pearls on the stripper pole

So I had a new experience recently. I’ve hesitated in writing about it, because I’m not sure how I feel about it, really. Last month, after a few cocktails at a wedding reception, Hubby and I looked around and noticed that we, along with the newly-wedded couple and our BFF couple, were the last ones getting dangerous on the dance floor. In fact, we were the last ones getting dangerous in the room. Besides the DJ, of course. 

At this point, the bride, very liquored up, declared we were going to Scores. Scores is a…. ahem… a gentlemen’s club. Now, even though I am a “City Girl” and have reached the worldly age of 30, I had never been to such a place. I am a good girl, see, and that night I was wearing a brand new, very classy black dress from Ann Taylor and a string of pearls and I was having a hard time picturing myself alongside naked boobies and leering clients clutching dollar bills. 

Apparently it is a common thing in our old city of residence for brides to go to strip clubs. Because no one even looked twice at our friend – and they even charged her the $5 cover.  

I will say that it was about what I expected. I was very uncomfortable, which maybe says a lot about my own insecurities and how I deal with nudity and male objectification and blah blah blah exploitation-cakes.  

But what surprised me about my reaction was that I felt really sorry for some of the patrons. We sat at the bar, separate from the performance area, but unfortunately had a perfect view inside the private dance area. Now I’ve seen Showgirls. So I knew what goes on behind that red velvet curtain. But seeing as how the curtain wasn’t closed, I got a refresher course. And it was like I couldn’t look away. (At least until the St. Louis Cardinals put in Scott Spezio, usually an outfielder, to pitch). 

In that private room were a bunch of guys (okay, three) who probably couldn’t get a girl. They looked awkward and desperately needy. One of them followed his dancer out of the room, holding her hand and engaged her in long conversation involving multiple hugs and nuzzles. It was obvious she was playing him for more cash and just as obvious that he was probably going to give it to her. In that situation, the woman seemed to have all the power. And he was just another $20 bill to her. It made me sad. 

When we left (for a Taco Bell run – something I hadn’t done in more than five years), my husband asked me what I thought. And I didn’t know what to tell him other than that I was very uncomfortable and that it was about what I expected but somehow different. 

I don’t think I want to repeat the experience.

I swear by the moon and the stars and the sun and the clouds

I curse. I admit it. I do. Sometimes I even like to curse. Sorry, Dad. There’s just something about curving my mouth around a good curse word that feels so… satisfying. I curse more than my husband, but I generally stay away from the biggies (anything involving an F – hey, I have something in common with my kid!), which he can not claim to do. 

Sometimes people are surprised to learn that I curse, mainly because I stay away from cursing in situations in which I am trying to be taken seriously (e.g., workplace). Once, I cursed at work and I thought my boss was going to fall out of his chair laughing. Apparently “bastards” is funny coming out of my mouth. It’s also one of my favorite away-from-work words, if he only knew. 

What isn’t funny coming out of a toddler’s mouth is the word “shit.” While I didn’t hear it specifically (apparently she said it at day care after falling), I am a.) not convinced she really meant it because of the whole replacing the letter f and now, apparently “tr” with the sh sound (shucks for trucks, which also sounds suspiciously like sucks, and that’s a whole new Pandora’s Box to open, because is that a curse word? Or isn’t it?) and b.) sure that if she did say it and did mean it, it is probably my fault. Or Hubby’s. But probably mine. 

So, now I am trying to quit, and I use the term trying extremely loosely. Yesterday, while feeding the dogs and carting Angel Face around on my hip and trying not to bump her head on the door frame of the garage or drop her while bending to scoop the last pebbles of Beneful out of the bag, I lost my tenuous grip on the measuring scoop, which clattered forlornly to the ground. I let a little “dammit” slip out, and immediately chastised myself and said, “Darn it, darn it, darn it” over and over again. 

I am forever a work in progress.

Marlee wrote about swearing today too!

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Public radio dork

For the last few mornings on NPR, they’ve been broadcasting stories on adoption. Monday, they interviewed a white couple that adopted two biracial children. Yesterday, they spoke with parents who adopted two young girls from
India. Today, they spoke with a woman who was adopted from
Korea in the 1950s – she was the child of a Korean mother and a British father. 

I was hooked from the beginning – the first story gave me a revelation that I should really have had years ago, especially as a good left-leaning Democrat. When the white mother was sitting down with her school-age biracial daughter, showing her all the cards the family received when she was adopted, the little girl noted that all the babies were white – and she was not. The mother then began sending cards with people of different races on them to her family, and when her mother (the child’s grandmother) sent the little girl a birthday card with a black little girl on it, the little girl exclaimed that her grandmother really did love her. 

The mother said that taught her that it wasn’t okay just to not be prejudiced – you need to be inclusive. 

Inclusiveness is a buzzword often thrown around at my workplace. It’s something we believe in strongly as an organization – and something I believe in personally. But I feel like I never really knew what I believed in until I heard that story. It’s so simple, and it should be so natural. Why would anyone not want to be inclusive? Why would you want to make someone feel left out or alone or voiceless?  

I’ve never really understood racism – the ugly hate of someone different than you, the sweeping generalizations of an entire culture. I hope I never do.

catching up on my correspondence

Dear Angel Face, 

I envy you. You approach life with such fervor, such zeal, such excitement. You are not afraid of new situations and new people and you just want most people – especially other children, regardless of age, to be your friend.  

You delight in odd things – like counting to three (you shout “three!!!” repeatedly, as though something magical and thrilling would happen just because you said that word) and shoving your whole hand in my mouth so I can “spit” it back at you. 

When I was a child, lo these many (30!) years ago, I was like the little girl at the wedding reception you so desperately wanted to be your friend. I hid behind my mother and clung to her skirts and peered shyly at other children who wanted to make my acquaintance. I did not want to be held by strangers (re: anyone other than my mommy or daddy). I did not have your boldness. I could not imagine myself grabbing another child’s hands and beginning a spirited game of “Ring around the Rosy” on the dance floor while everyone else is eating dinner.  

You are so open to new people and new experiences; I hope that does not fade as you get older. You’re grandpa thinks you’re very smart (“Not just because I’m her grandpa!”), and I secretly think you are too, but let’s not get too carried away. After all, we’re still trying to break you of the months-old habit of feeding your food to the dogs, then yelling “No!” at them when they actually eat it. 

A few things worry me, like your propensity for rough play (see fractured clavicle) and your inability to pronounce the letter “F” (shish for fish and shower for flower). But mostly you are a charming child. You smile and give kisses and hugs and lay your head on my shoulder when you are tired. You play with mommy’s hair and the dogs’ tails with equal zest.  

Your tantrums are brief little cloudbursts over your generally sunny skies (unless you are very tired and then I would characterize our weather pattern as mostly cloudy with patches of sun). You have started hitting, and that is frustrating because you are completely unfazed by being told “no.” You look at us with a blank stare (mommy worries you might be a psychopath). 

You make me want to quit my job and be your mommy “all the time” but then I remember that I am your mommy all the time, and gosh darn it, nobody can take that away from me. 

Love,

Mommy

Proof of my mad mommy skillz

Still Adorable

Thanks for making me feel better everybody. This little face, still smiling, doesn’t seem to blame me. SO now I will officially get over myself and go back to letting her walk around without me. Maybe.

Mother of the year, pt. 2

I learned a hard lesson this week, and that lesson is: Trust your maternal instincts. When you feel it in your gut that something is terribly wrong with your child, believe that gut. Do not believe the husband who says she is just tired. Because you will feel guilty when you are in the emergency room the next morning and they tell you she has a fractured clavicle. Also known as a broken collarbone. 

And you will feel guilty the day after, too, and probably forever and ever amen. 

Tuesday evening, Angel face and I were playing outside, and she began her usual (she’s been doing this for MONTHS) activity of climbing into her stroller on her own. This time, however, was different. She was clutching her little Curious George stuffed animal and trying to move the straps out of the way so she could sit down when her foot slipped and she took a pretty vicious tumble that ended with a head bounce on the concrete. 

I rushed to her side and picked her up, which only made her scream harder at first (see, I was moving around the little broken bones when I picked her up). When she calmed down, she pointed to the stroller, so I took her for a walk. When we got back and I took her out, the screaming began again. 

It wasn’t particularly late, but we’d just come off a weekend in which she slept very little at night and had virtually non existent naps, so when Hubby argued that she was just tired, it would have been totally believable if not for that feeling in the pit of my stomach that cried out that Angel Face’s behavior was not like every other time she’d been so tired. 

She ended up sleeping in bed with me, Hubby in the guest room, and she didn’t move all night. Every time she tried to change position, she cried out in pain. By the morning, I had made up my mind. Once we had the emergency room doctor’s diagnosis and knew NOT TO PICK HER UP UNDER HER ARMS ANYMORE, I began to feel better. 

But that’s also when I felt worse. As I carried her out of the hospital, wrapped in her blanket and wearing her cute “duck, duck, moose” t-shirt that I got her in
Portland, I began to cry. Quietly at first, then big teardrops and sobs, while Angel Face looked at me with wide eyes and a goldfish-cracker-crumb mouth.  

Now, more than 24 hours later, I still feel like I’ve gone 12 rounds with an ultimate fighting champion and then another six with that kangaroo from that terrible Anthony Anderson movie… at least emotionally speaking.  

Angel Face? I found her late yesterday, sling tossed over her shoulder, dancing around and tossing her snack crackers at the dog. A few more rounds of “Little Bunny Foo-Foo” (the way she asks for it is absolutely kick-you-in-the-stomach adorable, I’ll have to tell you about it sometime) and she’ll be good as new. Plus, we have the entertaining bonus of asking her “Is your collarbone fixed or is it broke?” and she replies “It’s broke.”  

So I’d like to take my maternal instinct out for a drink and thank it and at the same time beat myself senseless for not listening to it. Apple-tinis, anyone? I know where we can catch a great fight afterward…

I guess today isn’t the day I start my diet

Morning consumption:

1 Softbatch Chocolate Chip Cookie

4 chocolate covered graham crackers, Keebler brand

1/2 chocolate Krispy Kreme doughnut

1 handful (actually it took two hands to carry it) barbecue flavored Frito lay potato chips

LUNCH: turkey pastrami on whole wheat, low sodium pretzels, melon.

Afternoon consumption:

2 Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies

1 Keebler rainbow pieces cookie

1 scoop vanilla ice cream with BOTH caramel and hot fudge sauce

 I had good intentions. I packed that lunch last night.

I won’t grow up

We always chronicle the “firsts” for our children – the first word, the first step, the first tantrum. Okay, maybe not that last one. But I wish there was a way we could savor and remember all the lasts, too. 

I wish I knew when it happened that it would be the last time I would breast feed Angel Face. I had been breastfeeding along, merrily unaware that my child was getting more and more YELLOW by the day, until at her six-week checkup, the pediatrician said, “Boy, she sure looks really yellow for six weeks old.” (Now, I slap myself in the face every time I look at pictures, because DUH, she’s SO YELLOW and didn’t I NOTICE that when her little yellow face was pushed up against my white, white BOOB?). 

Much blood work (taken from her tiny little yellow foot, which makes me sad just thinking about) later, we discovered that in fact, Angel Face had breastfeeding jaundice. Or breast milk jaundice. I can’t remember which one we thought it was first, but then it turned out to be the other one. Anyway, it meant I stopped breastfeeding, at first just for the weekend. Then it was for a few more days. Then we tried again. Then, when the toxic levels of bilirubin shot back up, we tried formula again. I drank soy milk, which I hope I never have to do again. Finally, when it became obvious that nothing was keeping her from getting the horribly high levels of vile bilirubin in her system except the formula, I stopped altogether. 

No one thought I would like breastfeeding. I wasn’t even sure how I would take to it. I wasn’t breastfed, neither was my husband. But I wanted to. And I enjoyed it. I felt like I was really accomplishing something: I was keeping my little baby alive from just my little body! And I was good at it – Angel Face was a champion latcher. 

 I think it helped me bond with her more quickly than I otherwise would have – I was not one of those instant-connection mothers. I was more one of those “let’s-have-a-few-drinks-and-see-where-this-goes” mothers. 

So when it all went bad, I felt like a colossal failure. That was probably the closest I came to post partum depression. Every bottle felt like a betrayal, and it took me a few weeks to adjust and accept that while breastfeeding was the right thing for some women, bottle feeding was the right thing for others, including us. Having Hubby help out with overnight feedings was a benefit too.  

And now, more than six months after the “last bottle” I even miss the bottle-feeding too. I don’t remember the last bottle-feeding. Or the last time I gave her baby food. Or the last time we had an overnight feeding. Or the last… 

And there’s only more lasts to come.

unplanned post

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a planner. I do not fly by the seat of my pants. Spontaneity does not define me. I like to know who what where when and why preferably 24 hours in advance. At a minimum.

 I am currently sitting in O’Hare airport (my hometown is so close, yet so far) because my flight to Portland, Oregon is delayed. It was already a little late for my taste, but I generally choose work-related flights (oh hell, all flights) based on how quickly they can get me home (back to Indy) and very little else. So I was arriving in Portland at 9:20 p.m. local time (12:20 a.m. to me) when this flight was leaving on time. Now, I am looking at arriving around midnight local time, 4 a.m. to me. Damn it.

I downed two beers at the airport bar (whoo, no toddler!) when I thought the flight was only half an hour delayed… then the gate got moved… and now I’m sitting on the floor in the hallway of terminal L with my buzz on and a dying laptop battery. And I miss my kid. And I miss my husband. And I hate traveling for work anyway, so this just sucks. Though on the bright side, at least this isn’t happening on the way home.

 I hate leaving, both the drop off at the airport with Hubby and Angel Face (which happened today) or my leaving the house on my own. They both suck. Not sure which is worse. I hate being in a strange city, thousands of miles from home, eating room service food and being ignored by the other staffers on the same trip. I hate airport bathrooms and hotel room blow dryers and taking taxi cabs late at night all by myself.

But now I’m just feeling sorry for myself because my butt hurts and I’m tired and I forgot how good a Corona can taste and I have to pee again and of course the closest restroom is closed so I have to walk a cajillion gates away and I’m about to get on a four and a half hour flight which generally blows all around. The last time this happened to me I was five months pregnant and vomitting pretty regularly, so I guess I should look at the bright side.

Anyway, I’ll be in the Pacific Northwest for the next few days, provided I do actually get there. I’ve never been to this area of the country, so that’s another point on the bright side. See, things are looking up already.

UPDATE: Portland, what I saw of it between intense ten-hour sessions of data presentations and a complete lack of decision-making, was AWESOME. I want to marry it and live with it forever. Wish I could have met all you northwesterners for drinks and appropriate conversations – but I WILL BE BACK!