You Asked For It.

The first thought that popped into my head as I was waking up from surgery was, "Wow, the sheet is blue and so is all of my Facebook page". Seriously. Not ,"Holy moly ouch!" or "Where the hell am I?". Well, what can I say? Pain medications do strange things to me. Where am I? In my good doctor's operating room, because almost 11 years ago....

was the birth of my first daughter. She gave me an emergency c-section, an horrible looking scar, and a hernia! My arch enemy, Mr. H, stayed pretty silent for the next 8 years. Oh, he'd resurface now and again in the form of weird bulges and back pain, but for the most part we had a pretty good relationship. I didn't get surgery for him, he left me alone. Until my third child was born. Then, we had to break up...so sad. After M was born, I had an ever growing bulge in my lower abdomen, and some serious lower back pain. Surprise! Mr. H was almost 4 vertical inches, and could not be fixed my laparoscopic surgery. At this point, feeling vain, I went to a plastic surgeon. I wanted it fixed, and I wanted my c-section scar to looked better, and could he do just tighten up the stomach muscles and oh, maybe trim off the extra stretched out skin from 3 pregnancies? The tall, British accented man looked at me, smiled and said he could give me the abs of a 20 year old again. SOLD! Then his nurse went about the details, explained the operation to me, etc. etc. I really didn't listen to well to the very nice nurse Jessica, because I was fantasizing about my flat, stretch mark less tummy that I might be able to push into a bikini for the first time in 11 years. Ooohhh...while fantasizing about beach vacations, Jessica droned on about recovery times, morphine pumps, and drains. Hmmm...what? Oh, yeah...sure whatever.

Then, I got on the internet, to do some research. Holy crap, there are lots of websites devoted to tummy tucks, or *wink* hernia repairs. And they scared the absolute crap out of me. It's a very serious abdominal operation, you come home with drains, a pain pump, and a body girdle. The risk of complications is fairly low if you have a good surgeon, and you do what they tell you to do. Daunted, I had another appointment with my good friend the doctor. He reassured me, he does a lot of these operations, he can fix my scar tissue, fix the muscles, skin will look good, but recovery time is 6 weeks of rest. As I was processing this information, I was going over my "I am a Tough Cookie" speech in my head. I was not going to let these minor details and a little bit of pain deter me from fixing my hernia, and I was in fact pretty tough, so I was going to do it. They contact my insurance company, worked out the details, my share was a decent number, so I paid my deposit and picked my date. Abs, you were coming back home!

As the operation date drew near, I grew more and more nervous, but I am a stubborn old goat. I refused to cave in to whatever fears I had, I could do this. I had 2 c-sections, I had natural childbirth (albeit not by my choice) but, I did it. I ran marathons, for goodness sake. I Could Do This!

That morning, I wasn't nervous. I watched the good doctor draw on my stomach with a black and blue sharpie. I looked at the area of skin that hung like a sad sack, stretch marks and all. I was happy to go forward. I almost danced into the operating room!

Then I groggily woke up. I was pretty numb, I couldn't really sit up. I do remember the car ride home, my husband drove really carefully. I walked upstairs (yup, I walked, like I said...tough cookie) and took my pain meds and conked out. Friday was a little rougher, but I still had a pain pump to aid me. Then, it ran out on Saturday morning, and I felt like someone had lit my midsection on fire. Holy cow, just inhaling hurt like the dickens. I overmedicated and slept most of the day, until my sister, the nurse yelled at me and I started moving around. Walking and sitting up are key to feeling better.

Each day has been better, I am almost able to get thought the day without Tylenol. Do any of my pants fit yet? Hell no, I look like I just had a baby. I am swollen, and my stomach muscles don't quite 'work' yet. I am not taking off this girdle, even if you paid me. It keeps constant pressure on things, and I am seriously afraid to look at the results thus far. The drain is still with me, but it comes out next week. I amazed the staff at the surgeons office, I was up and moving at my appointment, the woman next to me was still moaning every time she breathed. Ha, I keep telling everyone, I am way tougher than that.

The hardest part of all of this...what exactly do I say to my 11 year old, who I preach the gospel of self acceptance to? Hey, well, couldn't stand the old Mr. H and the saggy skin was bad too, so I got rid of them. Yeah, I look like a huge hypocrite, and I know it. She called me on it too, but at least I came 100% clean with her (if you missed that, it's me justifying to myself so I don't feel like a Horrible Hypocritical Parent), and she knew what was going on. She looked at me, and was so icked out by everything she said she is never doing anything like having a baby, or having surgery ever. Ever! So, I'll take my hypocritical self off to the sofa for some much needed tv recovery. And, no face lift for me anytime soon.

I Told You So

I have a dirty little secret-I used to spend most of my children's early years wishing they would hurry up and get bigger. I love babies and toddlers, but just in a "I can give you back" sense. Grocery shopping was always a logistical nightmare for me, especially when my youngest child was a tiny baby. I was having a terrible time adjusting to three children, to say I was stressed was an understatement. I was like a dry piece of wood...easy to snap. One morning, feeling inspired to 'try harder', I dragged all three children to our local grocery store. It was a total disaster. My youngest was in an infant carrier, so she was slept the entire time. My older two decided to play food tag in the aisles, earning me dirty looks and disapproving lip purses from some of the older patrons. I must have looked dangerously on edge, because a little old lady came up to admire the baby and said "Oh, they grow up so fast, you will wish they were little again."

I, wanting to get the hell away from this crazy woman, decided to humor her. I must have mumbled something like,"Oh, yes,they sure do grow up fast!" when I was thinking about taking my grocery cart and running away. The rest of my trip in the store, I got madder and madder. How dare that crazy old bat imply I wasn't being a good mother by wishing my children's childhoods away. Oh, I was mad, and I fumed for weeks about it. Did I stop wishing my kids would grow up so they wouldn't need me quite so much? No. I needed them to get older so I could take a breather every now and then. Did I feel guilty about it? Hell yes! When you are a "Good Mother" you treasure everything, and would never, ever wish your kids would be older so it would make your life a tiny bit easier. That would be horrible, and selfish, and wrong. So, I locked that wish far, far away. I still wished it, I just kept it to myself.

Fast forward to last week. Strep throat had come for a visit, and his buddy fever was staying. Everyone was sick, and sprawled out on the couch, zoning out in front of TV. I looked down at my oldest child, soon to be 11. She did look almost the same as when she was little..nope not anymore. Holy cow, she takes up almost the whole side of our sectional,and all the blanket, and her feet don't really fit anymore. Then she turned her head to look at me, and I thought, her face looks different me me. She is losing that baby fat from her cheeks. My middle child too. The hair has grown out, he has a shoe growth spurt (again). I got really panicked all of a sudden, and went to find my three year old. She would still be small, round and cherubic. I found her rifling through my makeup case, trying to find lip gloss so she can, "be fabulous." Really, she said she needed to be fabulous. Then she sashayed off to find a glitter tutu, singing a Rihanna song down the hallway. I spent the day in a serious funk, convinced that it would be puberty, and dating, and college and marriage for all of them at warp speed. I would be 50 soon, and that would be proof of how horrible I was for being such a selfish mother for all those years.

I do wish they were smaller so I could redo all the times I yelled at them for frustrating me. I admit that old lady in the store was right. I see the teenagers in my neighborhood and they scare me. I'm getting small previews of what's to come with my oldest child, and she can drive me to drink at 10 am. I'm trying to approach it differently, but I still feel horribly guilty. Will it fade over time? I hope so.

Go to the Back of the Line

I took a really close look in the mirror yesterday...bags under my eyes ( thanks so much children with strep! Quit waking me up at 3 am)...gray hairs and a hair color line grown out like 3 inches!? (well, I haven't been into to the fabulous C since...hmm...oh gosh August? Ugh) and is that a...(sigh) pimple. Great.

Things get busy, I get busy. I don't take care of myself very well. I am one of "Those Mothers" who will get her kids great stylish stuff, but wear the same ratty old t-shirt from Target with the nasty unexplained brown stain on the shoulder because, I Am So Busy. Not really. I just got in the habit of taking care of my stuff last. And, I look like it!

I have a friend, we'll call her L ( no, not me). She is beautiful, fabulous hair, beautiful teeth, always styled, dressed to the nines, and she's busy. She's not only busy, she is Very Busy. This woman runs so many committees and volunteer chairs that is makes my head hurt to look at her schedule, and her husband is some wildly successful guy who travels all the time, so she is often flying solo. Yet, she is always fabulous. Always.

I asked her once, "how do you do this? "
"Do what?"she replied
"DO THIS" I said, gesturing up and down her person with my hands (if you know me, I 'm a hand talker, always moving my hands)
"Oh, I just schedule my stuff first, put it in my husband's calendar, and I make sure I am taken care of so I can take care of my family."
"Oh." I replied. This was an alien concept to me.

You see, when the kids are little you have to attend to them first, and lack of sleep makes you forget that you need a shower and to brush your teeth. Eleven years and three kids later, you look in the mirror and shriek in horror at your hair roots and think,"What the hell happened to me? I used to be cute?!" And then you look over at your three kids and it dawns on you that you put yourself last on the list. It's the trap of motherhood for me. So, I am trying very hard to change. I am going to try and do one thing for me every day, because I need to remember that I may not always come first, but I count too.

Why Even Bother?

Every once in a while, I get a bee in my bonnet. This phrase sends all three of my children into fits of giggles, imagining me in a silly looking hat and a mad bee. It's a silly phrase that belies my brewing irritation. In the running world, you are lumped into two categories, fast or slow. The dividing line in this category? Well, it's the qualifying time for the Boston Marathon. For my non-running friends, this is a magic table published every year for those fast enough to qualify. You cannot just register for the fabled Boston Marathon...oh, no. You Must Qualify. For me, at age 36, that means I have to run a marathon in 3 hours 45 minutes or less. Ha, for me? Not in the cards. I am slow, I have accepted my slowness ( I like a 4 hour 50 minute marathon...it's nice and easy and I feel great when I'm done), and I even revel in the fact that I don't feel like a wrung out washcloth when all is said and done. This slowness also enables me to try and put my toe in the triathlon waters. Not the famed Ironman ( swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112 miles, then running 26.2 miles), but a nice little .5 mile swim, 10 miles on the bike, 3.2 mile run. That seems much more reasonable to me, as I don't have the willpower to devote myself to training for something like an Ironman. I ran into someone who is a Ironman competitor, this person had done multiple Ironmans, is fast like lightning, and a general running guru. We chatted amicably about the upcoming marathon, had a little back and forth about my time. I mentioned doing a mini triathalon, and got the ,"Why even bother? Too short". To say it burst my bubble would be an understatement.

I stewed all day about this, turning it all different directions in my head, tyring to understand the rationale. Then, it dawned on me. I don't run because I really care about what other people think, or even what time I log in. I do it because I like to run, I really look forward to running with my friend, I enjoy her thoughts and conversation, and because it belongs to me alone. When I am out running, no one knows I have three kids, I'm married, and where I live. I am just some other anonymous runner, moving along the trail, enjoying the day. I understand that other people like to measure their running by how fast they are, how many other events they qualify for. For me, it's the time spent enjoying the outdoors, moving my body, enjoying the company of friends that allows me to count a run as a success.

17 Again

One of my clearest memories of being 10, is ordering a Dear Abby booklet entitled "How to Be Popular". I was so sure that if I read the manual, learned it, memorized it, that was my ticket to being popular in school. Yes, it was filled with all sorts of sage advice about being friendly, listening to others, making connections to a wide range of people. In my 10 year old mind, all you needed was that booklet, and it was they key to all things good in your high school years! Well, the booklet doesn't take into account the immature brain reading it, still prone to bouts of sullen silence and arguing with your sister about your Barbies. Needless to say, it didn't really help me all that much.

Fast forward 20 years, and the fishbowl of high school is coming back to me again. There are two lovely neighbors on my street who are my examples of perfection. They both have gorgeous, discretely remodeled houses, drive status symbol SUV's, have the appropriately attractive children and husbands, and the husbands are medical professionals. Did I mention they were best friends? They rule the neighborhood as if it is their personal homecoming court. And they don't like me. And I can't stand this.

When we first moved on the street, I made the typical friendly gestures, small talk, waving, hi's sprinkled here and there. Then one day, as I drove by the two cupcakes (yes, it's my nickname for the both of them, it protects the innocent....sort of) both glared at me as I was driving by. That ended any overtures on my part, but left me a seed of doubt that blossomed into a full blown garden of insecurity. I spend countless hours wondering why I had been frozen out, I tried harder ever time I saw them to be even friendlier, wave first, force a perky 'hi' out when they were gardening.

The last straw for me came about 18 months ago, and one of my children who was desperately bored wandered over to their yard and wanted to play. Oh, he was soundly rejected by both cupcake's sets of children and came home to me in tears. So, after trying to mend the broken heart of one of my children I figured, "screw it". All those years of insecurity left over from my miserable high school experience still percolate under the surface, but I am trying not to care as much. I will invariably have to deal with them as my children get older and I am forced to do parent volunteering activities with them. ( Yes, they are popular at their kids' school. Oh the irony!) I also do have a neighborhood friend to whom I can comment about the daily going's on at the cupcake's residences, but their cold shoulder no longer stings like it used to.

Living in a Stepford World

I admit it....guilty as charged....I'm a conformist. I like to drive the same car, have the same clothes, BE just like everybody else. Guide me to the sheep pen!

However, as of late I have started to be irritated by the sameness of everything in my world. I feel like I'm living in a black and white movie, and I glimpsed the green grass just right over there. I am trying to let go of that need to fit right into that little box and be different. After 36 years of striving for being/doing/looking just like everyone else, I don't know if I can do it. I'm trying, I really am. I started looking at clothing from *gasp* a small indie place...I'm rediscovering my love of acoustic music from small little artists. I'm trying to take the pictures that I like, and not let the critical suggestions from others influence how I want my art to look. I am starting to call the pictures I take "art" instead of just my photos.

Will it work? Honestly, I don't know. I'd like to keep putting myself out there...for all to see. I'm just not sure I can handle the noise in my head, all my brain cells rebelling at the thought.

"Smile!!".....and pretend like you're having fun.

In my obsessive quest to shoot "The Perfect Picture" I dragged all of my children over to my sister in law's backyard to stage this photographic extravaganza. Needless to say, it did not go well. None of the children were willing. Threatening worked only on my oldest two, who did get some singularly spectacular shots. The other three, well....let's just say they won't be up on any wall anytime soon. The biggest lesson I learned is that you can plan and plot all you want, but if the kids don't feel like posing, well, forget it. I, of course, totally had a bad parenting moment, and was pissed off that the children weren't more cooperative. Didn't they understand that I am trying to build up a portfolio of quality images of a variety of children? Darn it, all they have to do is be charming, and pose correctly, and move that arm, and then let me capture some of the unfettered joy I know they are capable of and that's it. I mean, is that too much to ask for?

Yes, it really is.

So, here I go, back to the drawing board. I will dress them up again, trot them out to another scenic locale, and snap their pictures once again. And maybe learn a lesson or two myself in the process.