Monthly Archives: October 2014

It Feels Like the First Time

Note to Dad: This post is about S-E-X and a certain daughter of yours. Do not read any further if you think you might have nightmares. You have been duly warned.

That's right brother, don't you touch me or I will CUT you.

That’s right brother, don’t you touch me or I will CUT you.

When people talk about sex after kids, the first thing that comes to my mind is not sex after kids, but sex after babies. Like right after. It’s been a long time. I mean, it’s been a long time since I gave birth to my kid. 16 years, 4 months and 10 days to be exact.

So, can I legitimately talk about this subject? Do I have the right? Damn straight I do. Because having sex for the first time after healing from childbirth is like having someone clean out your insides with a scythe that has been wrapped in 60 grit sandpaper. Sure, that sounds pretty painful. That’s because it is.

Not something soon to be forgotten with time. No matter what they say. It’s a lie. Like saying that you will soon forget about the pain of pushing an 8 pound person out of your nether-area. Your lady jewels. Your motherly loins. That, too, is a lie. Because 16 years, 4 months and 10 days later I remember that shit as if it happened just yesterday. It’s as fresh as a daisy in the subconsciousness of my mind.

I dreaded it. “Six weeks” the good doctor said. When I arrived home after my postpartum appointment and the hubs was waiting with baded breath, looking for the green light, I should have lied. Six months probably would have been more like it.

I wasn’t dreading it because I dislike sex. I was dreading it because I know precisely what went on down below during childbirth. Things got pulled, stretched and ripped in places that should NEVER have been…well, at least ripped. Apparently, pulled and stretched is acceptable given the fact that we are the lucky God-chosen gender to have been given the gift of child bearing. But I digress.

Between walking like a stud with the biggest set of scrotums known to man for 2 weeks to avoid any chafing and spending 3/4 of my time sitting on a sitz-bath for 10 days to relieve the horrid pain exuding from my bottom, the last thing I needed was to have all that down there invaded by the exact thing that got me in that situation in the first place.

No, I wasn’t holding any grudges. It wasn’t his fault that this was how we chose to have a family. We both agreed to it. We did. But dang, a little advanced notice would have been nice. You know, maybe before we got into this situation called being pregnant?

The light turned GREEN and it was game time. The pain made my toes curl, took the breath out of me, made me want to cry out for my mama. But I didn’t do that. Cry out for my mama. That would have been weird. And a major buzz kill.

But don’t worry. After that first time, all is well. Every time after that is hunky-dory. Back to normal. Have all the sex you want. Well, that is if you can come out of your lack-of-sleep induced coma from having a newborn wake you up at all ungodly hours of the night. Then by all means, carry on. You’re a trooper.

Chin Hairs, Memory Loss and a Boyfriend?

Unknown-1Just when I didn’t think there could be any way I could feel older, I found a way. Or, actually, the way found me. “What is this way so I can avoid it,” you ask? It’s called, “Your Kid Gets a Boyfriend (or Girlfriend).”

Forget the crows feet and the laugh lines. Forget the creaking bones and the pee that leaks out of you every time you move. Forget the droopy eyelids and the gray hairs. Yeah, that’s got nothing on the boyfriend thing.

I knew it was coming. We always thought she was too young to date before, but she’s 16 now. Short of locking a chastity belt to her and triple padlocking the door to her room, we knew we’d have to let go. And the time to let go has come.

Now, for those of you who have yet to go through it, let me explain a couple of things. Because quite apparently, I’m stuck in the prehistoric age. Just call me Wilma. I had to get educated. You know, learn the lingo.

First, they were a “thing.” Actually, I think they were friends and then a “thing.” The friend bit I understand. No problem. Glad they did that before they got to the 3rd stage. I said 3rd stage, not 3rd base. **shudder** Get your ears cleaned. (Yes, I know what 3rd base is, kid. I wasn’t born yesterday.)

A “thing” sounds kinda weird, but I learned that it’s better than “hooking up.” No, no. You don’t want your daughter (or son) to hook up with anyone. I’m pretty sure “hooking up” means exchanging more than just spit in the bodily fluids department. But with no commitment.

In other words, hooking up is kind of slutty behavior. So, if you are a hooker upper and are reading this, then I apologize. No, I don’t. Stop hooking up. Hooking up is hooker’ish.

But a “thing” is the stage between friendship and dating, or going out. From what I can gather a “thing” means you like each other more than friends but are not ready to start dating yet. Just to clarify, there is no hanky-panky. From what I’m told.

Dating and going out. I remember those words from my era. I mean, I don’t much remember dating itself because let’s face it, that was an eternity ago. You know, when we used rocks to open coconuts and well, rocks to do anything because that’s all we had. That and twigs.

So, why does this make me feel old? Because dang, people, it just does. I mean, my baby is growing up. She’s got a boyfriend. She’s probably going to start kissing this boyfriend. I have the feeling that this kissing is not the same as giving air kisses to her little friend Jimmy in the ball pit when she was 2. Besides, I was 16 once. Also, I’m not dead.

But, I will not be handing my old 1984 copy of “Forever” to her. She will not be learning about sex from Katherine and Michael.

No, our sex talk will go something like this…”so, once upon a time, there was this nice boy and this nice girl and they got married. The end.” Now, if that won’t scare away her new boyfriend, I don’t know what will.

I jest. He’s a very nice boy. I completely approve. Still, don’t move too fast buddy. I’ve got eyes all over town including the one in the back of my head. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Also, you two should talk on the phone. Like, the real phone. The one connected to the land. Because the one thing that would make me really, super double approve, is if you make me feel young again. So, please. Tie up the phone lines. It would make my day. 1984 style. But without “the book.”

In the Blink Of An Eye

The day after we got home from the hospital after The Kid’s accident, I started to write down all my thoughts and feelings of the first 24 hours. You know, while they were still fresh in my mind. I will never forget how I felt, but I knew those deep, intense feelings would dissipate over time.

So, before that happened, I wrote them all down. I composed a post and submitted it to a large blogging site called “Scary Mommy.” They have over a million followers. I wanted to share my experience and what I went through in the hopes of letting other mothers, who may have experienced that same fear, know that they are not alone.

Click on the link below to read my submission. It has been over a month since the incident, but when I read this, it takes me right back. I struggle still, all these weeks later. But every day gets better. So, so grateful for my child. Hold yours a little closer tonight.

The Blink of An Eye as published on Scary Mommy

Hormones vs. Hormones

ffe61ed5d3823bd618d504fd8ee29978

I woke up in a bad mood this morning. A real bad mood. Even the text to my mother was full of venom. I’m pretty sure she was praying. Thanking the good Lord that she was 639.59 miles away. Safely tucked away in the sweet plains of The South.

I don’t know why I woke up this way. I just did. It happens. So, when I told The Kid to empty the dishwasher, she replied through gritted teeth with a “PLEEEASSSE???” You know, the kind of “please” you say to your two year old when she demands a lollipop.

This was probably not the best day to get snarky on me. Peri-menopausal women are a force to be reckoned with. “Force” as in an Uzi With A Vagina. But what does she know? She’s only 16. So much to learn. Poor thing.

What was my reply? “I don’t think so, child. This is your chore. Why I feel the need to remind you to do your chore is beyond me. So no, I will NOT SAY PLEASE!”

When she was done with her chore, I told her she had an attitude and that I didn’t like it. “Mom, can I say something to you?” she asked.

The previous night I was at the high school for a seminar. It was about drug awareness. Three kids from our town came to speak about their drug and alcohol addictions. A child professional got up and spoke for a bit. One of the things he said is to listen to your child. Never dismiss her.

Usually when I am in this type of foul mood, I would say something really stupid and completely against what all child development people would recommend saying. They would not only cringe at my reaction, but would probably have my kid in some kind of therapy for the next 20 years.

When I am in this mood, it would sound something like this: “no, you can’t say anything because whatever you say right now will not help you. Now go upstairs and get ready for school.” But I didn’t. I stopped and I thought before I spoke. I know, this is a shocker. My mouth is usually louder and faster than my brain.

“Yes, you may.” I nearly had a heart attack at my own reaction. “Mom, why is it every time YOU’RE in a bad mood, we have to suffer?” I looked around for DH. So sure he was hiding in the shadows with a $20 bill.

I was rendered speechless. This is the second “attack” I’ve had from my family in a week. I use the word “attack” loosely. It was more like an awakening. The first time, when we were in the car going somewhere, it was what I like to refer to as a “come to Jesus” meeting. Except I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. “We think you are going through menopause and we don’t like it. You’ve kind of been mean lately.”

They were as nice as they could be about it. But I sit here thinking about these occurrences. Yes, I have been pretty bitchy around here. Not always. I’m not one of those raging lunatics who should probably be committed. But I have my moments. Perhaps a little more than less lately.

And I know why. Sure, hormones play a part in it. I was born hormonal. You should have seen me as a teen. Think Regan without the complete head turn. Damned as I tried, I could only get my head to go 3/4 of the way around.

I haven’t been taking care of myself as well as I should. I stopped exercising. Exercise plays a huge part in feeling good. It’s got something to do with endorphins. Endorphins are your best friend. But I digress.

Whatever the reason, it’s not a good enough one to treat the people you love the most in this world the worst. No, I seem to save my best mood for everyone else. Friends, strangers, people who I try too hard with.

So, in my eye-opening last two weeks, I’ve decided that I need to lighten up on the closest people to me — my family. I can still be great to my friends. Kind to strangers. Civil to everyone else.

I’m going to save my good energy for my people. The people who, even though I act like Sybil at times, still love me back and never give up on me. Even in my peri-menopausal semi-crazed rage.

With that being said, we are still allowed to get upset with our children when they don’t listen. When they don’t do what we ask them to do. Perhaps I don’t need to spit blood, but I can be a little exasperated. And I’ll try to keep the Regan to a minimum. I promise.

The Birds and The Bees As Told By Katherine & Michael

It’s safe to say that I grew up with a fairly unconventional mother. Sure, she was young. 21 when she had me. That was still the generation when women were getting married out of high school and popping out babies pretty much as they were saying “I do.”

So, she wasn’t the only young mother on the block. Still, when I think of all my friends’ mothers, mine was pretty much one of a kind. You can take that either way. There is no right or wrong answer by the way.

She was very much unlike her own mother who was a complete kook. You know, making shit up like “you only get three orgasms in your lifetime, so be careful how you use them.”

Doing things like sniffing the crotch of her only daughter’s underwear to see if she could detect the scent of semen (this coming from a woman who only had 3 orgasms in her lifetime? How she could differentiate between semen and hollandaise sauce is beyond me).

Running into an old friend at a wake and yelling out across the room, “HEY AGNES, I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU SINCE OUR TWATS WERE FACING EACH OTHER IN THE DELIVERY ROOM!!”

Ok, so that last one was a little reminiscent of something my mother would do. And she once told me someone died in my childhood bedroom. But other than that, nothing alike. Just had to get that in. Maybe one day I’ll tell you other reasons why I not only believe this, but know this. It’s a good story.

At the age of 10, my mother turned to me. In front of my entire family. In the living room. On a commercial break. During the “The Waltons.” And said, “please make sure you come tell me when you are ready for sex and I’ll get you on birth control.”

Say what and come again? I’m 10, mom. Please. Now if you don’t mind I would like to finish brushing Barbie’s hair. She’s getting ready for the ball. Ken is taking her (umm, to the ball, not uh..well, you know). Ooh, I think I get it now. Sorry, a little slow on the uptake.

Fast forward 4 years. I was in a conversation with a group of girls in the locker room at school. They were talking about blow jobs. “Oh yeah, gag me with a spoon!” I replied. Completely not letting on that I had no idea what they were talking about.

It was something you do when you get your hair done, right? Except it didn’t feel like it was something you do when you get your hair done.

So, I asked my mom when I got home. After all, I wasn’t afraid to. She said I could talk to her about anything. “Hey mom, what’s a blow job?”

“Oh honey. I have something I’ve been saving for you,” was her reply. She left the kitchen only to come back holding a book a few moments later. Oh great, she was going to give me a reading assignment.

This was back in the day when I would scan the pages of “Black Beauty” and brag about how great the book was. When I say “scan” I mean wave it in front of my face like one of those Japanese fans they hand out in church on a hot day.

What was this book she wanted me to so desperately read? “Forever” by Judy Blume. I heard of Judy Blume. She was that children’s writer. What the hell was she giving me a kid’s book for? “Here, read this. Come to me with any questions you have.”

judyblume-forever

So I read it. Cover to cover in less than a week. I did not scan it. I did not use it as a fan. I did not pass Go. I did not collect $200. I read it. The whole damn thing.

Well, hello teen porn. How do you do? This was nothing like the time I walked over the highway to Carrie Hoadley’s house on a Thursday afternoon to watch the XXX movie we found in her dad’s closet. That scared me so bad, I was certain I would die childless.

Judy Blume? This was different. It just was. Probably because I didn’t visually see anything that permanently scarred the insides of my eyeballs.

So, that was pretty much my sex talk. I’m sure mom told me about fallopian tubes and periods and how babies grew. But I don’t remember. All that comes back to me when I think about the mother/daughter all-important coming-of-age discussion is Katherine.

Rock on Katherine. That does not mean I give permission for The Kid to ever act out in this way before she’s, what? 29? Pfft. That’s silly. I am very hip after all. And totally contemporary. 28 would be completely acceptable.

 

I’m Sorry

an23j5zsow9orgcpz5hzqi104.800x534x1

I need to come clean with you. I am aware that the stuff I have been writing lately is crap. No more recipe shares with you. No more shit posts. If I write something, and I wouldn’t read it, then I’m hitting the delete key. I’m no longer going to publish a post just to publish a post.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I’m legitimately sorry. I’m embarrassed and I apologize if I wasted your time.

I realize we had a pretty traumatic experience recently and maybe I was off my game. I lost my wit. I lost my humor. I lost my will to even want to write.

But I’m back. I slapped myself in the face, picked myself up and wrote something pretty cool last night. The link is here in case you missed it.

Thank you for your patience and for not totally losing faith in me. I love you all!!

PS – I’m too excited not to share this with you and I wasn’t going to yet, but guess what? A pretty major, mega-huge blogging site is going to publish an essay I wrote where I talk about my raw emotions after The Kid was hit by a car. It’s coming out October 16! So be on the lookout! (of course, I’ll be sharing it here)

The Epidemic of Mother Guilt

It's a conspiracy

It’s a conspiracy

We moms talk about guilt. Every single mother I know suffers or has suffered from it. In one form or another. Whether they had a single episode or have experienced chronic guilt. It happens to us all. It’s pretty much an epidemic. I mean, seriously. Every time a bout of it flares up, we should be quarantined.

We feed off of each other. “Oh my god, little Johnny wet his bed last night. It’s totally my fault. I yelled at him two Wednesday’s ago because he tried to feed his goldfish the meatball sandwich I was saving for my husband’s late night snack. I scarred him for life. I’m the worst mother EVER!”

“Oh, don’t feel bad, let me tell you what I did…” As if it’s a competition. My guilt is worse than your guilt. And the winner is…umm, I hate to break it to you, but we’re all winners.

I have the habit of labeling my forehead with a big “L” as in LOSER with my forefinger and thumb. Like I’m twelve or stuck in 1985 or something. “I’m such a loser mom. I’m totally getting Mother of the Year.” I mean, how many of these damn awards are there? How can we ALL be recipients of the most prestigious award known to mothers? Apparently, it’s possible.

Mother guilt causes sleepless nights, crying jags, severe regret. We take away their phones, tell them they can’t go to a party they’ve been dying to go to, ground them for a month, take the car away, send them to their rooms without supper, put their favorite doll up on a shelf. All because they broke a rule.

But they broke the rule. Not us. So, why do we have to suffer? Why do we feel bad?

Remember when our parents would punish us and they would say, “this hurts me more than it hurts you?” And we would give them the stink eye because we couldn’t believe they totally just said that. I mean, if that’s the truth, then just don’t punish us, right?

And then we would get punished for giving them the stink eye. But I digress.

Well, now the torch has been passed. And we finally, finally, finally get it. They were telling the truth. It does hurt us more than it hurts them. Because they freaking get over it. For us, it lingers. Like when you eat enough garlic to raise the dead. Seeping out of your every pore. Except sometimes way longer.

We feel bad because we love them unconditionally. We love our little crotch fruit with every fiber of our being. Let’s face it, the feeling isn’t likewise. Sure they love us. That goes without saying. But when we die, they will get over it. Eventually. That’s the way it should be. Dang, I’m digressing again. Sorry.

So, should we stop the Mother Guilt? Yes, we should. Will we? No, we won’t. Because we can’t dammit. We just can’t. Like I said, it’s an epidemic. It can’t be stopped. And our children will always do something to piss us off. It’s a vicious circle. With no way off. So, enjoy the ride. And I’ll be sure to pass along my crown to you.

Miracle Lasagna

My mom makes this lasagna. I grew up with it. So, it’s been around since the beginning of time.

Actually, she got this recipe from my aunt, who is a terrible cook so it’s kind of a miracle. Because it’s really good.

I had to use clip art because I don't have a pic of my actual lasagna. Because I don't make it anymore because The Kid is lactose intolerant.

I had to use clip art because I don’t have a pic of my actual lasagna. Because I don’t make it anymore . Because The Kid is lactose intolerant. Which totally sucks wieners.

Miracle Lasagna

    • 1 box of those oven ready lasagna noodles because, hello?
    • 1 pound of ground beef
    • 1 pound of ground italian sausage, hot or sweet, whatever your preference of the day is
    • 1 of those really extra big jars of marinara sauce. I think I use Ragu or Prego but whatever strikes your fancy. Remember, no rules?
    • 1 16 oz container of ricotta cheese
    • 1 egg
    • A hefty sprinkling of parmesan cheese you buy in a container that Kraft makes
    • A couple of cups of mozzarella cheese
    • 1 of those throw-away aluminum lasagna tin pans because, hello?

Directions:

  1. Put that ground beef and sausage in a pan and cook it. Drain out the fat. Put aside.
  2. Mix your ricotta cheese in a bowl with one egg and a hefty sprinkling of parm cheese from the container. Sometimes I will even add some pepper and garlic salt to make it taste good but it tastes good anyway, so save yourself time and don’t do it, unless you want to. I sometimes do it to make it look like I’m professional or something.
  3. Take your aluminum pan and pour a layer of sauce on the bottom. I don’t know why, just do it.
  4. Put a layer of your oven-ready lasagna noodles over the sauce on the bottom. (HINT: don’t do this step until you are absolutely ready to continue building your lasagna, because the ends curl and it’s really hard to add all those other layers with curled edges. I know, umm, experience.)
  5. Put a heaping spoon of the ricotta cheese mixture over the noodles and smooth it all out nice, covering everything.
  6. Put a heaping spoon of the meat mixture over the ricotta cheese and smooth it all out nice, covering everything.
  7. Pour some sauce over all that.
  8. Sprinkle mozzarella cheese on top.
  9. Repeat #4 through 8. NOTE: I do not add another layer of noodles at the very top, but you may if you feel like it’s necessary. People are surprised that I don’t add a top layer of noodles. I don’t know why.
  10. Throw that right into an already warmed up oven of 350 degrees for one hour.
  11. Congratulations, you’re done.

Out of all the 7 things I make, this is a real crowd pleaser. Even my Italian sisters-in-laws like this. I know they aren’t lying either. Because they like to make fun of my 1/2 Irish ways and my lack of sauce making and ability to cook.

Bon appetit? Okay, how about go eat.

 

Girl’s Get-Away

At My Job, I have been helping to organize an all-women’s weekend retreat. This has been a dream of my Friend Boss (Susie) for a long time. Susie has her own, very successful blog called Not Your Average Mom. This is a weekend for women only to come and ease away the stresses of everyday life.

Anyway, I’ll be there. Of course. Because I’m helping to organize it. And it’s going to be fun. I don’t like to miss anything that is going to be fun.

If you’d like to hear more about it, click on this link and you will be able to read a nice post Susie put together explaining the whole thing.

But if you don’t feel like doing that, let me explain what it entails:

Date: February 27-March 1, 2015 (I really like how that date makes it seem the weekend is like, 6 days but it’s really not so don’t get excited)

Place: The Interlaken Inn, Lakeville, Connecticut (note: if you would be traveling out of town, no worries. We will have complimentary transportation to and from the airport/train station. It’s a first come/first serve basis so if you do this, let me know asap)

What’s Included? Well, besides a 2 night stay at the inn, I’ve broken it down for you below:

Friday: Meet & Greet, Dinner, Drinks, a singing man with a guitar (the only man allowed btw)

Saturday: Breakfast followed by three break-out sessions; a yoga class, pole dancing instructions, karate/MMA lessons. There will be a snack break in there somewhere. After the sessions, lunch will be served followed by a 3 hour break to do with as you wish. Some suggestions: a nap, a movie, a walk, a massage, a leisurely shower, hang out at the bar, go check out the sites of the beautiful Litchfield Hills. In other words, do whatever you freaking want to do without husbands and children and housework crap bugging you.

After your break, meet us downstairs for dinner. Then this is where more fun comes in…there will be karaoke, a photo booth, dancing, music, drinking, games, fun, hanging out, the letting down of hair, partying, more drinking and fun, fun, fun.

Sunday: Sleep in a bit then have a relaxing brunch before heading back home to well, home.

So, doesn’t an entire weekend of no grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and all else crappy sound good? I mean, you won’t even have to make your bed! Damn.

And you can come hang out with me. I promise to sing some karaoke. I promise! I warn you that I sound like a dying cat on its last life, but I love to sing and I will sing even though I shouldn’t.

I wish this was a video so you could get a real treat. I am singing American Pie. That song will never be the same.

Seriously, you need to grab a girlfriend, or two or three and come on down or over or up.

How much does it cost? This is how much it costs…

  • Single: $425
  • Double: $325
  • Triple: $300
  • Quadruple: $225

It’s totally affordable. And the reason it’s totally affordable is because today we launched a Crowdfunding campaign. (click right there to the left)

And here’s the Google definition because I’m really bad at explaining things: the practice of funding a project or venture by raising many small amounts of money from a large number of people, typically via the Internet.

So, if you would just love to help to make this a success, please consider a donation. There are perks so you’ll get some goodies in return! Here’s that campaign again.

How do you reserve a room? Call The Interlaken directly at 1-800-222-2909 and tell the operator that you are calling to reserve your spot for the Not Your Average Weekend retreat.

If you have a friend who will be calling in or has called in her reservation, just make sure you tell the nice lady/man on the phone who you want to room with.

Right now, all you need is a $100 deposit to hold your spot! Or you can totally go to the crowd funding link above and see that you can actually get an even better deal on your weekend. But act fast because there aren’t very many being offered at this price.

Leave a comment if you have any questions or send me a nice email at momfeld@hotmail.com and I’ll be sure to answer any question you have!

I would love to see you, to meet you, to party with you! It’s a great way to rejuvenate and catch a break from the winter blahs. Send me a message when you book your room! See you there!

Here’s a sneak peak of what happens when you eat their dessert alone without children hanging on you. And my acting debut: