Panty Lines and Farting in Public

This morning one of my online friends mentioned she was afraid of having panty lines.

That got me thinking about how NOT worried I was about that anymore. My granny panties probably have lines bigger than a Soviet bread line but I really don’t care. Back in the day, I might have worn a thong but now the thought of doing that now makes me cringe. On my list of things to do, wearing a thong to eliminate unsightly panty lines HAS to be at the very bottom.

My apathy towards panty lines got me thinking about the other things that I don’t care about anymore, and the list is frighteningly long.

I have started farting in public. Once upon a time, I would have imploded before I did such a thing, but now I just let it rip. This actually started when I was pregnant because, well, one might expect a ginormous pregnant lady to let one or two slip out every once in a while. But now, I have continued this because really…what better to blame foul smells and errant sounds on than a helpless baby who is unable defend herself?

I don’t care any more about where I buy my clothes. I march directly to the plus size department because elastic waists and flowing silhouettes remind me of my favorite things EVER: maternity clothes. As soon as I could (without looking like a complete freak) I traded in my low-waisted, J Crew boot cut denim pants for velour tracksuits.

I don’t care if I have worn the same clothes four days in a row – as long as I change my granny panties daily and the spit up stains are in inconspicuous places, why not? Okay…actually, I lied. Even if the stains ARE quite obvious that is okay, too, as long as long as I am toting the baby with me so people can see that I am obviously a fairly new mom and getting thrown up on is just par for the course.

I guess I have other things that are more important to care about at this point in my life: making sure the baby is happy, keeping a reasonably clean house, not letting the children starve.

I hope that one day I will care a little bit more. I know that deep within me is someone who usually isn’t like this ~ someone who used to care about her appearance, who exercised five to six days a week (vigorously, mind you!), who said “no” to cake and/or candy bars, who wore un-elasticized pants.

The baby turns five months tomorrow so maybe that would be a good time to pull myself together, put my game face on and start making a bit more of an effort.

Honor Student or Bust

I’ve always known that my genetic makeup was not one of an “uber mom.”

They are the types that have large calendars with all of their children’s activities written down three months in advance and are the ones who pack daily balanced, nutritious lunches for their children with sandwiches cut into triangles. They drive minivans with soccer ball stickers in the back windows or “My Child is an Honor Student at _____,” decals.

I’m definitely not an uber mom, although each year I vow I will be more informed, more pro-active, more prepared.

But alas, I am again the last one to sign the kids up for sports and/or activities, calling the “organizer” breathless and panicked to make sure that sign-ups are still open. I am the one who never really knows what is going on because I forgot to write it on the calendar. I’m the one who picks up my teenager from junior high and tries to exit through the “entrance only” part of the parking lot (despite the squad car sitting there blockading the entrance); thus, embarrassing the said teenager to the point of sending him to a crumpled, defeated heap on the floor of the SUV as I try to negotiate my way out by way of hysterically begging and pleading ignorance.

Now that the third child has come, I am operating at a frightening “seat of my pants” type mode. The best I can hope for is mediocrity with a tinge of desperation.

As my children get older, it hasn’t come any easier with practice and I don’t seem to have learned from my past mistakes.

I am a little envious of the uber moms sometimes, usually when I am running late to somewhere I didn’t realize I needed to be until thirty minutes beforehand. But then, as I think about it, the envy is replaced by a tinge of pride in myself that I found out where I needed to be before the event/practice/signup was over.

I have made a decision that perhaps next year I will strive to be a little more uber; this year has already started as a bit of a bust.

Bag O' Tricks

I have been having a difficult time with losing random items down my shirt lately.

I was sitting at the computer a few weeks ago when, as I reached up to scratch an itch, my hand grazed my chest and made a sound akin to the pocket a middle-aged man. I patted it and heard the unmistakable sound of change jingling.

"How did change get THERE," I wondered. I am generally a debit or credit card using woman and rarely have change of any sort, except for the random quarters I pick up on our kitchen counter after Chris empties his pockets in the evening (I guess one could call that stealing, but I just consider it "cleaning up").

It was truly a mystery how change, specifically a dime and two pennies, could have made it down the front of my shirt, although currently as a nursing mom, that general vicinity could be only described as an abyss. The effect of a bra and/or my nursing tank creates with the extra flesh can only be described as startling, and not necessarily in a good way.

Last night, as I was preparing myself for bed, I noticed a bothersome stickiness coming from the abyss area and proceeded to investigate. I took a peek down my tank and, sure enough. I vaguely remembered Chris tossing me two Dove chocolates after dinner. Did I only eat one?

"Honey!" I called pitifully from the bathroom. "I dropped a Dove down my shirt and there is chocolate everywhere!"

A sound that could only be described as a snort came from the bedroom.

Later I emerged with a clean nursing tank on and all the evidence of the earlier shenanigans had been washed off. I crawled into bed next to my husband. "I wondered why you smelled like chocolate tonight," he confided. Then laughed at me; it was presumably not a "laugh with me" type situation.

I can only imagine what I will find next.

MoonPie and Torture Devices

I have decided I need a hobby.

I want it to be impressive ~ something that I can ramble off when asked of my hobbies and that will illicit a response such as, "Wow! What an interesting hobby SHE has. She must be a FASCINATING individual ~ a woman I would like to get to know!"

The problem is that right now I am not sure I have time for hobbies; my current hobby throws up on me several times a day, craps her pants and bites my nipples, then laughs. I also think this hobby is cutting teeth, which at four months seems too soon.

She arrived at the end of April and has been the center of our family's universe. Her brothers won't stay out of her face and I worry about them kissing her so much.

This week my "extracurricular" hobby, of sorts, has been getting my ass to the gym every morning. Since Moon Pie (her nickname, I don't know why) has arrived, I have managed to eat enough chocolate chip cookies to add fifteen more pounds to my already bumpy figure. So, I joined Weight Watchers this week and began using my gym membership for the first time in a year.

My goal is to be where I was at a year ago: running 3-4 miles 5x a week. But because I am far too jiggly to run right now, I have taken to walking really fast on an incline, manipulating the elliptical machine and torturing myself for five minutes on the Stair Master. I hope to increase my minutes on the torture device until I am on it for 30 minutes because I intend to have a fantastic butt by this time NEXT year.

But enough of that fun stuff for now, I hear my current hobby crying in her crib right now.

Jumping on the Bandwagon.

Starting a blog has always sounded like a good idea. A couple friends of mine have started ones in the past month or so and I am, admittedly, a follower.

I was never one who was a natural "leader" and when put in situations where I was in a leadership position I would undoubtedly puss out. This has happened over and over. People have asked me to organize events before and because of my deep-rooted aversion to telling people "no," I will say yes then hide for the next several months (i.e. not answer my door or phone) until they get the point that I was a horrible, terrible choice and move on to someone else.

Going back and reading that last paragraph, I realize that I sound a little crazy.

Isn't it sweet that my husband thinks my crazy side is sweet and yes, quite endearing. He married me! That sucker. He is stuck with my mood swings, my neurotic tendencies and odd quirks. To save face for HIM, he has been instructed not to allow me to do anything that requires responsibility outside my home, i.e. at church. As a pastor's wife, sometimes people get the wacky notion that the wife would be an ideal choice to be on committees, organize things, etc. Not me! And I am really lucky that Chris knows what a poor choice I would be and fends off any situations that would give me cause to freak out. He is my sieve.

So, yes. I admit that I am a follower. I would never be the "first" one to start a blog, I have to have the way paved for me first. The world HAS to have followers and I am proud to say that I am one of them. Welcome to my blog!