Time After Time

Margaret Atwood, my favorite author, says in Cat's Eye, "Time is not a line but a dimension. You don't look back along time but down through it, like water.  Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing.  Nothing ever goes away."

This makes sense to me.  Good sense. It also helps me justify time travel in my head.  And I love the idea of time travel.  (Side note:  God, I miss LOST.)

But even so, isn't it strange how, after a relationship ends, it's so hard to remember the details later on.  The edges are blurry, like you forgot to put your contacts in that day.  It's almost like a dream, or a story you heard from someone else a long time ago.  Like it never really happened to you at all.

But every once in a while, all of a sudden, something reminds you of him.  A song, a smell, a voice, and there it is.  There he is, in your face, clear as day, all sharp edges and detailed lines.   So I guess Margaret is right.  Nothing ever goes away.

Even when you wish it would.

Badges of Honor

The other day I was at the hair salon, and I was eavesdropping - as you do - on the women at the station next to me. 

"I cannot believe that's Beyoncé.  She's way too skinny.  That's airbrushed to hell."
"Do you think she really had her baby?"
"NO."
"I don't either."
"There's no way that girl would have only gained that tiny bit of weight.  If Beyoncé was pregnant, she would've been HUGE.  She would have had fat freakin' arms.  Her face would be all bloated and huge.  Girlfriend puts on WEIGHT.  You just know she'd be that pregnant woman with the nasty gas, zits and a mustache."

It was at this point that I began to interrupt to say, "And clearly, you have children too.  Cause that's the only way you're allowed to even comment about pregnancy...and get away with it."

I was thisclose.  But I chose to keep my mouth shut.  Hey man, I really like this place, and I am not trying to start fights with random strangers.  Especially as I was 99% sure that this woman did not have children have her own. 

Okay, Gentle Reader, here's the thing.  If you haven't been there, you don't know.  And if you don't know, you need to shut the hell up.  Pregnancy is a messy business.  Yes, some of us get huge.  Our bodies do crazy things, make crazy sounds, turn crazy colors.  And the horrors that come along with giving birth?  Yikes.  And the post-baby experience - even years later - is still no picnic. 

Listen up - We were GROWING A PERSON inside us. Perhaps we could be cut a little bit of slack as we're rocking meaty arms, swollen faces, and acne better suited to a 13 year old boy.  Just a little bit?

And later, after that little person has officially joined our world, I say we wear our new bodies like uniforms - and with pride.  My little(ish) tummy pooch?  An achievement medal.  My less-than-perky breasts?  Life-saving gear.  Thick arms?  Necessary for combat.  Stretch marks?  Service ribbons.   

Our imperfect bodies are worthy of this recognition.  They went above and beyond the call of duty, my friends.  They are heroes.    

So what if we need a little camouflage every once in a while?

Hottie Hot Hot!

"I think I reached my hotness plateau awhile back, and I'm now on a slow & steady decline from here on out," I said to Tim a few weeks back.

He disagreed because he is a good man.  (He is also not stupid.)

I feel like it's true though.  And it pisses me off.  Aging is brutal - especially when you have lived the (ahem) party girl lifestyle that I have led.  And don't even get me started on having a damn baby.  Your body isn't for you (or your partner) anymore, that's for sure.  And as the years go by, it seems to take a lot more time, money and energy to make myself look halfway decent when 5 or 6 years ago, I rolled out of bed looking pretty damn cute. 

This decline of hotness also seems to be in direct correlation with the decline of men hitting on me.  I mean, yeah, I'm married and I have a kid an all that, but STILL.  It's nice to be hit on once in awhile, right?  It's always nice to know that someone besides your husband finds you attractive.  And maybe, as a liberated woman, I shouldn't say this out loud, but it feels a little like validation.  Or at least it makes me feel like the 2 hours and 45 minutes I spent getting ready were worth it. 

Which leads me to last night....

I went to a party last night.  A work party.  I did not plan on staying out for long.  I didn't think much of it really.  I still spent some time trying to improve my hotness, but nothing crazy.  Well, I did get a spray tan, but so what?  I'm in Austin!

I don't know if it's because SXSW is like Spring Break for grown-ups.  (And geeks.)  I don't know if it's because I was away from my every day life, or if it's because my tramp stamp lower-back tattoo was peeking out of my jeans.  Or maybe it was simply the 4 glasses of wine I had on a empty stomach.  Whatever the reason, it was a good night for hotness.  I was asked for my number three times.  Two different guys asked me to have drinks with them after the party was over.  And another guy - out of the blue - said to me, "You are really sexy."  I wasn't even flirting with him.  No, seriously.

And, later that night, alone in my hotel room after leaving the party alone (hello, I'm married!), I realized something.  Hotness is a state of mind. 

And I am back on the upward climb.

Bad Mommy

I'm going to tell you something.  Some of you may not like it.  Some of you may not understand it.  But my hope is that some of you will perhaps relate, and you will tell me so.

Okay, so here it is.

I didn't really enjoy those first few months of motherhood at all.  In fact, at one point, I actually regretted the decision to have a baby.  I did not want to hold my baby constantly.  I never said, "I just want to eat your face!"  I did not stare at him for hours on end.  I didn't immediately feel like a mother.  I took every opportunity to leave the house, run an errand, get some time alone.  In fact, for a lot of the time, I wished I was at work.  Or anywhere else.

Those first 2-3 months of Will's life were some of the hardest, most stressful, and yes, saddest days I've ever had.

Some of it was due to the fact that breast-feeding was very challenging for us, and I really beat myself up about that.  Some of it was that my Mom left 4 days after we came home from the hospital, and Tim was back at work immediately.  Will and I were alone together all day.  And as he was up every two hours eating, we were alone together all night too.  I was lonely.  I was in physical pain.  I missed my freedom, my independence, my old life.  I was overwhelmed with the experience & responsibility of caring for 100% of another person's needs.

"Aren't you just so happy?"  "Don't you just love being a mother?"  "Isn't he just the best thing that ever happened to you?"

And now, the answer is yes.  But back then....are you fucking kidding me?

And that was another reason I felt so lonely.  Yeah, of course some women will mention "baby blues" or even go as far as "postpartum", but you really only hear about the *extreme* cases.  We don't ever really talk about the minor cases, the small things.  We truly believe we are alone.

And even now, as I talk to other mothers, both new & experienced, I've got to tell you, I still feel alone.  Maybe I just need to find my rose-colored glasses and look back on those first few months differently.  With all of my heart, I wish that I had been able to enjoy that time.  I wish that I just loved every single second of it.  I wish that I didn't want to hand my baby off every chance I got.  I really wish that were the case.  But it's not.  And while I am truly so very happy for every other mother that *has* been able to love every moment of new motherhood, I just don't understand it.

And so now, after letting you in on my secret shame, I ask you, am I truly alone here?  Am I really the only new mommy that wished, just a little bit, or maybe even a lot, that she wasn't?  Tell me.  I'm begging you. Tell me your dirty little early motherhood secrets.

If you don't judge me, I won't judge you.

Another POV

Seattle's Real Underage Problem?  Clearly, Hanna Olson would not enjoy this blog either. 

Okay, y'all, let me break it down for you. 

First, it's not illegal to have a baby in a bar that has a distinct and seperate bar area.  Obviously, Will isn't all up in his Graco sitting on the bar next to your tequila shots and packs of Camels.  If there isn't a "No Minors" sign on the front door, your baby is in.  Wouldn't it be nice if there was some "No Assholes" policy that had to be abided in the same manner?

Now, I understand that you're not enjoying your PBR if my kid is screaming his face off next to you.  I'M not enjoying my wine if my kid is screaming his face off next to me, trust.  We're going to hightail it out of that joint as soon as this happens.  Or, one of us (and by one of us, I mean Tim) will be heading outside to calm the kid.  Now if only you could do the same for your drunk-off-his-ass friend who won't stop screaming during his pool game or hitting on me when I go to the loo. 

And seriously, let ME worry about the decibel level and the appropriateness of my kid watching you make a fool out of yourself after your third car bomb.  He's seen worse.

Also, consider the state of the parents of this city.  If stopping into Naked City for a beer during our Saturday evening walk helps keep us normal, sane and not-constantly-baby-talking parents, isn't this actually doing Seattle a service?   If not Seattle, then at least the folks that interact with us on an every day basis. 

Finally, if my baby is at a table next to you, chillaxing quietly in his Manny's onesie, among the dull roar of voices, the punk jukebox, and the clink of pint glasses, think about this.  My kid at 6 weeks is already cooler than you'll ever be.  True story.