Stork's Nest

Beauty and the Boob

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I was a young PR chick who wore short skirts, high heels and could drink all night. Flash forward only seven years and I am a secretly (and only very, VERY slightly) graying STORK who realizes the night before going to a swanky conference that not only does she have nothing that fits the now oddly shaped body three children have left her with, but she can no longer balance in heels.

It’s amazing how the things that once came so simply can suddenly seem so daunting. Pre-kids, I had an endless supply of outfits, even brand names, that I could wear to any kind of event, ranging from casual to the most formal. I could pack a carry-on bag in a second, without thinking. I owned more than just flip flops (although they have always been my true shoe love). And when choosing an outfit, my first requirement was not, believe it or not, easy access to my boobs.

Ah, my boobs. Today, my boobs are the subject of endless hours of conversation, typically involving phrases like “you are a boobie baby,” “JayJay wants the boobie,” “you are a big boobie head,” or “Jay is crying, I don’t know what to do with him. You take him, he must want the boob.”

I don’t mind all this boob talk, really. I have never been Penthouse material so I’m glad that what I’ve got has at least gotten some good use. Still, the one place my boobs don’t really belong is on a work trip.

The first problem occurred in my crazy, Sunday night scramble to find something to wear. I saw a number of appropriate dresses. However, given I was going to be flying down to the conference at 6:30 a.m. and returning home that night at 9:30 p.m., I was going to have to take my breast pump along and find places to use it along the way. Given that I had no hotel room, and a dress would mean that I would be nursing with my dress basically over my head, I decided that this was not the best choice for the public bathroom.

Because, yes, the public bathroom is where I spent a good amount of my time Monday. The public bathroom at the airport where I stood by the paper towels, hooter hider over my pump, and greeted everyone as they dried their hands, inches from my equipment. And then the hotel bathroom, where I perched on a little couch and made small talk with women reapplying their lipstick.

And you know the weird thing, no one, not even those little twenty-something year old me’s, really even looked twice. No one noticed that my bra was stuffed with Kleenex because today was of course the first day in ten months of nursing that I had forgotten to put on breast pads.

And a lot of people liked my skirt.

Once, last summer, I told my husband that I still felt like I was 25, and that I thought maybe I still looked 25. He was a bit skeptical on that point, and being in a room of twenty-somethings at this conference made me realize that yes, I don’t look 25. I look better.

As I watched those fledglings wander around the show floor, in their strappy sandals and shiny lip gloss, they looked confused, maybe even a bit scared. And you know what, my clothes were actually cooler than theirs. Sure, their stomachs might be a bit (OK, a lot) flatter but I was suffering through it all in heels, so with that little boost, who could really tell. And I could move around with confidence because, really, if you just spent 15 minutes pumping in a public bathroom, is a room full of “important people” going to intimidate you?

I think as a married person, let alone a mom pushing 40, it is easy to look back at your 20s and see only the highlights--the first dates, the nights at the bar with your big group of friends, the late morning sleep-ins. It’s easy to forget the hang-overs, the biological clock, the nervousness about what might come yet.

As STORKS we know what’s coming next: more diapers, more milestones, more sleepless nights, more family trips, more tantrums, more hugs and kisses. And more things that are one hundred percent out of our control.

Being able to accept the imperfection, to look yourself in the mirror with no makeup and wild hair and still somehow find the guts to go out and face the world, well that’s pretty beautiful. So rather than thinking about all the things we once did, we should enjoy more all the things that we can do now. We STORKS are a pretty interesting bunch. Even more interesting than my boobs.

The Goodbye Song

Today, I snuck out for an early lunch and went to music with Annie and Jay. I’ve been to this rec center class forever, ever since Danny was a little guy and, just like Jay, was spending more time sucking on the instruments than drumming. The teachers have changed, even my kids have changed, but one thing remains the same: the goodbye song always makes me cry.  

I don’t know why the song gets me. Maybe it’s working mom angst. Maybe it’s just the purity of the chords, especially when played on a lonely violin. Or maybe it’s the sweetness with which Annie lays her head in my lap as we sing so long, farewell to her. But most likely it is simply because I suck at goodbyes.

Even now, working from home, I tend to linger a bit too long and give too many kisses when I am going out for a simple afternoon of meetings. I still cry if I have to go anywhere overnight (although, don’t get me wrong, a quiet plane ride and a big fat drink cure me pretty fast). I even hate to say goodbye to my parents in Boston when we talk on the phone every day, telling them good night instead, even though sometimes it is still the afternoon.  I guess clinically this must mean I have some kind of abandonment issues. But I think my real issue is that I can’t quite accept how quickly times goes by.   

This week, an old friend lost his nephew at a very young age to cancer. This beautiful boy, named Sam, and his family never gave up hope, never stopped fighting and, best of all, never stopped having fun. Sam and his two brothers managed to be “normal” in spite of it all, and to read the family’s blog (www.teamsam.com) is to see a testament to love and to life.  Hearing about Sam has both devastated and inspired me. It sounds trite but Sam has made me want to be a better person, to worry less and laugh more, to spend less time picking up toys and more time holding hands.

I know I will probably forget all of these lessons by next week, when a work crisis hits or Annie poops in her underwear three times in one day. But for today, and for as long as I can, I am going to try and hold on to the beauty I can find around me.  I am going to try and learn from Sam, learn how there are no real goodbyes, that every day, even the worst day imaginable, can hold some cause to smile. That even the hardest goodbye can be a victory celebration.  

Sam loved bright colors. Wear some in his honor this week. Think of him a bit. And be thankful, like I will be, of what we can learn from the beauty and honor with which he and his family lived. And said goodbye.

Cry, Cry Baby

I have been having one of those days when, for no good reason, all you really want to do is have a long, loud cry. While some people might think this probably means there is a hotline somewhere that I should be calling, my mom friends all tell me it’s alright. And on any given day four out of five of them would like to join in too.

I don’t know why we moms feel the urge to cry so much.  I should say that it isn’t always out of sadness. The way Annie says ‘yes” with a little lisp, or eats an M&M in about twenty sharp little chews, can make me well up. Jay’s “tickletickletickle” is so pure, especially when combined with a quick head-on-my-shoulder cuddle, that it can do the trick. Danny’s straight-faced misuse of words (most recent is “classified” for “classic”) can bring a tear along with laughter.

And so can Annie’s knock-down temper tantrums over a missing princess. Or Danny’s high-pitched screaming through the house at bedtime. And even Jay’s tickles can be a bit much at 2 a.m. Sorry, Jay.

They say that as parents you get to relive your own childhood. This is definitely true. I feel like I have rediscovered my love of a simple leaf, of playing tag, and of driving Barbie around in a purple convertible.  And maybe by doing these things, I have also rediscovered what it’s like to live with your heart perpetually on your sleeve. That is, after all, what kids do.

One thing all we moms have in common is that for us, just like for our kids, every day brings some new adventure and invariably a new challenge along with it. A trip to the museum can get delayed by poop in the hair (don’t ask). An ice cream treat can turn ugly when half way home, half way down from a sugar high, no one wants to walk.

But then a dreaded rainy afternoon can turn magical with something as simple as a round of Candy Land. A weed brought home from the sidewalk can warm up a kitchen windowsill for a week, long after it turns brown and shriveled. 

It’s a bit of an emotional roller coaster to keep up with all these downs, so is it really a wonder that we cry so much?

Or maybe we are all just way too tired.

Which brings me to one of the reasons that I am a bit teary today. I ran into an old friend who has a pretty similar life to mine. She grew up in the same town back in Massachusetts, moved out here and married a local boy, and now has three kids. We agree on Starbucks over Peets. We like the same stands at the farmers’ market. We were both outraged when our daughters’ ballet teacher tried to kick moms out of class. And we both found our husbands’ absolute refusal to consider a fourth child incomprehensible and utterly infuriating.

But guess what? Yup, she’s nine months pregnant.

Now your first reasonable question is why someone who was just talking about how tired they are can now turn around and say she wants more chaos. But the answer is simple enough: I just do.

 There is nothing I love more than being a mother, nothing I love more than being pregnant. Now, I have been lucky and had easy pregnancies. But feeling a baby grow inside of you, knowing that you are host to this kind of a miracle, it is heady stuff for even moms that spend all nine months on the bathroom floor. And then greeting that baby, watching them grow into these crazy, beautiful little people is more addictive than any drug.  So yes, I want more.

Frankly, I should have been a Mormon since being a Roman Catholic doesn’t seem to be doing the trick.

There a million reasons why three babies is enough but I have always had my heart set on four. Being the mistake baby of my family, with my closest sibling twelve years older, I was in many ways an only child. My brother was out of the house when I was four, my sister when I was barely in junior high. I always wondered what went on in the homes of people with big families, like the Cunninghams next door to us where every year saw a new baby, until they reached around ten and needed a bigger house.

And now I know. What goes on is laughter and messes and fights. Long goodnights, monsters at the door, hugs at five a.m. Bath tubs that get more and more crowded. Hand-me-downs that start to wear at the knees. Dinners with more food on the floor than in mouths. Playdates with the little ones tagging around after big brother’s impressive school friends.  Digging in the garden, riding bikes, selling lemonade and cookies. Always together, always loud. Always something new.

I know I am blessed. And I am beyond grateful But tonight, while I nurse my sweet baby, now almost a little boy, to sleep, I am going to press my lips to his warm, fuzzy head. And between some lullabies, there just might be some tears.

And some secret hopes that someday that beautiful cradle might be used once again. That’s another thing about being like a child. You stay full of those beautiful, crazy dreams.  

 

White Sox and Whistles

Danny is going to kindergarten in September and it already makes me alternatively weepy and terrified. The thought that my drooly baby, my firstborn, is actually going to wear a backpack and use a urinal is beyond comprehension. But, frankly, not even the idea of Danny having to find that school bathroom by himself frightens me as much as this upcoming season of T-ball.

Danny has never been an aggro sports kid. He would rather look for bugs than play catch. He can run faster than the wind but he would prefer to zig-zag than follow the bases. And he might be running from aliens that only he can see. And those aliens might encourage him to abandon the outfield altogether on opening day. It’s hard to say. Which naturally could make a mom a bit nervous when confronted with a team of organized kids, mostly from the very tony town next to ours, who have clearly spent a lot of time practicing with their dads.  And whose mom did not forget their glove on the very first day.

Last Thursday was our first team meeting and the Conways were quite a sight. I had just finished work and, as it was a no client meeting day, I was in old sweats matched inappropriately with a Burberry coat (my attempt to be fancy) and boots (don’t ask). Danny was dressed correctly but refused to make eye contact with any of the four (yes, four) coaches when they introduced themselves.  Annie was alternatively whining because she wanted to play baseball too and pulling my pants down so quickly that underwear was definitely seen. Oh, and baby Jay had a sudden eye infection that had swelled one eye almost completely shut and pussy, leaving him a bitter, down and out Popeye. And I am pretty sure that I had some unidentified baby food—or poop, who knows at this point—in my hair as well.

The other families were calm, poised. Many knew each other. Boys threw long passes to each other. And they caught the ball. In their gloves. Moms wore earnings, of all things. Fathers spoke of practice uniforms, games, sportsmanship, learning the positions. The kids stood and listened attentively, except Danny, who tried to joke into the ear of another player. The field was closed, they said, due to a previous day of rain, so we could all go home. While I sighed with everyone else, my inner me said, “Hooray, saved another day!”

Now, mind you, Danny didn’t sign himself up for T-ball. I did. And Danny has gotten excited about playing, even beyond the fact that he gets a cool White Sox uniform and his own number. He was excited enough that he actually let his Dad coach him last weekend at the park. And he wasn’t half bad. His crowning moment was when he threw the ball up and hit it himself. And you know what, it was a way cooler moment than watching those highly coached boys throw the ball to each other at practice the other day. As Danny told us all the rest of the day, he is really good at baseball.

So why do I still worry about that first practice? Because I guess as much as I try, it is hard not to compare.

We all make choices in our kids’ education and the choice I made with Danny was to do play-based preschool. So, no memorization, no drills, just an emphasis on experiencing life—and of course learning the basics along the way.  Danny has flourished in this environment. He thinks big, plays hard and learns a lot. His most recent accomplishments include developing a super power through which he can see one thing with his eyes and another thing in his brain at the same time. He has also taught himself to whistle. Oh, and he has learned his letters and, on a good day, all of his numbers along the way as well.

But he can’t read. And he can’t catch with his mitt yet. And on the White Sox team, and at school, there are going to be kids that can do both. And that scares me not because I worry about him not being as bright as the other kids but because I worry that he will think he is not as good as them, that he will perceive himself as a loser. Just like I once felt when I was chosen last for gym teams. So, yes, I am projecting. But isn’t that what all of us parents do?

We always want a better life for our kids but in many cases, isn’t the one we already have good enough? We have enough money, enough success, and more than enough love. Who cares if he can’t read until first grade if he is still able to dream beautiful dreams of saving the world from evil doctors or growing the biggest strawberries on the block? If he ended up exactly where I am right now—overworked, overtired but blessed with a husband, kids and extended family and friends that love me—isn’t that more than enough to wish for him?

And, what’s more, as I geared up for practice today (rained out again), I realized that Danny doesn’t ever think of himself as a loser. He hasn’t learned yet that not being the best at everything means that you can’t have fun. Just because I was a dork as a kid, doesn’t mean he will be. And if I pressure him to be something he’s not, then the spark that makes him Danny might go out.  This doesn’t mean we won’t still practice with him. But if we go to the game and Danny is the crappiest player in the whole league, I am still going to stand up and cheer, underwear showing or not. Because, by now, what I should have learned myself in life is that—just as his preschool teacher always says—it is the process, not the product that counts.

Your kid may already know how to read. But my boy sure can whistle.