Eight More Weeks

This is my least favorite time of gestating. There are the varicose veins, the aching back, the heartburn, the swelling and the general malaise of discomfort.

Sex is an embarrassment. Exhaustion is permanent. And all of it is going to get worse before it gets better.

At this point attempts at self beautification are as productive as polishing a turd. My best efforts produce little results. An hour of primping and I look like a manatee wearing lipstick and a wig.

Even my usually sensitive husband can't bring himself to lie to make me feel better. His attempts to mollify my insecurities seem like thinly veiled insults of their own.

Everyone looks different when they're pregnant.

Don't worry its only temporary.

Hon, really. What can you expect?

I expect a little dignity. Now where'd I put my Tucks.

CC

Metamorphosis

I warned you all this day in my pregnancy would come. You didn't believe me. Apologies accepted.

Occupational Hazard

The pharmacist at my local grocery store is hot. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced that Viggo Mortensen isn't moonlighting between films at the South Jordan Harmon's. I'm not typically the swoony type but this man's overt attractiveness kicks in my baser instincts and I can't walk past the Drop-Off counter without an outfit check and a breath mint.

Being incredibly, incredibly, good looking isn't usually something one could categorize as a liability, but medical grade hotness may be an occupational hazard for a pharmacist.

Consider that human sexuality is driven by evolutionary forces. Health and vitality are key elements of attraction. Are you going to sultrily walk up to Dr. Adonis' counter with a prescription for Vagistat? Would you flirtatiously toss your hair while confidently inquiring the difference in effectivity between the generic and name brand hemorrhoidal creams? How many times do you think you can you claim with false pretense that its all "for a friend"? With your name on the prescription, you are bound to be discovered for the sickly liar that you are.

That's why (until I have to fill a prescription for nymphomania) I'm going to Target. The pharmacist there wears dorky glasses, talks to me about his Lego collection, and never, never makes me blush.

CC

Wishes

Spring is here and the dandelions have taken our neighborhood by storm. Of course my children love to pick them and blow the fluffy seed tufts into the air. Inevitably, they will bring me one.

"Make a wish Mommy!"

I take the stem and blow away the fluff.

"What did you wish for?"

"You know I always wish for the same thing..."

"What?" they ask me coyly. As if they don't know the answer.

"That all my kids' dreams will come true."

Satisfied that our ritual is still in place, they run away smiling.

My wish for my children is that they will have the confidence to pursue their passions. That in spite of the nay-sayers and the 'practical' people they will still have the courage to say, "I want to be an artist/actress/author/photographer/filmmaker/musician when I grow up." That when faced with the high-school guidance counselors' doom and gloom statistics on anyone without an engineering or law degree my children will clearly see themselves as the exception.

I want them to dream big and boldly, without limitations or fear. I want them to know that the only thing capable of keeping them from achieving their dreams is their willingness to pursue them. I don't want them to be content relegating their talents to hobbies, or their passions to the weekend. I want their passions to be their life.

We live in a community which seems to draw successful and creative people who have pursued their dreams. Authors and performers, professors and artists, who didn't see providing for a family and pursuing their talents as mutually exclusive. They followed the desires of their hearts.

In a world where success is gaged in terms of wages and investment portfolios, I wish for my children the clarity to define their success by more intangible means. I wish for them personal development, fulfilling relationships, spiritual strength, and realized potential. I wish for them to never have to look back and say, "if only I had tried..."

CC

The Tooth Fairy (or Why I'll Never Win The Mother Of The Year Award)

We forgot to follow through on our oldest child's first lost tooth. He woke us up the next morning carrying the little tooth in his hand, and crestfallen exclaimed, "Mom, she didn't come."

Oops.

Ethan's Letter to the Tooth Fairy:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I lost my first tooth today. I'll put my tooth under my pillow. My tooth has no cavities or fillings.

My tooth came out because at school I twisted my tooth...and when I got home I let my mom pull it out.

I think I should have 3$ for my tooth.

Ethan

Tooth Fairy's Reply:

Dearest Ethan,

Thank you for the lovely note and beautiful tooth! I am so ashamed that I am late, late, late. In fact it hasn't happened since...well, ask your Grandmother Joan.

I was so busy last night that I had to risk being seen this morning and make this final drop while you were in the shower. You see the hurricane over the Indian Ocean blew me off course and left me scrambling to catch up. Terrible, just terrible!

Considering that this is your first Tooth Fairy experience, and no doubt a disappointing one, I am leaving you $10. I hope you will find that to be adequate compensation given the unfortunate circumstances.

Best Wishes,

The Tooth Fairy

Yeah, that would be us buying down the guilt.

CC

Broke

Disclaimer: This post is a reflection of how I am feeling at the moment and is subject to drastic and sudden change. Particularly after I have consumed enough rocky road ice cream to induce gestational diabetes.

 

I'll admit it. I'm a light-weight when it comes to stress. It doesn't take much to render me dysfunctional. In fact, I'm rarely fully functional. I'm sure our current financial circumstances are meant to teach me a few lessons on endurance and rising to the occasion and relying on the Lord and simplifying my life and finding out what's really important and blah-biddy-blah-blah...I'm over it. 

I know there are people who have had it much, much worse and gone through life with much, much less but today I don't care. I want my old life back. So, knowingly assuming the risk of sounding whiny, and high maintenance, and patently ungrateful, I am posting this list of demands for my happiness.

1. Cable.

2. A savings account with a balance of more than $2.48.

3. Regular pedicures.

4. Buying new baby clothes and feeling no guilt.

5. Not having to ask for help. 

6. Private school.

7. A husband with hope.

8. A real vacation.

9. Paying more than the minimums.

10. A 'frivolous' shopping spree with a receipt over $20.

11. Doing hair just for the 'fun money'.

12. A mom who is more stable than me.

13. Being able to afford the dentist.

14. Having the option to spoil the kids.

15. Friends who don't worry about us.

 16. A desire to pray.

CC

Another Edie

More than anything, I want to be creative. Not great casserole recipe, scrap-book, or baby-making creative. Those things are too practical, too useful. Nope, I want to make art for art's sake and get lost in the creative process. I want to look at something I've created and feel accomplished. I want to be recognized publicly (and not posthumously) by other creative experts for having exhibited some measurable level of creative genius.

The problem is I'm just OK. I'm an OK singer, an OK writer, an OK designer. I have no real outstanding gifts. I'm just generally decent at a few things. I know enough to recognize real creativity when I see it and I can't fool myself, I don't have the 'it'.

I do, on the other hand, have a lot of the stereotypical temperaments of a creative person. I'm impassioned, unorganized, emotional, impetuous, and messy. Shouldn't these flaws come with some consolation prize? Shouldn't I be able to look at my health-code-violation of a bedroom and at least have the solace of some attained creative super-achievement?

I've seen "Grey Gardens." I know there is a danger in the unrealizable dream. I'm afraid of ending up like the Beales. An old woman living in squalor, wearing panty-hose over my shorts and sporting a jaunty skirt-cape, spending my days feeding bread to the raccoons in my attic and manically rehearsing my dramatic routines.

Take away the estate in East Hampton and the lost millions; the Beales are a lot like me. More than anything they wanted to be creative. And they were OK at it too. 

CC