I used to be hot

I remember very clearly looking at my naked body in the mirror when I was 26 years old.  I was hot.  I was working out 6 days a week, fake tanning (the "good" kind at the expensive place .. whatever that means), and I was getting regular haircuts, pedicures, time to myself.  I had a dog.  And a housekeeper.  And an unlimited wine budget.  And free time.

My ass was amazing.  I mean, I still can remember the precise shape of that curve, and looking back in the mirror to see it.

I met Geoff a few months later.

Can't say I blame him for falling so in love.

That was 7 years ago.  3 children ago.

I get up sometime between 6 and 7 and can't stand my face until I put on makeup.  Expensive makeup.  After I put on my makeup I look somewhat like the me I remember.  Sometimes I brush my hair, but it usually goes into a ponytail and it hasn't seen the hands of my hairdresser or her treasured foil wraps for a very long time.

I go to button jeans that should be big, but are too small.  I put on a shirt that used to flatter my bust, but now can't get over my head, let alone up and down all day long to nurse my 7 week old baby.

I look at the clothes in the drawer and they seem like they should belong to someone much younger than me.  Someone with free time.  And a housekeeper.

I try not to wear shorts.  Or skirts.  I look down and see the legs of my grandmother.  Not even my mom.  No.  They skip a generation, these legs.  They're ghost-white.  Veiny.  Covered in cellulite.

My heels are rough, my toenails becoming ingrown.

I haven't bitten my nails recently because I have 2 week old polish on them and that has prevented me from biting.  But the polish is chipping off and I haven't had the chance to take it off.

I always feel so ... almost.

I'm almost the weight I think I want to be.

I'm almost going to fit into those pants.

I'm almost presentable if I put on enough makeup.

I debate the varying powers and strengths of face creams and which one I need.  Do I need retinol? Do I need vitamin e? What's toxic? Should I even buy that stuff?

And I see women at the Farmer's market who look like they've spent their entire lives jogging and hiking and gardening and they have 2% body fat and tanned leathery skin and lots and lots of wrinkles.  They always seem so happy.  So ... unaware of high-strength no-oil sunscreen.

They always wear sunhats at the Farmer's market and (of course) bring their own bags.

I think about the futility of trying to get back into the shape I was at 26.  And why I feel it's so desirable to be that way again.

After I had Jack, I felt downright celebratory about the experience.  I was woman.  I roared.  I was invincible.  He was not an "easy" baby.  I didn't care.  I had DONE IT.  I had this big baby, naturally, and he was strong and powerful and so was I.

And when I got pregnant with Raef, my body betrayed me.  It got pregnant (wasn't supposed to happen).  It had a subchorionic hematoma that left me ordered to not do anything.  I sat on the sofa and watched the weeks tick slowly by.

So. Incredibly. Slow.ly.

And labor was easy.  And birth was easy.  And afterward, I felt like I had given everything I had to give.  And I was gone.  And in my place were 3 children looking back at me going "I need things from your body".  And I didn't have anything to give.

And sometimes I wonder if I still do.

I nurse Raef, and he sleeps great.  I feed my body good foods.  I am done having babies.  But my body is not my own as long as I nurse.  I used to love it.  And I love the convenience, but now I feel it weighs me down.  It's an obligation.  More physical giving.  And I just get tested to my limits every. single. day.  And I never felt this way before.

At that 2 a.m. (or 3 a.m., or 4 a.m. ... whatever time he wakes) feeding, I think Phoebe is my heart (my sweet, affectionate girl), Jack my body (my physical boy who climbs and jumps and takes risks) and Raef my soul (my intense mellow baby who seems older than his ... weeks ...  in every single way).  And I'm not sure where I am because I feel like I've been spread out.  Dispersed.  And now I'm just sort of ... there.

My midwife (who - sadly - didn't catch Raef) has 3 children and she said her 3rd did the same to her.  It was such a huge shock, she said.  "The laundry alone nearly killed me".  Yes.  I have some I should fold, but at least it's only 1 basket's worth.  She said 3 isn't just like adding "one more", it's like adding 10 more.  And it really feels that way.  Nothing ever gets done.  Life is Groundhog's Day. 

I wake up, weigh myself, look in the mirror and I see the wet bread that is my butt.  I look back and look away.  White.  Doughy.  Soft.  Unattractive.  At least my hair is long, I think.  That is something.  And I'm not really that fat.  I just am fat for me.  Soft.  A mother.

My face develops new wrinkles daily and I'm thankful for glasses that hide them ... but maybe they make me look older?  Maybe the new mascara I bought will be the miracle that makes me suddenly younger.  More attractive.  26.  A dog-owner.

Tonight I saw a bus of Cal Poly students (hell, maybe they were high schoolers -- I couldn't tell) going to some kind of party or something.  I was with my family and we were getting In N Out (my order so complicated, I had to repeat it; hamburger, protein-style, no sauce, no salt).  They were all attractive.  They were all laughing.  Eating cheeseburgers.  And fries.  And drinking Dr. Pepper.  Carefree.  Not even a whiff of the future.  All hoping.  All individuals.  One man (man? He's just a boy, right?) wearing lederhosen.  And I remembered I used to have fun.

And I used to be fun.

And I used to be hot.

And I get up and put on my makeup.  And I pretend I still am.  And I smile.  I am happy.  But I grow ever aware that I am aging.  And nothing, no feet dragging or expensive face creams or higher and higher (I found 70 today!) SPF lotions will prevent it.

And maybe my husband doesn't like looking at my doughy shapeless wet bread of an ass (he assures me it's fine. he's obviously lying.).   Or the wrinkles around my eyes (yes yes, smile lines from the joy brought about by my children of course ...).  I see the beauty around me, and wonder when I will once again see it in myself.

I used to see it all the time.

When I used to be hot.

And I wish I could go back in time and take a picture.  And show people "See? This was me.  I was that, once.  I wasn't just the mom at the grocery store with the unruly children.  I was fun!"

And I think of those pathetic women pretending to be 26 when they're in their 40s and 50s and beyond ... at a certain age it becomes charming though, really.  And I wonder ... what is appropriate for me at this age, anyway?

And I wanted this life with lots of children (I used to think I wanted 6 of them!).

I really did.

I just think I imagined I'd always be 26.  With a housekeeper.  And a dog.  And endless time to myself.

And some days, I really wish I could go spend a day with her, and tell her to look back in the mirror one more time to get a good hard look, and know that it won't always be that way forever.

It won't.

Like I know this insecurity will pass.

Everything is transitory.

Hear. Me. Roar.

Moment

Phoebe just woke up from her nap and I heard her say ...

"Hi Jack, I MISSED you! I MISSED you, Jack!"

And that is why we have more than 1.

Oh and also? That happened.

I braved Target with my 3 children last week and since Raef was so contented in his carseat (sleeping even! -- a rarity), I decided to leave him in it and just put the carseat in the basket, while the other 2 were strapped into the cart.  God Bless Target for having those giant carts.


Usually, I'd wear him in the Moby, but I'm not about to wake a sleeping infant under any circumstances.

So, we got everything we needed (and Phoebe got to point out the babies she wanted in the toy aisle), and when I went to pay I (finally) signed up for RedCard so we were there for a little while.

A middle-aged woman (God help me I hate that phrase, because I know it's my fate, but she was. She was middle-aged) finished unloading her cart, gave me a warm smile, and said:

"When's your baby due?"

I said "Um."

And then I died.

And from the grips of death, I managed to choke out "He's almost 5 weeks old" and indicated him in the cart.

You can imagine she was mortified.

I said "It's okay, he was a big baby, my belly hasn't gotten flat yet."

She said "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I have 3 kids -- I should know better.  I just didn't see him in there!  Oh my gosh .. congratulations."

And that was the precise moment I decided it was time to get back on Paleo and be serious about losing the baby weight.

The worst part? I thought I looked pretty good that day.

So ... that happened

People often ask me how I'm doing handling 3 kids.  I just look at them and say "Well, we just do what we can since we don't really have a choice, you know?"

I feel the following story is a good example of my day and perfectly illustrates what my life is like with 3 kids under 4.

Yesterday I was nursing Raef (as always) while Phoebe and Jack played upstairs.

Phoebe came halfway down the stairs and said "You go pee pee on changing table."

I said "Wait -- you went potty ... *on* the changing table!?"

She excitedly said "Yes!"

I said "Okay ... well, why did you do that!?"

She said "Baby Jack dancing in it!"

I set down the baby (who immediately started crying because -- of course -- in his mind he is going to die of starvation if he's not nursing every minute of the day) and headed upstairs to find that -- yes -- Jack was indeed dancing in a puddle of piss on top of the wooden dresser that used to serve as a changing table.

Dancing, people.

I grabbed a towel, took Jack off the dresser, wiped off the pee and didn't even bother wiping down Jack or throwing the towel into the laundry basket (because the laundry basket is in our room since they will turn it upside down and jump off of it onto the toddler bed). 

With 3 kids, you just gotta let stuff go.

I won't call it surrender.  Let's go with survival.

And then ...

Leaving their room tonight, I said my good-nights to Phoebe and Jack and as I was closing the door, I said "I love you, Phoebe. I love you, Jack" and Phoebe -- sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her Llama Llama book -- looked at me and said "Is ... I love you mommy".

I ran in, gave her a big hug, and she said "Mommy LOVES her Phoebe girl and her Jack Michael boy!"

I said "I do. I love my Phoebe girl. Lots and lots."

And lots.

I can't tell you the number of times I've lingered at that doorway at bedtime waiting to hear her say it back. 

Tonight was the first.  Yes, she said "Phoebe loves mommy".  This was different.  And it was the second time she's told me she loves me.

Everything comes in baby steps.

Lots.

And lots.

and

lots

Five. Period.

On Sunday, March 11 (at 9:48 a.m.), I gave birth to our 3rd (and final) child, Raef Robert.  He was 11 lbs and 23" long.  And he is already very much loved by everyone (especially big sister).

He mostly sleeps, he rarely cries, and other than having another human being in the house and my getting less sleep, not much seems to have really changed and life progresses as usual.  Days, of course, being much longer than weeks.

I'm saving the birth story for a little bit (figuring I should at least write Jack's first lest the middle child syndrome start so soon after his brother's birth -- and I plan to do it within the week, using the notes from our doula), but I just had to announce Raef and share the joy.

I have always been perplexed by women who said "Trust me -- when you're done (having children), you're done" because I had never felt I was "done" having children.  I always imagined we'd have 4.  Naturally, we'd have 2 boys and 2 girls.  Minutes after having Raef, I felt done.  I have this great sense of peace about saying goodbye to my childbearing years and I am ready to enjoy watching them grow (instead of growing them).

On "The Name" ....

We picked his name one night while perusing the baby name books (currently in the bin for the Goodwill, along with some very well-worn maternity clothes) and I saw that the name Ralph means "wolf counsel".  We liked that.  The name Ralph, however ... well ... not so much.

I said "What if we spell it Ralph, but it's pronounced Rafe, like Ralph Finnes?"  But that was immediately discarded because we live in America and Ralph is pronounced Ralph and also means "vomit".

So then Geoff said "What about Raef? R-a-e-f?" and I said "Eh .. why not just R-a-f-e?" (and I thumbed through the book to find that Rafe is Irish and means "tough man", which we knew this baby certainly to be) and we went back and forth on spelling for months up until about 2 weeks ago when Geoff said he just really preferred Raef and I didn't really favor Rafe enough to argue.

Raef it was.

Robert is a family name on my side.

After we picked the spelling, I looked up the name Raef to see its meanings.

In Hebrew it is "God has healed" and Arabic is "Forgiving".

I liked that.

And Geoff liked that there was a Celtics player with the same name a few years ago.

And with that, we are five.  And we are complete.

Welcome to our lives, little (big) Raef Robert.

Wordless Wednesday

Why I Love Geoff

As usual, my pregnancy cravings include frozen yogurt.  Incidentally, my non-pregnancy cravings also include frozen yogurt.

Anyway, the other night (after the kids were in bed so I didn't have to share), I went to get some frozen yogurt.  When I got home, I was moaning with delight while eating said yogurt and my husband and I had the following exchange:

Geoff: Why don't you just buy a quart and keep it in the freezer?!

Me: Because it's not the same ...

Geoff: Oh, you like the soft texture?

Me: Well, yeah

Geoff: Well you could totally make some in the ice cream maker! Just look for some recipes!

Me: Yeeeaaaah, but it's just not the same ... I mean, I like having the variety at the shop and the little toppings and what-not ... the mini m&ms and the mini reece's pieces, and the sauces and the whipped cream and the ...

Geoff: ... so you don't even care about the yogurt, you just like the candy?

Me: I'm sorry, have we met?

Biapers

A couple of weeks ago we went to Farmer's Market in SLO to hang out with my in-laws who were in town and wanted to go.

We had finished eating, and I was feeling jovial so I got 2 frozen yogurts (1 for me, 1 for the kids).  I occasionally put the toasted almonds on my frozen yogurts, but that night I wavered -- ever so slightly -- before deciding to go ahead and put them on.  Omega-3s and what-not.  Good for the baby.

My yogurt was almost finished (30 seconds later), when I laughed at something and started choking on one of the almonds.  My husband didn't notice, and neither did my in-laws, until the moment I crouched down to hide -- as best as possible -- the fact that with each cough, I was slowly peeing my pants.

Yes.

At Farmer's Market.  On a ridiculously busy night because everyone was in town on vacation and balmy enough that jackets weren't necessary.

Geoff asked if I was okay, and between stifled coughs, I told him "I'm ... peeing ... my ... pants".

And I wrapped the hoodie I'd just bought him for Christmas around my waist, awkwardly, while trying to put on my (mercifully, long) jacket and looking around -- desperately -- for bathrooms.

There were none even remotely close to where we were.  In a well-lighted area.  Where everyone in 3 counties and all my ex-boyfriends and their wives just saw me pee my pants.

The next day, I decided to peruse the feminine products aisle for ... well ... anything absorbent and discrete.

I would, of course, go through self-checkout.

Having not had a period in over 2 years now, I wasn't really sure what I was looking for, but I found some "Poise liners" and decided those would work because they're intended to catch pee, but also ... weren't in the "You've got incontinence and everyone knows about it" aisle.

Said ex-boyfriends and their perfectly continent wives were also at Albertson's that day.


Shortly after trying out my new potty pads (fyi: highly recommend them), I had to go to the bathroom (something I do not take for granted when one is a few feet from my location).  And, as happens when a parent of young children (including one who is potty training) goes to the bathroom, my kids happened to see the pottyliner in my underwear.

Phoebe looked and smiled and said "Mommy wears biiiiiiapers!"

I laughed and said (to my sweet little daughter who is only allowed diapers at night and during naps and has had ZERO accidents since we started the potty training) "Ohhh no no sweetie that's not a diaper.  Mommy has a baby in mommy's tummy and that means ..."

"... Mommy have baby in tummy, make mommy tiiiiiiiiired"

"... yes, sweetie, it makes mommy tired, but also, the baby sometimes makes mommy have to go ... potty ... in ... her ... pants ... and ... yes.  It's a biaper.  Mommy is wearing a biaper."

This is my 3rd baby in under 4 years.  I believe I'm allowed a little bladder forgiveness.

Into the Mystic

Today, Phoebe gave me a big hug, a kiss on the lips, and said "Phoebe loves mommy".

It was the first time she'd ever said that.