:  "Her middle name is Alexa."
(pause)
CCW:  "No, we are not calling her that."  (Hear it comes.  Count it
down with me..3, 2, 1)  "Jude picked it out."


Not to worry, they got used to it.  


Regardless for her love of the name Barbara, I truly believe that she will love her name as much as I do.  But then again, perhaps my mom felt the same way about my given name, Judith..which I would like to give back.

Are my pants on?

The thought of childbirth didn't scare me as much as the thought of this task.  While I was pregnant with my Laurel and then Rachel, I had no idea how I was going to do it.   How the hell was I going to get ready for work while getting a child ready for their day at daycare and leave ON TIME?  The anticipation of this task scared the bejesus out of me so much that we hired a nanny during Laurel's first year to avoid the "getting her ready part."  (Oh the nanny issues..that is a juicy subject for later.)

Over time, we acclimated but still, as soon as the alarm goes off, my reaction is "oh shit."  My reaction is not about getting up but rather what I may face during the next two hours.  Currently my timeline, which starts at 5:30,  is pee, shower, (maybe wash my hair) brush teeth, do hair, make up, dress, fly downstairs to make lunches and get everyone's stuff together.  All of this must get done by 6:40--while 70 minutes is a long time, it does take some time to look as good as I do.  At 6:40, the girls get up, Ching dresses Rachel.  (After this task, he disappears and gets himself ready.  The morning is really my gig.)  I get Laurel up and prompt her to pee, get dressed, breakfast, hair, teeth, sneakers, jacket, out the door.  I also try to coax Rachel to eat something..quickly wash her face, sneakers, jacket, out the door. Sounds simple but when I have to start using phrases like "let's hustle", "chop chop" or just a simple "Come on!", it's not good.

There are the unexpected obstacles that pop up:  Laurel is cranky; Rachel is cranky; Laurel doesn't want to get dressed; Rachel doesn't want to let go of Ching; Laurel is having a bad hair day (really? At 5 years old? Girl, you don't even know yet); Rachel needs to be changed for a second time and while changing her, her ass explodes all over my suit (true story);  Laurel is rummaging in her room for a headband; Rachel is trying to go up the stairs by herself; Laurel doesn't want to go to school;  Rachel doesn't want to get in her car seat and Laurel is
hungry again.  (In almost six years since having Laurel, there has only been one morning, when I said, "the hell with it" and stayed home.)

But 95% of the time, we get out of the house on time.  Granted there are several mornings when I have to tell myself to look down and actually check to see if I have remembered my own pants.  (I am definitely staying home if I ever forget.)

Being the Oven to the Bun

(This entry is a short introduction to an essay that I wrote when Laurel was 18 months old.  I have never let anyone read it.  Hope you like it.  But a head's up--it does contain the words boob, hemorrhoids and probably something else that I am forgetting.  This entry is a little bit longer than past posts.)


I am an active faux runner.  I joke that my running isn't the real deal because it's always on the treadmill.  I don't expose myself in outdoor elements.  (I do expose myself to indoor elements like the joker next to me that thinks that letting yesterday's gear just dry out is just as good as washing.)  I run because I like the way my body looks and I am in control.  One of the hardest issues that I had to deal with was the lack of control I had when I carried both girls.  And with that..I would like to segue into my essay..

Being the Oven to the Bun

As soon as I saw that second line, my body wasn’t mine anymore. Everything that went in my body was for my nugget’s benefit. If something went in that was bad, I felt horrible guilt. (When I reference bad, I am not talking about a shooter, just some iced tea.)

Not a lot went into my body during the first trimester. The nausea was moderate but consistent—every day from mid-June until mid-August. I really didn’t think I was going to make it and felt like a wuss everyday. It felt like Ching was making me read the map as we were driving—that makes me very queasy. Everyday I would think, “Oh my God, I am still reading the map.” Staying home didn’t help because the two times that I did that, the next day the nausea seemed worse and I wasn’t going to miss two days in a row. We were also getting our kitchen re-done. Nothing like staying home and smelling old baseboard of the kitchen floor. I avoided watching TV because of the constant loop of Applebee’s, Ruby Tuesday’s, TGI Friday, Chili’s commercials. That food looked like crap to me. Regular television shows seemed to have so many people drinking alcohol. I couldn’t watch this either. I just wanted to sit in a dark cool room and wait until trimester #2.

My control was gone. I was petrified that I was going to be sick in any form of public transportation. I was taking a commuter rail and shuttle to work during a very humid summer in Boston. Airplane barf bags kept in my shoulder bag gave me a little confidence. Luckily none were used.

No weight was gained during this time. I lost three pounds.

Typical things that I thought would happen that didn’t happen: my boobs were no bigger (so typical) my pee frequency didn’t feel higher, nothing was tender, no sense was heightened and no random jagged crying. Just nausea—I don’t remember being all that tired but Ching said that I was.

And then one day it was a new dawn. Cliche as it may sound, one day during the tail end of the first, I felt better.

My second trimester was just a waiting period of seeing results. Again, no control. In the past if I wanted to see weight gain-pizza and donuts; weight loss was more exercise and less pizza and donuts. I needed some proof. The fact that I didn’t have my period but a stick with two lines was not doing the trick. Several weeks went by where I looked bloated. No one ever told me that you can button your pants in the morning but by afternoon, not so much. I spent many an afternoon sitting at my desk looking sloppy with unbuttoned pants and my blouse untucked. I started to look fat, not pregnant, just kind of a beer gut. This is when I started wearing the maternity clothes—so my shape was validated. Honestly, I wanted to wear a sign saying “Am pregnant, Not fat”. It was fun in meetings when someone would build up the courage and try to ask me if I was pregnant. The question never came out as smooth as I thought the deliverer intended. If I knew the person well, I would give them a deadpan “No, I am not..do you think I LOOK FAT?” So fun—you have to give me something. I hadn’t had a good stiff drink in months.

I tried to exercise but that lasted for two days. I tried the yoga and since I would giggle at words like chakra and, I decided it wasn’t for me. I walked to the train everyday—that seemed like enough exercise to me. I read that Heidi Klum never exercised during her pregnancy because the body is all ready doing enough work growing a person. That theory sounded great to me.

There were only certain times where my senses didn’t seem to work. One day, lilies smelled like salami. And salami was the only thing I wanted to eat. Once I started to cry as I was getting ready for work. I was actually thinking about how beautiful my newborn niece was but in retrospect that was hormones. I never cry at crap like that..now when I look at her picture I think—“she just looks like every other baby.”

My most humble moment occurred during a trek of Christmas shopping. In the past, I would be able to weave in and out of crowds—nimble like a cat. I couldn’t weave in between crowds anymore. I learned this when I took out a whole display in Godiva.

It was getting so hard to ascertain my mass. I would try to pee in a cup during a regular OB exam and miss cup and end up peeing on my own hand. Are you kidding me?

While I was nausea free, I did have to stay home for a day due to hemorrhoids. Roy showed up around the holidays. (Must have been a yuletide gift from the pregnancy fairy.) I could not walk or sit down comfortably. I was pretty lucky. Roy only stuck around for about a week. It was a pretty long week but it did teach me to maintain a rich fiber diet.

In actuality, I didn’t gain a huge amount of weight—41 pounds over all with the last 12 happening in the last two weeks. This was the water weight everyone talks about and it came at such an inopportune time. Right before a baby shower that my mom and her friends were attending, my feet just ballooned with grossness. My ankles were gone. Panic ensued and my mom was convinced that I had some sort of pre-eclampsia which I didn’t. Again, just water weight.

I have heard debates about epidurals. While it did help with the pain, it also made me more comfortable than I had been in months. My back didn’t ache, my side didn’t hurt—I felt as light as air. Actually I think this feeling could have mimicked drunkenness—it was nice.

After Laurel was born, I knew I would not leave the hospital looking like I did nine months previously. Regardless of  knowing that, I didn’t feel any better about the way I looked. I thought I looked lumpy. And I knew that in the few days (after she was born), my milk would drop. My body still wasn’t my own just the role had changed—from an oven to a constant milk spout.

I have always complained about my lack of boobage but when I started breastfeeding, I missed my small boobs. They were enormous—I felt like a circus freak. What is Pamela Anderson thinking? None of my pre-pregnancy tops fit. Because I am petite with small boobs, I equated small boobs to being petite. Regardless how much weight that I lost, as long as I had these bozombas, I was not petite. At least I know now I would never want breast implants.

The lack of control that I had in the first trimester when fearful about spontaneously vomiting was back again but this time the fear was incontinence. I had no muscle control down there. I would lie in the hospital bed thinking, “I have to pee”, struggle out of bed and not make it eight feet to the toilet. Just nine months before I had a bladder of steel and now the thought of a kegel exercise was a pipe dream. While this did get better, there were a couple of weeks where I was afraid to leave the house.

Within 3 weeks time, I lost 36 of the 41 pounds. I don’t know if this is typical or not—it’s just what happened to me. I have to give the credit to sheer exhaustion and running on fumes of stamina. Even though I had only 5 pounds to go, I couldn’t wear my pre-pregnancy clothes. My waist seemed to have a tire of extra flesh since my skin hadn’t bounced back. My boobs were out of control and my hips were still in pregnancy mode. I just felt wide, flubby and voluptuous.

Regardless of weight loss, my body was still a machine for my daughter. Food, water went in for the sole purpose of making milk. I wouldn’t even think of my own nourishment. I breastfed Laurel until she was 6 months old.

Laurel is now 18 months old. I started working out a month ago just to make myself stronger and to create a little more stamina. While I weigh less than I did pre-pregnancy, a little bit of flub still hangs over my waistband of my pants, my belly button is a very weird wrinkly “O” like shape. And the best part: my boobs are smaller, a little saggy and not even, but smaller. Battle scars—not sure. But I am the first to jokingly brag about them to any woman.

Consider this an Amuse Bouche..

This is not my official post for this Sunday.  But nothing starts the day like hearing your husband run down the stairs yelling, "I need the plunger!!"  Don't know if I should laugh, cry or roll my eyes...Who am I kidding?  I go to my comfort zone..I roll my eyes.

Are you there God? It's me, Jude...

(First of all, do want to make a disclaimer..this post does mention the words, tampon and period (not talking about punctuation).  If that squicks you out..perhaps you may want to skip this one.  But stop by tomorrow..there will be another new, fresh, juicy topic.)


Recently Laurel saw my tampons in the bathroom.  Because I have a limited filter, as soon as she asked about them, I told her they were party favors.  Not smart JCW because that intrigued her even more.  She is very curious and she wanted to know what they were.  I don't want to tell her..yet.  She is not even six.  I don't want to let her in on the crap emotions associated with getting your period let alone the crap emotions caused by getting your period.

Then I started thinking back to my experiences:  Being a young teen, freaking out because this not what I thought Judy Blume was explaining.  Then during the Slutty Jude Era of 94-97, just giving thanks when I got my period.  Both times trying to conceive..hundreds of dollars spent on ovulation sticks and pregnancy tests just to not get my period.  And while being pregnant and nursing, never even noticing that I wasn't getting it.  And now, close to 40, two (kids) and done, it's just me, waiting for menopause, bitching and moaning about how expensive tampons are..

But Laurel is still looking up at me.."please, tell me."

"Hey Laurel," I say, "How about some fruit snacks?"

"Okay..but tell me later."

God love fruit snacks..procrastination in a little fun sized packet.

I wasn't naughty but not exactly nice...

Dear Santa,
I haven't been naughty this year but perhaps there were instances of not being that nice.  But I'm still hoping that you could help me out with few Christmas wishes:
1.  Laurel's palette needs to expand.  I don't know if I can take another year of rotating angel hair pasta, macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets and the occasional grilled cheese at dinnertime.
2.  Serenity during my morning drive/commute would be nice.  I need to stop gauging my day by how many times I use my horn in the morning (less horn, better day) and letting people know they are #1.
3.  Could Rachel stop looking at me with such disgust?  I expected this look at 16, not 16 months.  I swear when her verbal skills advance she is going to refer to me as her ol' lady instead of mommy.
4.  Laurel needs to start sleeping later on the weekends.  Really, 6:30?
5.  Rachel needs some hair.  If one more idiot refers to her as little fella (while she is dressed in pink), I will call them a dumbass and the eyeroll will be blatent.  (Not my normal style of behind their back).

(PS--I would suggest updating your look.  The red is nice but the beard?  You sure about that? When I was a kid, beards scared the shit out of me. Perhaps that is why some many kids cry in your lap?  Anyway, just a
thought.)

Happy Holidays!

Just Me and My Unspoken Snark

I am a 5:30 mom.  I pick up Laurel from her afterschool program at 5:30.  I make eye contact and smile at the other parents who are doing the same pick up routine but rarely will I strike up a conversation.  (Honestly this isn't my thing..I don't really like people--we will save that topic for later.)  There is no time to do so and the other parents seem to have the same look that I have..frazzled from the traffic, rushing like a bat out of hell, perhaps picking up another child from a different location and thinking about what to make for dinner, etc.

Then one day I picked her up at 12:30.  It was a special day of just Laurel and me, going to lunch and a little holiday shopping.  When you get to the school, you have to wait outside until the children are dismissed.  At 12:30, the teachers walk them to the door to meet their parents outside. So I get to the school and there are all sorts of moms there, "chatting" and being friendly.  I was totally out of my element.  There was one mom and small child that arrived on a tandem bike.  Apparently her kindergartner is riding a bike home with her mom and sibling.  My kid is riding in a car.  The mom hands the sibling a nutritious snack of an apple as she waits.  I have fruit snacks for my kid--full of sugar.  Then the mom (who has this fishtail braid down to her ass--holy God, that needs to be cut) sits down and starts knitting.  Are you kidding me?  The conversation that I can hear between the moms is about advent calenders and knitted mittens. They were so relaxed and not at all frazzled looking.   I was utterly alone..just me and my unspoken snark.

Laurel bursts out of the door, full of joy and extremely social with all of her peers. Regardless of age or classroom, she is talking to everyone.  Sometimes I think she was switched at birth....

Van Gogh's mom didn't do that...

 I commit the worst sin in Laurel's eyes..sometimes I am caught and sometimes, not.  But if I am caught, the wrath is not good.

 I will occasionally throw away her excess artwork.

First of all, we can't keep it all.  We would need a spare room for every sheet with the slightest scribble.  Then there are those pieces with crap glued on it..glitter, beads, popsicle sticks, etc.  Recently, she made an ear of corn (I have no idea why)  with real kernals glued on.  The kernals started falling on the floor so that piece went immediately in the trash.  And of course I stepped on one of those freakin' kernals the next morning at 5 am.  I don't even want to think about the karma.

 I have a system for throwing the art away as well.  Over the week, I build two stacks of art--the keepers and the trash.  I have to wait until the kitchen trash is mid-level.  If I throw it away in a new (white) trash bag, Laurel will see it on the bottom when the full bag is pulled out of the can.  If I wait until the last minute and throw it away last, she will see it there, probably crumpled, on the top.  So I wait until the trash is mid-level and I push the pieces of art down in the can. I can't scrimp on this effort..I really have to go elbow deep.

 It's crazy, I have less guilt throwing away multiple empty vodka bottles at one time..

Van Gogh's mother probably never threw away any of his stuff..but then again, he was crazy which probably meant she was too.

(As a post script to this thought, Laurel brought home her art for the day.  It was a menorah fashioned out of kidney beans and ziti glued on blue construction paper...awesome.)

Ma'am, your seat is in the back...

I have become a second class citizen in my own home.  When the hell
did that happen?  On any given workday, I get up first to make the
girls' lunches, shower, then dress in the dark so no one is disturbed.
(Actually, most days I wear trouser socks and I am glad no one can see
me socks, sans pants.  Trouser socks have got to be one of the most
unsexy items of clothing.  They would make a runway model look like a
hag..anyway..)  I,then, skulk around the house like a God damned burgler 
trying to be as quiet as possible until the rest of the family is up. 
Once Laurel and Rachel are up, I do the majority of getting them ready.

In the evening, I eat last regardless if the meal is takeout that Ching
has picked up, or a meal that I have prepared.  This happens because
Rachel who is 16 months tends to get fussy at dinnertime.  One
of us will take her and the other will eat.  After Ching has eaten, I
will eat.  While my diatribe sounds like I am becoming a martyr, it
was never my intention.  It just happened.

Growing up I would watch my mother eat last, take the chipped plate or
give up the last "anything" because we were one short and that is what
she did.  She will still take this role when there is a large family dinner.
The phrase "my fork is in" is commonly used.  In my family, you wait
until your hostess is seated with their fork in their meal prior to
starting your own meal.  (After 12 years, Ching still needs to be
reminded of this...)  But my mom says "my fork is in"
just to get people started regardless is she is actually seated
(never) or grabbing something out of the kitchen (always).

Visions of Alice from the Brady Bunch come to mind.  Those road trip 
episodes when the whole gang was in the station wagon and poor Alice
was stuck in the back..well, at least I can say I am not sitting in the back...
I absolutely draw the line at that..

Well, I feel like an ass...

About a week ago, on Facebook, I posted comments about Rachel learning words.  While she could say "Mammy" and "Daddy", she couldn't say please or thank you.  For thank you, she would say "no"
and for please she would rub her tummy.  The gesture of rubbing her tummy made me laugh and I sited Ching's side of the family for that one.

While I was dropping her off at school, I jokingly referred to the gesture to the teacher.  That gave me a look..that "you simpleton" look.  "We taught your daughter how to sign the word 'please'.  We do that first before teaching her the word so she understands the meaning prior to developing the verbal skills. She has been signing the word
for a couple of weeks"...My daughter is getting signing skills and I thought it was a quick tummy rub as if she were Baby Bear of the The Three Bears.  As the prickly sensation of humiliation hit my armpits, I said "that's great", and got the hell out of there.  Another notch in the belt of awesome motherhood.

A Snapshot of a typical day

On Saturday morning, Ching, my husband of 8 years, yells with anxiety,  "We are out of toilet paper!"  (The level of anxiety is unmatched.  What is it with men and bowel movements?  It is not an event.  Hell with him, it could be a three times a day event while I go once every 3 days--I know, I need bran.)  I respond, calmly--"we have plenty, it is in the linen closet"  And this is how the conversation goes:
CCW:  "There is nothing here!"
JCW:  (Calmly walking up the stairs)  "It is there.  I know it is right in front of you"  I reach the linen closet and put my hand on the shelf that is right in front of Ching's face to grab the new 4 pack of Cottenelle.
CCW:  "I guess I didn't see it; it's dark"  (it was 11:00 in the morning) "and the packaging is hard to see.  Usually you unwrap it."
JCW:  I remain calm and I am trying to be as nice as possible--it's around the holidays. I resist the urge to ask if I should unwrap each square and pass them to him under the door. But 15 minutes later I can't resist myself.  As he is about to take our children to music class, I have to ask him, "Do you see your children?  They are right in front of you."