Does Anybody Seriously Care How Much Oprah Weighs?

I mean, seriously? Who is worse? Oprah, for thinking that anybody cares that she has gained weight? Or society, for actually caring?

It's a toss-up.

Seriously, Why Can't I Just Move On Already?

It's been a year and a half since I left my job. I think that I miss it as much today as I did the day I left.

I'm having fun with the girls, please understand. I keep racking my brain trying to think of a way to have it all. Right now. I know women do it all the time. Don't they?

Here's the problem. I still don't feel like I want to put them in daycare. Disclaimer: I realize there is nothing at all wrong with daycare, it's just not for me personally.

The impossible dream for me, I suppose, is to have a full-time job and still be able to be the only one with my girls.

I want my job back so bad that it hurts. It's a bit like breaking up with a boyfriend. A boyfriend with whom you know that things can never work out long-term. But he's so hot and there is just something about him that sometimes you just don't care. You want him back. Now.

Sometimes I'm driving along in my car and I hear a song. A stupid song, perhaps, but a song that reminds me of driving along in my squad car. Window down, hair flowing through my long, luxurious pre-baby locks. Listening to the radio on a hot summer night and hoping that folks everywhere would start beating the shit out of each other so that I could go do my job.

I'm seriously kidding about that last part. And about the luxurious locks thing. But, seriously. Did anyone else's hair turn to straw post-babies like mine did?

Porky's

I am officially as heavy as I was when I got married. I have officially gained back all of the weight I lost over the past few years.

I am officially pissed.

How could I let this happen?

Back to the gym I guess.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Targeting Constipation

Could Target be the magic bullet cure for constipation? My bowels tell me this is so.

Fo' real. I don't know what it is about that place. Every time I step into SuperTarget to do my weekly grocery shopping, the urge strikes.

I chalked it up to mere coincidence the first few times. But at this point, it can be no coincidence. It is virtually guaranteed that I will have to abandon cart within ten minutes of arrival.

I always wonder if the security guys are watching me from above. "That lady again. Can't she do that before she gets here?"

If you don't believe me, try it out. And then let me know.

Maybe it's just me.

Freedom: It Doesn't Suck

The day finally came. I put the elder on the bus to go to kindergarten. I dropped off the little one off at her first day of preschool.

I went and got myself a big, greasy, gut-bomb of a lunch that I then ate while sitting in front of my television watching an episode of The Hills that I DVRed. Hey, I figured, if I'm stuffing my gut with junk, I might as well stuff my brain with junk simultaneously. It made perfect sense at the time.

Then, I sat back and listened.

Nothing. The only sound came from the two goldfish in the kitchen who have the oddly endearing habit of slurping water at the surface of their bowl.

I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the silence was pure, unadulterated bliss. I actually felt a little guilty for having been granted this gift of free time.

For a long time, I thought about all of the things that I would do when this day came. I would clean the house, I would catch up on laundry, I would reorganize the kitchen cabinets.

I didn't feel like doing a damn thing, though. I guess that's where the guilt came from. I'm sure I'll get around to doing some of those things.

But not today.

Or tomorrow either.

Kindergarten

Pretty much from the time I brought my elder home from the hospital, I was preparing myself for the first day of kindergarten. I knew that I would feel a giant lead weight in my stomach as I watched her walk into school and out of my clutches for good. Well, for two and a half hours at least. I pictured myself at home with my little one, making cookies as I awaited the elder's arrival home from school.

She would run toward my car as I waited for her in the pickup line. She would throw her arms around me hug me as if she never was going to let go. She would then hop in her car seat and begin chattering excitedly about all the new and wonderful things she learned on her first day in kindergarten. She would hungrily gobble up the oatmeal raisin cookies (her personal favorite) I made for her while she was at school. She would thank me endlessly for making her favorite cookies.

How's that for a fantasy?

Here's the reality.

I had a (private) countdown to the first day of kindergarten. I watched with pride, a smidgen of sadness and a great deal of happiness as she walked into school. Yes, I took pictures and video. Yes, I waved enthusiastically until she disappeared into the classroom.

But, silently, I was shrieking, "Hallelujah! Peace and quiet!"

Noticeably absent was the aforementioned lead weight in my stomach. In fact, I felt the lead weight leave my stomach and float lazily and happily up into the sky.

Is it wrong?

Remember me?

Well, lucky readers (all one of you), I think I may be back. I was on sabbatical for awhile there. What have I been up to, you ask? Along with attempting to maintain some thinly-veiled semblance of sanity, I started school again. A master's program in counseling. Funny, huh? The person who probably is in the most need of counseling is soon going to be counseling others?

Takes one to know one, right?

Hey, if nothing else, it is one free night a week without kids. And I'm learning. And stuff.

Here's the thing. I'm doing the stay-at-home thing for now. But I don't want to do it forever. Not that there's anything wrong with doing it forever. It's just- I've tried it on. I can squeeze myself into it for awhile. But long term, I gotta shed the weight and put my old clothes back on.

You feel me?

Females

I don't have any boys, so I really can't compare boys to girls, temperamentally-speaking. But holy hell, I gotta believe that raising boys is easier than raising girls.

I am so worn out and mentally frayed from dealing with my almost-five-year-old. She is so freakin' emotional, and...angry? Where does that much anger come from in a 42", 38-pound four-year-old? I mean, seriously, what hard times has she weathered that she feels she's got the right?

Yes, I know how ridiculous that just sounded. She's four, she doesn't know any better, she's still learning, I should be modeling behavior, blah, blah de freakity blah. I refuse to walk on eggshells around a PRESCHOOLER.

Here's what I don't get. I would never have DREAMED of saying, "I hate you, you stupid mom" or "I hate you, you idiot" to my mother. And certainly not to my father. I was too scared. There was fear there. Real fear. The scary kind.

No fear with this kid. And she really doesn't have any "favorite" things that I can confiscate when she spews forth foulness.

Oh yeah, I'm ready for Vegas.

By the way, this post is NOT an invitation for all you well-meaning folks out there to send me comments in which you will gently detail all of the wrong approaches I am taking with my child and offer alternative, feel-good suggestions. Not that you will. I just wanted to save you some keystrokes if you were considering it.

I'm venting here, people.

Crappy Luck and I'm Not Even in Vegas Yet

So I leave for Vegas on Friday, and lately, I can think of nothing else. I daydream about sitting poolside, sipping a 100 oz. pina colada. Complete with the slice of pineapple and the requisite umbrella. I am pulling on that one-armed bandit in my sleep.

And then I woke up this morning sneezing my brains out. And now my nose has turned into a neverending faucet of snot.

Yes, I'm getting sick.

Seriously, WTF? We just got done with the plague a mere month ago. And surely, the gals will come down with it again the night before I am to leave. Which will cause waves of mother-guilt, because how can I possibly leave them when they are sick and want their mommy?

The thing is, Elvis wants me, too. He's calling for me, and we only get to see each other twice a year.

The girls will understand, right?

Wave Your Mouse Ears In the Air Like You Just Don't Care

I'm a fan of the Mouse. Mickey Mouse, that is.

Yes, we just returned from our first family trip to Walt Disney World. That's in Florida, for those not in the know.

I figured that a trip to Disney with two kids under five would be loads of fun for them, and not so much for me. I was partly right. The girls had a hootin', hollerin' good time. But surprisingly, I did, too. I think I had as much fun as they did, if not more.

I didn't go so far as to get a lined, embroidered Mickey Mouse jacket (you know what I'm talking about), but I did thoroughly enjoy having money ripped from my clutches at an alarming rate. We had so much darn fun, I can't even hold it against those Disney masterminds who have thought of every scheme under the sun to separate wide-eyed folks from their hard-earned cash.

I have to say, though, navigating the retail landmines that pop up every three feet in the Magic Kingdom proved a bit difficult. My girls usually are not ones to ask me to buy trinkets and such everywhere we go, but I heard a lot of, "Mom, can I puh-leeze have this?"

We came home with a plastic pirate sword and a light saber and not much else.

I declare, that is no small victory.

I also decided that Disney's current advertising phrase, "Year of a Million Dreams" should be changed to, "Year of a Million Meltdowns". I saw many of those, and experienced more than a few myself, from my little one.

All in all, though, we made many good memories.

I have not written much lately because I have been busy making out with my Lifetime Fitness membership. I worship that place, and I cannot believe that I did not catch on to this exercising thing long ago.

They have a lovely child center there, complete with a gi-normous climbing structure and rows of computers on which the little ones can play games to their little hearts' content.

AND they can stay in there for two hours a day! Not that I ever leave them there for the full two hours. But there is glory in the knowledge that I could. If I wanted to. Just because.

It's like having a babysitter for two hours a day at the bargain-basement price of six dollars per month, per child! Crikey, I'm starting to sound like a spokeswoman. But seriously, folks, you can't beat it. And I'm exercising, and that can never be a bad thing, right?

So I had to go and have a personal trainer conduct a "body-age assessment" on me. What this assessment seeks to determine is how old your body is in relation to your actual age. He had to use those caliper, pincer deals to see how much fat I had on my body. Slightly depressing. But I suppose it gives me something to work toward.

I also had to do as many sit-ups as I could in a minute. The friendly, unsuspecting personal trainer held my feet while I did the sit-ups. Suddenly, I had a flashback to freshman gym class in high school. I had an extremely untimely attack of, well, for lack of a better word, flatulence. I had to feign fatigue and stop doing the damn sit-ups so that I didn't have an accidental discharge.

Friendly fire, if you will.

The good news is, my body wasn't any older than my actual age of 32. He told me that, best case scenario, I can be 23 again. Or at least, my body can be.

I was hoping for 18, but I guess I would take 23.

What A Difference Three Inches Makes

I caught your attention, there, didn't I? And you're undoubtedly thinking, three inches? She's excited about three inches? Her situation is worse than we thought. Yes, I am excited about three inches. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Of course, the three inches to which I am referring are the three inches of hair that my stylist cut from my trashy mane last Thursday. I treated myself to a pedicure and an eyebrow wax, as well. There is nothing like spending a little money to make a girl feel just a bit brighter and lighter in her Pumas.

I needed some sort of intervention. I have been finding gray hairs left and right lately, and it has really turned my little world upside down. I always imagined that I would age gracefully and peacefully. Not so. It's pissing me off, in fact. Every time I spy one of those coarse, silver, renegade hairs taunting me from the mirror. Anger.

I suppose I needed a reminder that I can still look hot when I need to.

Recovery

We are still recovering from the plague. It has been over a week and I still feel like I could lay down and fall asleep at any time of day.

On a more positive note, I signed us up for a membership at Lifetime Fitness. We need something to shake up the monotony around here. I figured I could stand to have my ass whipped into shape a bit, too. I figured it would give me some "me-time", since the girls will be in the play area while I work out. And it never hurts to exercise. Well, it hurts a lot. But you know what I mean.

More snow tomorrow night. I'm pretty sure this is the snowiest winter I can remember.

Spring, get your ass here. Like, as in, yesterday.

What's REALLY Wrong With Healthcare in America Today

Dying. Am I.

I went to the doctor on Saturday because I could not take the ridiculous coughing fits. He told me, very gently and kindly, that I had a cold. Colds sometimes take a long time to go away, he said. But then he gave me a Z-Pak. You know, just in case it's not a cold. So is it or isn't it?

If this is a cold, I've never encountered one like this. I'm hacking so much that I can't sleep at night. My little one is just a puddle. Her fever has been over 102 for the past four days. I took her in to the pediatrician today. Same story. It's a cold, the doctor said. Of course, her fever was gone by the time I took her to the doctor. It promptly shot back up over 102 this afternoon. Nobody swabbed us to test for the flu, but that's what I'm guessing we all have.

Dishes are piled up in the sink. I have not showered since, well, I'm actually ashamed to say how long. The house is a certified disaster area. It probably qualifies for FEMA assistance. I don't even have the energy to fix meals for my own kids. They have been existing on frozen waffles, Chee-Tos and ice cream sandwiches. Luckily, whatever this is zapped their appetites. Mine too. I managed to eat some toast today.

And speaking of government assistance, here's what SHOULD be happening. Nannies, and not just any nannies, but certified pediatric nurse-nannies, should be sent to my house to care for the girls. A team of cleaning ladies (or men, we're EOE here) also should be dispatched to sanitize this den of disease. A personal chef would be good, too, for when the girls feel like eating again. I should be admitted to the hospital where I would have narcotics administered intravenously, and continuously, until such time as I no longer feel like crawling in a hole and disappearing.

I think I should run for President.

Kickin' Me When I'm Already Down

As if I didn't have enough to bitch about (and believe me, I manage to find plenty), I got bitch-slapped with a case of bronchitis. All these poor girls did today was watch television while I hacked on the couch. I did take them to the McDonald's Playplace for lunch, though. For some reason, respiratory distress makes me ravenously hungry.

In between bouts of hair-pulling, pinching and slapping, they actually let me get some rest. Bless their little hearts. The few times I stumbled into the bathroom in the middle of a hacking fit, they scrambled in there with me, curious to see if I was going to "have the puke-ups".

I shouldn't really complain because I usually am, for the most part, healthy. Maybe that's why it feels extra rotten when I actually do get sick.

My husband is on his way home and I am confident he is going to make me some nice, hot, chicken-noodle soup. He will then draw me a luxurious, hot bath. There will be candles, and rose petals in the bathtub. There will be a warm, fluffy, hotel-type robe waiting for me when I get out.

Did I mention that the Mucinex I'm taking makes me hallucinate and have delusions of grandeur?

OMG, Seriously, Snow Again?

So. More snow. We are supposed to get six to nine inches tonight. Now, ordinarily, I would welcome six to nine inches. But not when we're talking snow.

I might stick my head in the oven if we get another foot of snow. Didn't Sylvia Plath do that, by the way? I don't think I can take another snow day. These girls have cabin fever something fierce. So do I, for that matter.

I think I'm allergic to staying home full-time. I have recurrent dreams in which I visit my former employer and beg them to give me my job back.

I desperately, desperately wanted to absolutely love staying home. I wanted to have an epiphany in which I would say, "How did I not discover the joys of this years ago?" I have had no such epiphany. Not of that sort, anyway. I've had a few others that I won't mention. You never know if my girls might someday find all of these posts in which I bitched incessantly about them. I don't want to do any permanent damage.

I do want to bitch, though. I mean, isn't that partly what blogging is about? Am I alone here?

The annoying thing is, I run into all of these mothers who sincerely seem as though they could not be happier staying at home. Some of these mothers have, like, five kids, too! They seem to thrive on it! It really makes me feel inadequate. They should be ashamed of themselves, flaunting their happiness and efficiency. Couldn't they stifle it just a little bit around the rest of us? I can't even get up the energy to vacuum my family room these days. I could probably feed a family of four just with what has accumulated on the rug.

Actually that's not such a bad idea. "Kids, we're having leftovers tomorrow night!"

Oh yeah. I'm in a dark place. No question.

An Answer?

So, my doctor thinks I am suffering from panic attacks. Or panic disorder, if you will. He prescribed some medicine that allegedly is going to help with this problem. I am skeptical (surprise, surprise) that it is going to work, but God, I hope it does. I've never been a medicine gal, so I am struggling with even the decision to take the darn stuff.

Apparently, this panic thing rears its ugly head during life transitions. Hmmm, have I made any life transitions lately?

Oh, yeah, that's right. I completely turned my life upside down and inside out about six months ago. So I suppose that makes sense. I guess I just thought that you had to be panicked about something to have an actual panic attack. Turns out you don't. They can happen even when you're sleeping, I'm told.

Lucky me, mine happen while I'm driving.

Snow, Snow and....More Snow

We are having our second snowstorm in as many days. I have to admit, though, there is something delicious about a snowstorm when you have nowhere to go. Lighting a fire in the fireplace, eating junk food and staying in our pajamas all day long is not a horrible way to spend a day.

On days like this, I don't miss working outside. Directing traffic in the middle of a snowstorm was not kick-ass, I have to say. Although, sometimes it was fun working a snowstorm. Sometimes, people drove just as you are supposed to drive in a snowstorm. No accident reports to take, and I could just sit in the temperature-controlled warmth of my squad car and watch the snow fall ever so softly.

The snow must sometimes have a calming effect because for some reason, we didn't get a lot of domestic calls during snowstorms. Which was a good thing, considering that it took forever to get anywhere, even with your lights and sirens on.

And on the subject of domestic disturbances, a little bit of trivia. Allegedly, Super Bowl Sunday is the day on which the most domestic batteries occur. Think about it.

Sadly, it makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

Do We Really Become Our Parents?

When I was little, I absolutely hated to be yelled at. It was the worst. I always cried. I couldn't help it. Both of my parents were yellers, moreso my father. So you would think that now, as a mother, I wouldn't be a big yeller. I wish that were true.

Somedays it feels like my only interaction with these two is me yelling at them.

I try not to. I give them warnings, such as, "Mom's about to yell" or "If you don't stop, I'm going to yell". Being the precocious little angels that they are, most of the time, they don't stop doing whatever it was they were doing that caused the warning to be issued. So, I yell.

And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for it when I'm doing it, and I hate myself for it after I'm done. And yet, I keep doing it. And sometimes, I feel better. I am ashamed to admit that. Rarely do I feel better. But sometimes, when they have been mean little biznatches all day long, I have a freak-out. Every once in awhile, it catches their attention. They behave for the rest of the day. Most of the time, though, they just look at me.

My older one, T, I can tell, does not like to be yelled at. I don't blame her. I hated it, too. Her thing is, she gets defensive and even more ill-behaved. I guess she is thinking, "I'll show her she didn't hurt me. I'll be even meaner than I was before!"

She is famous for running to her room and slamming the door. Moments later, I hear the door open.

"Mom, you better come in here and have a talk with me!"

This is her way of telling me that it is time for me to go in her room, say I'm sorry, and calmly discuss whatever issue we all were yelling about a minute before.

I don't want these girls to look back and think, "Mom yelled a lot. Bitch." I want them to look back and remember all of the fun things we do together.

I guess I can add to my ever-growing list of New Year's resolutions: Throttle back on the yelling.

Table for One

Last night, the girls went to Grandma's and the husband was working late. I had an enormous jones for Thai food, and I needed to be satiated.

For a brief time, about a year and a half, we lived with my in-laws. We were building our house, and it took quite some time. And when I say we were building it, I mean that my husband dug the foundation, poured the foundation, put up every board and nail, etc. It was, and has been, a labor of love for us.

In any case, during that time, I discovered this excellent, hole-in-the-wall Thai place. I got carry-out from there about three times a week. Those were the good old days when we both were employed and had nothing else to spend our money on. Sigh.

So I had a dilemma last night. The in-laws live about twenty minutes from my house. I thought about the fact that my beloved pad thai would most likely be cold by the time I got it home if I went the carryout route. The veggie egg rolls would be a sad, flaccid mess. So I thought, why not grab myself a People magazine and order up a table for one?

And that's precisely what I did.

From talking to people, eating alone appears to be an issue of some controversy. People are either totally for it, or vehemently against it. I fall into the former category. I don't feel a bit insecure about eating alone. For me, it is all about the food. And if I have to have it, I have to have it, whatever the cost.

Here's the weird part.

When I see others eating alone, I feel an intense sadness for them. There is an extraordinary vulnerability about people when they are eating. And when they are eating alone, it intensifies. I know this sounds weird. But I find it so endearing to watch people eat. To observe their preferences. To see a person appear so delighted and, excited (?) to be tucking into whatever is on the plate. I feel sorry for them, like I feel that they need someone to share it with. I have had to stop myself several times from walking over and inviting a person to sit with me.

When I was on the street, we frequently were assigned to do walk-throughs at the homeless shelter. How it worked was, the shelter was held at a different church, in different towns, each night. My husband used to make fun of me because, not only would I walk through, I would load up a plate with fried chicken and mac and cheese (or whatever they were serving that night), sit down and eat. I'll tell you what, though. They always had the best mac and cheese there. And brownies. I don't know why. But, really, I just liked to sit and watch people. There is something about the simple pleasure of a good meal. For me it was that. Something I undoubtedly have taken for granted. For the homeless people, it was just lucky that they had that to look forward to that night. Because who knew what the next night would bring? I felt grateful for them that, at least for that night, they had somewhere to stay and something good to eat. And I felt fortunate that I didn't have those worries.

The people working the shelter liked it when we would go in there and have something to eat. I think it made the residents feel more at ease, too. Like, we weren't just in there checking up on them to make sure they were behaving themselves.

But, I digress.

My benchmark, or gauge, for how sorry I should feel for someone is whether or not they are wearing a wedding ring. I know, it's wrong to use that as a benchmark. Especially because of the fact that, just because someone is wearing a wedding band does not mean they aren't still lonely. But still, I feel a little lighter in my heart when I see that the solo eater is sporting one. I guess that it's easier for me to reconcile. As in, "Okay. He's eating alone, but he's wearing a wedding ring. So he has someone to go home and talk to, even though there is nobody here with him now."

Why do I feel sad for them? I eat by myself frequently. I go to movies by myself. I don't feel sad. Sometimes I actually feel a little bit liberated, not having any pressure to carry on a conversation if I don't feel like it.

I guess you could say I have a double standard about eating solo.

When I went to the Thai place, I could feel the eyes on me as I responded, "One, please" when the waitress asked me how many were in my party. I wondered if they felt sorry for me the way I have felt sorry for others, at times. I'm sure they wondered, "What's her story?" The way I have wondered that, countless times, about people in restaurants.

It almost makes you feel like you want to wear a T-shirt with a disclaimer every time you go to eat by yourself. It would go something like this, "I am happily married and not lonely. However. I REALLY needed Thai food tonight, and well, my husband isn't home and hates Thai, anyway. So here I am. Please, don't feel sorry for me."

Sort of like when my husband was working afternoons and had the girls during the day. He would take them to Gymboree, the park, etc. He told me he always felt the other mothers looking at him, like, "Doesn't he have a job, or is he some pervert weirdo?" I told him I would make him a button that he could pin on his shirt. It would say, "I am gainfully employed, I just work at night. I'm not a pervert."

Hey, maybe I'm on to something there!