Fresh Mommy

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Is it Safe?

This is me, at least once a week:

Me: sniff

My nose is this close to the raw, defrosted, lump of pork that was taken from the freezer this morning and left out to thaw. Sniff.
Is it still good? Sniff.
Is it safe to eat? Sniff.
Has it gone bad? Sniff.
What does "good" raw pork smell like anyway? Sniff.
Its odor is not entirely offensive -- does that mean it's still good? Sniff.

Is it okay to make this? Because that's all I've got. Shit. What if we all get sick and spend the night barfing? Sniff. What if we all end up with trichonosis or whatever it's called. Sniff. I think it's okay. If it was bad, I'd know it, right? It would be obvious, wouldn't it? Sniff.

Fuck it. It's all we've got. Now where's the Shake n Bake?

Please tell me I'm not the only one out there doing the questionable meat dance.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Solid as a Rock

I've never been very weepy.

To this day, Fresh Daddy is disturbed that I did not shed a tear when he proposed to me in an Irish Castle over 8 years ago. For years after, whenever he would hear the tale of another friend who became engaged he would ask, "Did she cry?" and you know, the answer is almost always yes, and then I would get the look -- she cried. He was really hoping for waterworks; I disappointed. When we were married, I did not cry. He thinks I'm cold as ice. He has been known to call me Stone Face. He says he should have known back when we first started dating and went to see Slingblade, and I didn't shed a tear at the end. (He, on the other hand, got a little teary and claimed to have something in his eye. Jeez, pull yourself together, man.)

My best friend also accuses me of being hard-hearted. She was appalled to hear that I wasn't bawling at the end of Brokeback Mountain. Yes, it was good. They loved each other. Very nice. I'm sorry Jake Gyllenhaal had to die, and they couldn't live out their lives together, and all Heath Ledger had to remember him by was a postcard and an old shirt. Sad, sad, sad. But I didn't cry. She, apparently, was sobbing. Me? Not a tear.

So that's me -- a rock, a stone, something you can count on to be strong and solid (okay, some might say stoic) at all times.

Last week I'm driving down the road, iPod hooked into the car stereo. Over the speakers comes Van Morrison's Tupelo Honey. A fabulous song. Perfect for a summer drive.

You can take all the tea in China
Put it in a big brown bag for me
Sail it right round all the seven oceans
Drop it into the deep blue sea
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet, she's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey, baby, from the bee

And I am weeping because, apropos of nothing, I've decided that it's the perfect song for Fresh Girl to dance to with Fresh Daddy at her wedding. She's not even two and I'm planning her wedding (uh, mom, it's my wedding, back off). In my mind she's the most beautiful bride, and it's the happiest day of her life, and it's the perfect wedding, and we're all so happy. Then I'm sad because I want to be the one to dance with her at her wedding, but it's the father/daughter dance, and so I imagine myself on the edge of the dance floor, watching and crying. You know, tears of joy and all that stuff, but crying nonetheless. And I'm crying and crying and crying. Literally. In the car. Crying. Get a hold of yourself, woman. You've got a toddler in the back seat. One minute I'm driving up Blue Mountain Road, admiring the blue mountain, the next I'm imagining Fresh Girl's wedding, and there are tears streaming down my face, and I can hardly see the road in front of me. It's dangerous this crying bit. It's not safe, I tell you.

And I've made a decision -- I'm dancing with her anyway. At her wedding. I'm starting a new tradition: the mother/daughter wedding dance. I haven't picked the exact song yet, but I'm working on it. In the meantime, Fresh Girl and I dance around the kitchen to Paul Simon's "Loves Me Like a Rock." I pick her up and swing her around and she laughs and laughs and laughs. Oh my mama loves me, she loves me, she get down on her knees and hug me. She loves me like a rock, she rocks me like the rock of ages. She loves me. She loves me, loves me, loves me, loves me...

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Back in the Saddle

Fresh Daddy and I had a slip up in the bedroom recently and through a miscalculation of dates had unprotected sex at a fertile time in my cycle. So when my period was four days late I thought, well, that resolves that whole discussion. That discussion being, are we ready for Fresh Baby Number Two?

We've been having this discussion a lot lately with me close to 37 and Fresh Girl close to 2. The answer was pretty cut and dry for me -- time was ticking away and we should jump on that horse and start galloping toward Number Two. But when my brother and his wife had their second child recently, we watched as they grew more and more exhausted, more and more short-tempered, and more and more exasperated.

"Maybe one is the magic number," Fresh Daddy said as we were driving away from the chaos one day.

"Don't be ridiculous," was my reply and then I demanded that of course we needed to have another child and how could he say such a thing?

In the past few weeks and months he has gone on to make the following additional (and annoying) comments:

"I don't know. Fresh Girl is really good. What if the next one isn't so good?"

"I'm saying this for your sake. I think it's going to be too hard on you."

"Can we really handle two?"

or when I start to lose it a little bit at the end of a long day, "Can you really handle another one?"

and every time we see my brother and his family: "See????"

In some ways, I'm not even ready for Number Two. I know I want another baby, God willing, I absolutely do. But I feel selfish about my time with Fresh Girl; I'm not ready to share my attention with another child (and I think of that poor second child who would never really have my full attention, not the way Fresh Girl has. Maybe it's because I'm a first child that I feel this way.). I don't have a longing for another child. Not right here and now anyway and not the way I longed for Number One. Fresh Girl keeps me busy, and entertained, and satisfies all my needs to mother. Getting pregnant for me the first time wasn't easy (although in hindsight it wasn't too bad; I know a lot of people go through a lot more). But at the time, I wanted a child so badly I ached for it. I felt like my world wouldn't be right until I had one. And then she came along and she was everything I wanted and everything I needed. To paraphrase Jerry Maguire (and I apologize for bringing the image of Tom Cruise into this blog), she completes me.

And I'll be honest, it's not just the longing for a second child that has me not ready. The thought of being up all night again frightens me just a little (I remember sleep deprivation as something akin to madness). And am I ready for a newborn again? Breastfeeding! Bottles! and Burping! Oh my! Spitting up? Crying? My adorable little niece -- so cute, so small -- damn, she cries a lot.

But it has never occurred to me to have just one child. I'm the product of a two child family and I've always wanted at least that (although anything more than three definitely seems like too much for me. There Fresh Daddy might be right.). I dream of Fresh Girl and Number Two as best friends, always there for one another. Sure, my own brother and I had our fair share of fights growing up, but we laugh now at all the memories, the good and the bad. I think not only of the joy I get from having a brother, but also of the joy that I get from his family. I love it that Fresh Girl has cousins that she will grow up with and play with and share memories with when she is older. When the time comes, I want her to have the same for her own children.

So as my period was a day late, and then two days late, and then three, four, and five days late, I started to get used to the idea of having Number Two, unplanned as it may be, and so did Fresh Daddy. It was time, it was a sign. It was meant to be. I thought about how nice it would be that Fresh Girl and Number Two would be close in age, they would make good playmates that way. Fresh Daddy and I talked about how she would be a good older sister and recounted all the times she kissed her baby cousin's toes and her fascination with babies in general.

So I peed on a stick and waited for the lines to appear, thinking, "Here we go." But only one line showed up, the one that says the test is working but you're not pregnant. And I was okay with it. Really. I'm a planner so now I know: it's time to start planning again. I do want another one, one of these days soon. Time's a ticking, and it's almost time to get on that horse and kick. Giddyup.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

My Bush Agenda, or, Ode to the Bikini Waxer

I'm going to be perfectly frank here. My pubic hair is out of control.

Sorry. Hope you're not eating.

Yes, it's the middle of summer, and my bikini line is unkempt. How many times have I realized just as I'm pulling my super-elasticized bathing suit up over my thighs that things are not kosher in Beaverland? (More than I care to count.) I seem to always forget to shave my nether regions, despite Fresh Daddy's frequent observation of, "Wow. Bushy." (Well, maybe it's not that frequent; we're tired, people.) I always find myself scrambling with the razor and a little water splashed on for good measure just as I'm running out the door (and, I don't think I have to tell you what comes next. Hello, Rash.) Or worse yet, I think I've covered all my bases (meaning I actually took the time to shave in the shower) only to discover in the bright sunlight that I've missed a few strays (and I've got dark hair -- yikes!). Nothing makes you feel more self-conscious about your body (like I'm not already self-conscious) than pubes peeking out from your bathing suit.

All in all, it's not pretty. I'm in dire need of some personal grooming. The razor is not cutting it. Well, it cuts it but then comes the aforementioned rash and then two days later it's a disaster again. Depilatory? Yeah, not doing a damn thing for me except stinking up the place (can't they do something about that smell?) So that leaves waxing. Bubbling hot wax and a curious toddler do not mix well, so I think it's a job better left to a professional.

If you think about it too much, the concept of having someone spread hot wax on your crotch just to yank it off is a little peculiar. Still, I'm glad there's someone out there to do it and do it right. I've made some tragic mistakes trying to wax my own peach: waxed myself to the carpet, spilled wax everywhere, pulled off some skin in an exceptionally delicate area (really) -- don't try this at home, kids! It's a job for someone skilled in the ancient art of hairus removus. I'm a big fan of the professional bikini wax and the professional bikini waxer (you'd think I'd actually take the time -- time being the operative word here -- to have it done more often).

I will admit to being a little old school about my bikini line though. I don't like to go bald or Brazillian -- I did get a Brazillian once by accident (the pain! the pain! how does anyone do it on a regular basis?) and will admit I went right home and sat in front of the mirror for a while in wonder -- but I don't want it bushy either. Like an army recruit, I like it high and tight. Take it up high on the sides and don't forget my inner inner thighs (or is that my outer labia? I don't know). Wax my butt crack? Fantastic -- just stay away from the eye of the storm, if you know what I mean (do you know that people are actually bleaching that area now? Seriously. But that's a discussion for another day). Take it off! Just leave enough so that I don't have to worry that I look like a 10 year old girl. I'm a mother, after all.

So after sharing all this, I have to admit that it's been about 2 years since my last wax. And now I'm getting ready to go swimming in a friend's pool. And guess what? I forgot to shave this morning. @#$%&*!!!