I have a drawer of lingerie… the Drawer of Hope… that is filled with pinks and reds and lilacs and blacks and lace and all things feminine and lovely. Also thrown in for good measure, a few pieces of Babeland equipment, mostly without batteries.
The drawer is papered with white tea liners and is a haven of neatly folded delicates and whispery lovely scents. When I look into it, I feel like a princess of a lost land who has found her way home.
My breasts, such as they are, are mine once again.
Dear Motherhood,
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about us and I feel it’s time to come clean about a few things. Please don’t think my reticence and distance lately has been about you. It hasn’t. It’s been about me.
Please don’t take it personally, Motherhood, the things you do are great, you try really hard… and you’re SO thoughtful. It’s just that, well, I need more excitement. Just a little more. And I’m sure it’s all my fault and I’m planning to see a therapist… Wait. Don’t cry! Please!
I love your people, the small ones.. it’s the long hours and the no sex and the chubby ass I could live without. And the "Ma’am" and the grocery shopping and the laundry.
Here’s the thing. You are my friend and will live in my heart always…
But I need to see other people. And I need to go dancing…
Love Always,
Rachael
The babies. They have totally ruined my tough chic groove forever. My insides are on the outside and my outsides are mushy and swollen when I want them to be taut and lithe, or at least free of peanut butter schmear.
So today. Work. Everything is going along swimmingly. I’m showered, wearing lipstick and heels, and looking like some facsimile of my former self. Confidently and cheerfully, I head into a meeting with my boss to present the budget.
And I can’t describe what happened next very clearly, but the next thing I knew, he was pointing out a mistake in my numbers and I just knew I was about to cry. Blubber. Burst into sobbing gags. I excused myself and washed away as much of the redness and puffiness as I could. When I returned he was onto the next spreadsheet and didn’t look up, so we began where we’d left off. But I absolutely couldn’t shake it. So his clever parries were met by mute agreement and the appearance of total obedience on my part. And this, got his attention. He said, "Are you all right?" and I said yes but that I had to get back to work.
Sometimes I hate that I’ve lost the cool exterior, the toughness, the ability to not cry at commercials about starving children in Africa. Sometimes I really despise this mushy mom person I’ve become.
Maybe I should just embrace my inner flower child and be done with it!!
Spinal Tap always makes me smile
<
I recently heard this term, which aptly describes my approach to "loving" of late. The clever Heidi Raykell describes it as "Real-dolling"… Get it? Doll? Made real?
Assuming one is at least somewhere deep down inside still a hottie mama, then what is a person to do to rekindle the desire to be a more active participant in one’s extracurr-lick-ular activities? One of my motivations for weaning V is the hope that it might spruce up my desire. Perhaps if I’m not handled and pulled and bitten — by my child, I might be more inclined to be handled and pulled and bitten — by my hubs.
I didn’t used to be this way. Far from it. I used to feel like an outlier in the world of women (during my first marriage, I even checked out a book once called "What to Do if He Has a Headache"), but now I’m apparently quite representative of the mainstream, which I absolutely despise just on principle.
There are many clever books and conversations to be had on reawakening desire.. and even some fabulous comments here at CrankMama awhile back on the topic.
But you know how when you feel like sh*t emotionally and someone says something cheerful and hoo hoo and you just want to hit them because you don’t want to be cheered up, you want someone to fix you?
That’s how I feel when I read and/or talk about the topic of desire-building. To me, re-igniting passion only works if one has the proper internal kindling.. the internal kindling that I’m apparently missing right now. I don’t want to be the purveyor of pity sex.
I want to be a priestess at the altar of LUVIN…
I want to find my inner hottie mama and invite her to stay for awhile…
Dear V,
You are an adorable cherub whose blond and blue can melt even the crankiest of mommies into a pile of adoring goo. You are verbal, precocious, and enjoy dumping drawers onto the floor, tipping books from bookshelves, and knocking over any and all objects filled with liquids or food.
But there’s something else unique about you, my darling. Something that sets you apart from your older twin sisters.
You still have a desire for "the Boob." Actually, less like "desire" more like "obsession." And I, who with great righteousness used to make them laugh with my confident jokes about women trapped by nursing, am facing my darkest motherhood fear: being grasped and undressed in public by a loud child screaming "BOOB! BOOB!"
Like a hunter finds her prey, you spy me across the room, your laser-vision narrows, and your little chubby legs blast you across the distance that divides us. I am scaled like a human ladder and, having scooped you up, try and distract you with something else. Anything. Else.
I admit, I went so far as to try and sell Daddy’s warm hairy chest (nipples even) as a nice alternative. But nothing but the Boob will do.
So, I’m afraid it will have to be cold turkey around here. For you and for me. No more boob. Mommy is so very tired and worn. And I love you, but I need these ladies back.
And as you’ve learned to say recently… they are MINE! MINE! MINE!!
Recently, reporter Lisa W. Foderaro wrote a piece for the New York Times about working moms
who use business travel as an opportunity to find some ‘me’ time.
Titled, "Working Mothers Find Some Peace on the Road," the opening
paragraph begins thusly:
Before Lucia Skwarek, a portfolio manager and mother
in New York City, gets on a plane bound for business in Moscow or
Milan, there are not only meetings, but play dates to schedule. When
she is done wooing investors for her hedge fund and parsing a pile of
e-mail messages, though, Ms. Skwarek looks forward to a little ?me?
time.
As you might expect, the piece generated excoriating remarks as well
as cries of recognition and support from working mothers everywhere. I found the
article interesting, but I found the comments it evoked fascinating.
I live in Chaos Land. I read book after book aloud, in a cheerful voice hoping to "happy" the bad bugs away. I clean bedding and jammies and stuffed animals and blankets. I pet heads, rub backs, make jokes and clown around, hoping for a wan smile from small sickies.
I worry and fret and wake and walk.
And then today I stop.
I stop because I’m tired tired, bone tired. I leave work early (they say I look pale), I wave the white flag at every obligation except the most essential. I rest and sit and sit some more.
Chaos, usually a distant cousin, moves in and takes a seat at the family table, as I allow my loved ones to become totally engulfed by goo, grime, and schmutz. As I whistle and look away, I turn a blind eye to the piles of toys, laundry, and candy wrappers populating the smooth surfaces in every room. I serve oatmeal for dinner, and let the kids watch Christmas movies and stay in their pajamas.
For today, I am done Florence Nightengaling… I decide instead to be the peaceful Queen of Chaos Land. I lump around, talk on the phone, eat sugar, and smile at every request, neither committing to anything, nor denying anything.
I am the happy Queen of Chaos Land. And I’m never going to clean again…
