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27Sep 2014

The Difference Between Feminism and Good Manners

by Amy

I identify myself as a feminist. Feminism has gotten a bad rap over the last 30 years and now the mental image connected with that word is somewhere around a man-hating-militant-beast. I can assure you I am none of those things. I don’t have penis envy, I have wallet envy. In my world, feminism is the thought that women and men should be treated equal on all levels. I married a man with whom I am equal. If we have established gender roles, such as, he works while I take care of the children that is not because I am less of a person in our relationship, it is because it makes financial sense.

This morning I needed to go grocery shopping. Of course it was raining because, you know, Mother Nature is a feminist too. Obviously… no one gets a free ride around here. I was walking from my car holding an umbrella, my 20 pound baby (in his car carrier), and the hand of my 3-year-old. As I approached the store entrance there was a man, around the age of 60, standing by the door, staring at me. My assumption, as a member of the human-fucking-race was that this other member of the human race would open the door for me… note-to-self: don’t ever assume anything. He did not. He just stood there. As I went to place my baby carrier on the ground, in the rain, I muttered something along the lines of, “Thanks for grabbing the door.” to which this Archie Bunker impersonator replied, “I thought y’all ladies didn’t want doors opened for ya anymore.”

Touché Archie. Touché. I don’t want you to open a door for me because I’m a lady. You would offer to open the door because I was struggling, and having good-manners isn’t about what you are packing in your pants, it’s about common decency.

When women decided to ask for the same rights as men, sadly, some men took that as if we didn’t want them to have good manners at all anymore. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Now I’m raising 3 sons, and teaching them there is a difference between rescuing the princess and just being kind to your fellow-man, is the most important lesson they will ever need to know. Human decency didn’t have to go out the window with the suffrage movement and I don’t care if it’s an old lady or a big strapping guy, if you get to the damn-door first you hold that sucker open, because that’s just good manners.

My kids might be assclowns… they might fart on each other’s heads, never put the toilet seat down, always forget their lunch bags at school, play too much Minecraft, sing Gangnam Style at the drop of a hat, have a full glossary of words that they shouldn’t have, and fight me tooth-and-nail over meals, but they will be assclowns that know to offer help to someone who needs it.

My kind of assclowns.

27Sep 2014

Aging, Sisterhood, and Clarity

by Amy

Getting older can be a real buzzkill. One minute you’re 18 and the world is laid out in front of you like one of those naked chicks acting as a human plate in a European sushi place, and the next minute you’re attempting to do 8 minutes of abs on the floor of your baby’s room but all you hear is your hip cracking with every reverse curl.

It can bring you down. Okay, I’m being nice, it can get you down and make you stay down.

But today I had this epiphany about aging. Although my body and gravity are far from BFF’s now, aging has given me something I never had before… a bit of clarity. Clarity about our place in the universe, and mostly about the feelings I have towards my friendships with other women.

We all know at least one woman that we look at and say, “Damn, girlfriend has got her shit together. I wish I had my shit together like that” and contrarily we also know many who we look at and say, “Bitch needs to get her shit together. I’m so glad I’ve got my shit more together than that.” I think I’ve fallen into both of these categories at some stage of my life. Some more than others. What freaked me out about having these types of attitudes and opinions about other women, was the fact that I’d pegged it as jealously, and the idea that I was jealous of someone else’s success made me feel pretty sick about myself. In hindsight, I wasn’t jealous. Not in the slightest, but I didn’t know better then.

Recently though, I’ve started to realize that being enamored of someone didn’t make me a jealous person. I didn’t want what they had, I didn’t want to take their mojo away from them. Well, maybe I wanted a little bit of their good stuff to rub off on me, but I’m not a mojo sucking vampire. That’s when the truth jumped up and bit me, some people just have that “it” factor. That little thing that makes them a true shining star in your day. Even when their life isn’t going according to plan, even when things are really screwed up, you won’t know because they shine bright in your You-niverse and that’s all you see.

Ironically it took someone, telling me, that I had that “it” factor in their eyes, which brought me to this mind-blowing-moment. Me? Who-the-hell would look at me like that? My first thought? A crazy person, but this is actually someone I love and respect. I was just so floored with this revelation that I needed to take a step back and see myself the way she saw me. Sure I’m old and tired, sarcastic and silly… but maybe, just maybe, on a good day, I can be the center of her You-niverse, that little thing that makes her say, “Hahaha, Yes!”

Women are usually their own worst critic and rarely give ourselves the props we deserve. I’m that type of woman, normally… but I’m gonna bottle up that good feeling from today, take her amazing compliment, keep it in the kitchen, and whip it out when I’m feeling down.

So I guess this is growing up.

27Sep 2014

The Accidental Slut Run

by Amy

Another Wednesday, another running day.

It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve gotten off my ass and started running again. I’m still not very good at it but I was actually looking forward to hitting the pavement this morning. Monday’s attempt at a run was awful. I had to run later in the day and by the time I was able to go, it was 97 degrees out and I forgot my hair tie. I turned around halfway. Mission aborted.

Today I was gonna rock it. Although It’s not easy to digest that I’m using my “me time” for something physical when I’d prefer to be watching crappy TV or reading a good book, it has to be done. I have to do something. Running it is.

Now I’m rocking a new playlist, a new pair of kicks and holding my head up high. The baby and I hit the main road outside my development with a nice breeze and the Florida sun shining in the sky as we go.

5 minutes in and I’m surprised at how good I feel… maybe my body has resigned itself to the fact that the brain is the boss here. You hear that old, tired, body? I run the show! Mind over fat! A lawn truck drives by and the occupants whistle and honk. Shit, I actually look good doing this? Me? I can’t even process that idea as Adam Levine croons in my headphones.

So this is what doing running right feels like? I make a mental note to text one of my crazy marathon friends when I get back home. She’s gonna be so proud of me. Hell, I’m so proud of me. Now I can almost feel the skip in my step. I’m not a runner, I’m a freaking supermodel. Take that, self-deprecating me!

It’s around the 11 minute mark of my 30 minute workout that the second catcall comes, this time from some old guys in a white van. What? I must look phenomenal today. Maybe it’s because of that full moon, maybe it’s because I’ve lost 5 pounds? Who knows? Who cares? Just enjoy this feeling knowing disgusting old men find you wanton. Actually, that’s a bit of a creepy thought but whatever, just keep running.

At the halfway mark I see the baby is asleep. Good baby, the perfect running buddy. I’m making a mental checklist of the things I’ll need for dinner and this time, a County garbage truck honks and waves. Okay, something is up. I look down… nope, no nipples showing, running skirt looks okay… hmmm, maybe the Rosie the Riveter look is back in. Eat that Betty Boop! I’m not usually the person who relies on the compliments of others but when you’re not afraid for your safety, a honk during a workout can feel pretty good for your self-esteem. Although… 3 honks in one day? That’s a bit over the top? I ignore that thought and continue on… almost done, 5 more minutes.

I’m almost home, basking in the glory of a really good run and some very enamored spectators when I hear another whistle… this time from a neighbor I know…

“Hey, good run?”

{taking off my headphones} Yeah, one of the best. {I’m smiling ear to ear}

“Yeah… Ummm…”

{He looks uncomfortable, why does he look so uncomfortable?}

“Your skirt is tucked into your shorts.”

That’s when I turn around to see the reason behind my popularity this morning.

My behind.

My cute little black running skirt has been tucked into the attached purple shorts for 30 minutes!

While I was running! In public! In my hometown! With my baby!

Am I surprised? Nope, not one bit.

Whatever. That was the best I felt while working out in a long while. Maybe I’ll invest in some of those little running shorts that the Olympians wear.

I’m sure to get some super honks then.

24Aug 2014

Confessions of a Former Sanctimommy

by outnumberedmother

Are you a sanctimonious know-it-all bitch? Do you, look down your nose at the decisions other people make in regards to their children? Then you’re in the right place. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

I used to be just like you. When it came to parenting I thought I had all the answers and I would hand those little answers out like candy on Halloween. You want to know what the big difference was between Halloween and my parenting advice? On Halloween, you ask for candy. You head to the door of a neighbor’s house wearing your best Princess Leia costume and you say, “Trick or Treat.” When it came to me, doling out my parenting expertise… no one asked for it. That is what made me a Sanctimommy. That is what makes you a Sanctimommy. Unsolicited advice. So the first step to conversion into a normal, emphatic person and friend is to shut your pie-hole unless someone asks your opinion.

I know, easier said than done.

We all know, you have this whole “parenting thing” on lock. You’ve told us, a million times. I’m sure you think you’re being a good friend or mentor by sharing the pearls of wisdom you’ve acquired to the rest of us, but seriously, honey, it’s not nuclear fission we’re talking about here. There isn’t a correct way to do everything, for every kid. No… just stop. There isn’t.

Do I have to give you the whole “people are snowflakes” talk again? Really? Okay here it goes… people are like snowflakes, each and every one of them different and special. We all have different shapes and sizes that we come in, with different wants and needs. The way you handle your perfect kid might not work for the way I handle mine. I know your way is right, I know it, but what you don’t seem to realize is that it might not be right FOR EVERYONE ELSE and when you finally realize that, when that cartoon lightbulb above your brain activates, that is when you will shed your Santicmommy skin and become mortal. Just a mommy. A flawed but desperately trying Mom.

The birth of my 2nd child was my light-bulb. He is the polar opposite of his brother. When he took his first breath was when I realized that there was no correct system for every single person. Now, don’t get me wrong, of course, I still have opinions about parenting, strong and loud opinions. Keeping them to myself isn’t always easy, I’ll admit that, but when it comes to chucking that shit to strangers on the internet, I put my hands in my pockets and walk away. That’s what you should do girlfriend. Hands to yourself. Don’t type anything. Just go and live your perfect life, with your perfect family, and write down all the answers you obviously have, as a memoir, a how-to-parent book if you will. Then you can give it to your future daughter-in-law at her baby shower… I’m sure she’ll appreciate the parenting advice. Wouldn’t you have loved to get a book like that from the mother of your baby daddy? No?

Now do you get it? Did it sink in now?

Thought so.

23Aug 2014

The Power Struggle is Real

by outnumberedmother

Having more than one kid has turned me into a white, maternal version of Rodney King. “Can’t we all just get along?”

These little bastards will fight over anything and everything. Then they try to play it off in the most contemptuous manner. As if they have no clue how they’ve gotten into this mess in the first place. The look on their faces is a cross between Elle Woods and Forest Gump. “Who me? What did I do? No, my brother’s face just fell on my fist.”

I’m over it.

The latest power struggle is about seating placement on the couch. It starts from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep. Personally, I could care less who sits where, but these fights aren’t quiet and throughout the day I find myself hissing through clenched teeth and an angry voice, “DON’T WAKE UP THE BABY!” I can’t seem to get a handle on it and I’ve tried everything. Assigned seating, couch rules, strict monitoring of couch placement, nothing is working. They are the sneakiest little couch bandits. One minute, everything is fine, I go to the bathroom, and all hell breaks loose. I’m about one more fight away from getting rid of the couches all together. “Here you go suckers, sit on the floor.” That’ll teach ’em. Let’s be honest though, I’d be cutting off my nose to spite my own face, and ass, and circulation. I need a better plan than that.

I’m thinking of investing in a barrage of whoopee cushions and strategically placing them all along both couches. The look of complete surprise on their little argumentative faces would be priceless. Crap, that won’t work. These are boys. Fart noises are their national anthem. This is not a good idea.

Ohh, maybe I can try a shit-ton of water balloons… Haha, you wanted yummy comfort and now you’re soaking wet. But…. guess who’s going to be the one to clean up the couch, change everyone’s wet clothes and have to do an extra load of laundry? Yup, you guessed it… me. Backfire city.

OH MY G-D!!! I’ve figured it out. This idea is going to win me a Nobel Peace Prize for sure. I’m taking the cushions… ALL OF THE CUSHIONS. If you want to sit on the couch you can come to me for a cushion. You may only have one cushion at a time (this will stop all the fights over who was laying down first, who is touching whom, who’s butt is in the other brothers face, eyes, foot). This idea is parenting gold right here.

I AM THE SMARTEST PERSON IN THE WORLD!

Now I’m off to test operation cushion.

But first, I have to vacuum the couch.

I hope it doesn’t wake the baby.

17Aug 2014

Grandma and The Mighty Atom

by outnumberedmother

I’m a terrible person.

With the birth of my 3rd child, things around here got complicated. Trying to time everything just right: handle all the schedules, keep it smooth sailing for the older kids while balancing the needs of a newborn, I wanted life to be seamless. I think I’ve done a pretty good job. They are all still alive, and DCF hasn’t been to the house. *Happy Dance*

Unfortunately, I’ve let other things slide. Me time (yeah, right, what’s that), personal friendships (I’m sorry friends, I swear I’ll call soon), and the most important thing of all… the rest of my family, more specifically, my grandmother.

I am so blessed to still have my grandma in my life, on this earth and living only 30 minutes from me. She’s a 91-year-old fireball, and the only thing larger than my love for her is my respect for her. It’s been 11 years since she lost my papa (they dated since she was 14) and although I know she misses him terribly (we all do), Grandma still lives her life. Everything I need to know about love, humility, and commitment I’ve learned from GG (her nickname, as she is my kid’s Great Grandmother).

With a houseful of kids, the squeaky wheel is always the one that gets the grease, and because Grandma is in fine overall health, I hadn’t made a lot of time for her, until yesterday. Grandma came over for dinner, played with the great-grandkids, swam in the pool, and even read my blog. Yesterday was a chance at some downtime, and a real eye-opener. It’s easy to forget that my grandma was once a 37-year-old mom too, and a girl, and an adolescent, and a public school teacher. It’s simple to look at her, the way she is now, at 91, and forget that she lived a whole different life before me, before my mom, before this century. Thank God I have Grandma to remind me.

After dinner last night GG said,

“Do you have On Demand?”

{Complete shock} Sure we have On Demand, I can’t believe you even know what that is… What would you like to watch?

“Well, my friend, Moshe, is on America’s Got Talent… do you know that show?”

Of course I know that show. What are you talking about, “your friend” is on it. {Now I’m getting a bit worried… is GG losing it?}

“My old friend, Moshe, he’s the “Mighty Atom Jr.” His father was the “Mighty Atom”. He pulls a car with his teeth. I missed the show, and I’d love to see it.”

Of course, through my love of pop culture and Americana, I’d heard of “The Mighty Atom”. He was a popular (and world renown) 20th Century Strongman. Guess what? GG grew up with his kid.

Mike Greenstein, or Moshe, (as GG has known him forever) grew up with Grandma in Brooklyn. They are still friends today, talk on the phone all the time, and he’s even come to visit her in Florida. He is also a Strongman, and at 93-YEARS-OLD, pulls CARS WITH HIS TEETH. I know, take a minute and let that sink in.

His father (Joe Greenstein) used to pull cars with his hair. Grandma says he’d do it on the street for the kids to see. What? My kids are impressed if a neighbor invites them over for a barbecue… times have changed.

So we pulled up the video from America’s Got Talent so Grandma could see Moshe in all his 93-year-old, strongest-teeth-ever, car-pulling glory.

The insane part is that while watching this video, with Grandma, I could see her as a young woman again. I could see Moshe as a young man too. That strength: the bravery it takes to age, in a society which throws our elderly out the door without a glance. I’m in awe of them. All of them. Grandma has always told me she still thinks she’s 18-years-old in her mind. I can totally understand that now as I’m looking 40 in the underbelly.

I told GG that although I’ve never seen her move a 5,000-pound automobile with her teeth, her presence moves mountains.

At least, it does for me.