

I mean, me. Who the hell is me?
My older kids are at their father’s this week, and my husband is out of town working. So it’s just me and the baby. And during the normal work week, I don’t get to spend much time with her – she wakes up, goes to daycare, and crashes shortly after she comes home. So I’m alone this week, for long periods of time. This doesn’t happen very often – as you can imagine… I have four kids, a husband with high energy, a dog and a cat. I don’t even get to piss unaccompanied, because the dog follows me, perhaps hoping he’ll get to chew the empty toilet paper roll THIS TIME. My husband is the type who thinks out loud, so frequently, I’m sitting beside him silently, wrapped up in my own thoughts, and he blurts out some non sequitur that I then frantically try to interpret. I try to nap sometimes, to get some quiet, but someone is always barging in – complaining about something. Or the tv gets turned up so loud, I pull a pile of pillows over my head to block the noise. Or the dog jumps on the bed and attempts to sleep on my feet, which drives me absolutely batshit crazy. My husband has been known to interrupt my nap to discuss our income taxes.
But this week, I have that quiet. I get the peace I’ve craved. I’ve got time to do what *I* want to do without considering anyone else's desires. Well, except the baby’s, but she desires a clean diaper, some snuggles, and a nice warm bottle. Easy Peasy. So what do I do with all this time – with this opportunity I’ve craved?
You know the answer to this. It’s not so hard. What do I do?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
This is not the week I study French, to brush up on my skills. This is not the week I rent a French horn, to experience the pure joy of playing again. This is not the week I start my novel. Nor is it the week I start training for the marathon. But it is the week that I start researching womens' midlife crises.
Here’s a quote I pulled from Wikipedia (which is NOT A RELIABLE SOURCE, my kids tell me… but whatever.. this one doesn’t seem too far off the mark):
Individuals experiencing a mid-life crisis have some of these feelings:
A man I know (NOT my hubby, in case you are wondering...)is going through this in a very destructive manner – his crisis is a classic. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s in a typical midlife thing. He thinks it’s a "truly new in the universe" type of personal reinvention. Dork. It is said that for women, the midlife crisis isn’t quite as violent. Men tend to wake up one day and realize they are old. Women are constantly reminded that they are aging ...tick tock tick tock goes that clock. So women aren’t quite as surprised by it.
My midlife “thing” seems pretty typical too:
I am in search of a dream or a goal – one that is sort of defined, but the path to it is anything but…
I don’t really have a sense of remorse for goals not accomplished. I just realize time’s a wastin’.
I do desire to achieve a feeling of youthfulness. I want a tummy tuck, to run a marathon and to put my tits back where they belong.
I do desire to spend more time alone with a certain peer – my husband.
I don’t want to throw out the whole kit and caboodle. I don’t want to throw out the baby with the bath water, cut off my own nose to spite my face, nor do I want to stretch any other clichés further past their elastic limits…
I just want to redirect a bit.
Here’s a quote from a really cool article Time magazine article by Leslie Whitaker:
Many feel that along the way, while they were getting their promotion or having their kids or managing their households, they set aside something important that they want to retrieve--their hiking boots, their screenplay, a law degree. "Everybody I know has a version of this," says Susan Reimer-Torn, now a life coach in New York City. "Phase I, you kind of put all the pieces together in your mid- or late 20s, and it almost always involves some kind of trade-off. You figure out what you absolutely must have and end up giving up something else. But in Phase II, which generally occurs after 40, many women begin to review the terms of that original trade-off. If there's a Phase III, it may be taking your life in a whole new direction. Often a collision of the personal and professional triggers the reinvention.
So I guess I’m at Phase II – I happily gave up traveling, novel writing, many hobbies and goals to focus on my family in Phase I. Wouldn’t do it any differently if I had a choice. But now, I’m in a better place. I make more money – I’m smarter – I’m wiser. I can juggle more, and I know myself much better. I’m reviewing the terms of the original trade-off.
…which brings me to the next question – for myself, and for YOU, gentle reader. What precious thing was sacrificed earlier in life that there is now a desire to reclaim? What goal was put aside that now needs to be nudged back to the front and center of your attention?
I’ll be chomping on this question, and will share more in a future blog. But if you don’t mind too much… how about you chomp too and share with me your thoughts in the comments section?
Merci Beaucoup mes amis.
The trouble with frank is that when you are frank with children, they are frank back with you. And you may think that this is a good thing, until your child asks you “Mom, what’s your Safe Word?”
And you might be so flustered, that your tongue freezes to the top of your mouth, so your response sounds something like “Gulllthp.” Then you might retreat to the laundry room to refold all the laundry you just folded, so you can have time to think about a more suitable response.
I decided when I was young and idealistic that I would be open and honest with my children about all matters sexual, so that they didn’t inherit any needless guilt or the inability to deal with very important realities. I researched age appropriate explanations, and insisted we use proper names for body parts. I didn’t want my children to find themselves in the strange position I found myself in when I reached elementary school, and told my teacher that I had hurt my cooter in my zipper. With a much louder voice than a sympathetic, kind person should use, the teacher responded “Cooter is the mechanic from the Dukes of Hazard, child. Tell me, specifically, what did you get stuck in your zipper?” As if there were THAT many possibilities.
I bet the entire class still remembers me as the kindergarten pariah with the strange gait.
But kids are just that – children – and by definition, they will embarrass the hell out of you. They will embarrass you in public using cutesy names for their parts, or they’ll lean out of the McDonald's restroom door and holler across the restaurant “Mom, can you wipe my anus?”
By the time my third child was ready to label his parts, he had a winkie, a pair of nuggets and a stinky booty. I was tired of parenting Doogie Howser with Tourette’s.
But I remained steadfast in my insistence upon frank sexual discussions. Before entering middle school, each child was taken into the bedroom with me for The Talk. We covered puberty, cleanliness, masturbation, the mechanics of sex, and Mom’s How to Make Wise Decisions and the Devastating Consequences if You Don’t lecture. Each kid was very uncomfortable – as was I – and I agreed to let them scurry to their bedrooms and cringe for a while after the discussion, provided they ask me 5 intelligent questions about sex and/or bodies first. As I suspected, the first question was hard to spit out, but after that, there was a torrent of them. I did my best not to flinch, and to answer everything in a straightforward manner. I encouraged the kids to come to me with any other questions, as this was not the sort of thing they needed to be learning from friends.
Sometimes they do approach me: “Mom, what’s bisexual?”
Sometimes I want to run screaming for the hills: “Sometimes do a boy and a girl and then another boy and another girl get together and all love each other at the same time?”
Other times I know that if they find out I know the answer to a certain question, no matter how matter-of-factly I approach it, my kid is gonna think I’m a pervert. As I folded the washcloths into thirds repeatedly, I realized I was precisely in that kind of situation.
Deep breath… deep breath… calm…. Steady girl, steady girl….
Me: “What was that you asked hon, I didn’t hear?”
Him: “What’s your safe word?”
Me: “Well, what’s yours?”
Him: “I asked you first!”
Me: “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
Him: “Mine’s Bacon”
Me: “Oh, that’s clever, and when do use your safe word Bacon?”
Him: “When I’m wrestling with Danny and I get hurt and want him to know I have to stop.”
Me: “Oh. Good idea. Mine’s Cheetoh.”
Him: “When do you use yours?”
Me: “When you bother me. Go away. Cheetoh.”
As I threw the entire load of laundry back in the dryer (just in case the kid asked me anymore questions, I reasoned) I became aware that being frank with my children has overly sensitized me, and made me a bit jumpy. Ah well… when the market rebounds, perhaps there will be some money available for my therapy. Or theirs.100+ Things He's Begging For in Bed
OK, even the TITLE of this magazine article pisses me off more than I can say. 100+ things my guy is begging for in bed. Right. My guy is begging simply for … BED. So he can sleep. And I’m right there with him.
I know I am not in the Cosmo demographic – so why bother even getting offended? Surely I can just leave this article to the realm of women who love to get dressed up, be sexy and please men 24/7. Those ladies exist don’t they? Cosmo writes to them as if they do… The Sex and the City ladies – do they exist? Or are they an ideal? Was Sex and the City so much fun because it was a show about Cosmo readers who had “regular-ish” problems? Because it brought an ideal down to our level?
Personally, I’d like to meet up with Cosmo’s ideal demographic statistical woman, and beat the ever loving shit out of her with the full trash bag from my Diaper Genie.
Why? For making me look bad? No, four births, a desk job and a sincere belief that rolling out of bed each morning is enough exercise made me look bad.
For making me feel inadequate? No, having my baby come home from daycare with “NEED MORE DIAPERS” written in sharpie on her saggy Pamper did that.
For once again ignoring all the other wonderful things that women in our society achieve other than staying thin, dressing well and pleasing their men in bed with 100+ tricks? No. I’m used to the weird and shameless dichotomy. Women in different stages gravitate to others in that stage, buy magazines, watch shows and talk about stuff that is relevant to what they’re going through. You don’t have to trumpet the worth of women in general. I’m over all that righteous anger.
I’m swinging a loaded bag of diapers over my head, preparing to launch them at Cosmo Woman for one simple reason. That bitch is getting laid.
I recently saw a pic of myself at a college banquet, in a pretty, skinny blue dress, with big hair, looking so fresh. I almost cried when I saw the picture. I showed my teens: “look guys! I was hot! I have proof!” I miss the days when I really thought about sexual technique, when I was able to try out new stuff on my main squeeze, when I dressed to impress him, and gave serious thought to each level of clothing, and checked it all in the mirror with a sexy, one sided smile.
If you go to the article, you’ll see it’s not a how-to guide. It’s simply a list of quotes from guys about what they like. And what they like is as different as… well as different as THEY are. So Cosmo got me riled up with the old Bait and Switch. Whatever. It’s okay now. I know 100 things my husband is begging for – a good steak, his own man cave, a solo vacay with me, 6 months salary in the bank, more time in the gym, a new camera, some new business casual duds, to sleep in the whole weekend… I can keep going, but I won’t. I want to be certain that *I* am the only one with these 100+ secrets. *I* want to be the one who pleases this particular man, because the things he craves are stability, affection, time with the kids, security for us, to look good for me…. Really, it rocks so much more than a hookup with a hot Wall Street lawyer that results in multiple orgasms and a deliciously sinful Walk of Shame in the morning back to your fashion editor job where you have to raid the designer samples closet for something to wear so your boss won’t know you never made it home last night. (I know it was a run on sentence folks, but that particular bit of silliness didn’t deserve extra punctuation.)
Frankly, I’m happier being HERE than THERE. I’m happy I’m the one with the full bag of dirty diapers. Honestly, but figuratively. Cause I can get dressed to the nines any old day, go someplace hip and new, drink martinis and get laid by a real man who knows all my hot spots.
Provided, of course, that no one else has snagged my babysitter.
That's me on the far right. Proof that at one time, late in 1989, I had cleavage, sort of, and was hot.