This Housewife Doesn't Sew

I'm off work for one glorious week! So here I am, enjoying the SAHM lifestyle once more. I'm on day 3...and...uh...

I'm bored.

There, I said it.

I'm having fun with my daughter and hearing all of her Elizabeth-isms first hand. (Example: She learned how to spell CAT on her laptop, then looked at me and said, "Okay. Now how do I spell AWKWARD?" I pity that girl's teachers. God help them.)

But she's 4, and she's independent! All she needs me for is 1.) help her put on socks, 2.) switch DVD's, 3.) wipe her butt if she poops, 4.) make lunch, 5.) cut up carrots for snack.

Honestly? I'm feeling kind of useless. She's not a baby with round-the-clock demands, and she's not a toddler who wants Mommy to play one-on-one all day. She's a preschooler! She's quite happy to play in her own little fantasy world of Littlest Pet Shop dramas without me.

What have I been doing with my SAHM time? I re-read 2 novels from my book shelf. I watched my first episode of Days of Our Lives in 3 years (who ARE all those new people?). I made batches of soup and stored them in my freezer. I took a few naps. And, I decided to go all Martha Stewart and make Elizabeth's Easter dress.*

(*Side note: I've never used a pattern before, and my sewing machine scares the beejebus out of me. But I have watched many episodes of Project Runway and if those people can sew, DAMN IT, so can I.)

My Mom is a Home Ec. teacher (a breed of dinosaur that will soon be extinct, like Latin teachers or History teachers that DON'T coach) and she helped me out. We picked a "Simplicity" pattern, a couple yards of clearance blue satin, ribbon, thread, flowers, etc., and went for it.

Holy. Hell. Whoever labeled that pattern as "Very Easy" needs to be shot in the head. Repeatedly.

I figured out how to cut the pattern, but actually slapping the pieces together? Gawd. Even my mom had no clue what they were trying to say and threw the instructions on the floor, saying, "We'll just do it my way."

10 hours of cursing, headaches, and screaming fits later, the dress is finished:

It's gorgeous! And....my Mom made most of it.

I suck at sewing, internets.

Remember how I said in this post that the lifetime SAHM's in my family swore that I could make up my lost income by sewing? Hmmm...let's compare the cost.

Homemade Dress:
Pattern: $7.00
Fabric: $3.50
2 types of thread: $7.00
Ribbon: $5.00
Flowers: $3.50
10 hrs. of my labor at $10 an hour: $100.00

Total: $126.00

Store Bought Dress:
Pretzel from Auntie Anne's: $4.00
Dress: $60, but on clearance rack for $15.00
1/2 hour of "labor": $5.00

Total: $24.00

My conclusion? Sewing would be a nice hobby (if pattern instructions didn't make me want to jam needles in my eyes) but there's no way I could make our clothes and save shit loads of money. The materials alone cost more than my normal clearance finds!

Sorry, Grandma. That SAHM theory has been disproved.

Pregnancy Week 21

You know that scene in the first Pirates of the Caribbean* where hawt Johnny Depp is sword fighting with hawt Orlando Bloom and you're totally distracted from the plot because it's hard to decide who you would most want to hog tie?

Anyway...Kevin laughs at that scene because Johnny Depp pulls out a gun and Orlando is all like, "You cheated!" and Johnny goes, "Pirate." 

(He leaves off the obvious "Duh.")

"Pirate."

Only Kevin switched it around, and now says, "Pregnant," whenever I complain about my body.

Me:  GAWD.  I gained 11 pounds so far!  I freaking hate this!

Kevin:  Pregnant.

Me:  *wheezing and gasping*  I can't walk up the steps....without....ugh....can't....breathe...

Kevin:  Well, we're both out of shape.

Me:  *B.A. Baracus What-you-talkin'-bout-fool? stare* 

Kevin:  Oh, and...PREGNANT. 

21 weeks and I'm not feeling lots of baby kicks.  I wonder if I have an anterior placenta?  Notice I say "wonder" because Dr. Loompa scheduled the ultrasound weeks later than he should have because he was distracted by the smell of China Palace, and I have no clue what's really going on with my baby. 

I might as well be going to see these women.   

I'd be no worse off.  And maybe they could predict the sex by reading apple peels or holding my wedding ring over my stomach tied to a string. 

And?  They don't even know about Chinese food. 

Top THAT Dr. Loompa.  Top that.

*It's 4 days before Christmas and I got nothing, internets.  This post is brought to you by the letter P and weird searches on Google Images.  Also?  Don't search for "Birth painting" unless you want to see some jacked up stuff.  And?  Lots of men dress up like Captain Jack Sparrow and put their pictures online trying to look sexy.  I should have clicked on them to see if any of them went to a match.com profile.  Wouldn't that be freaking hilarious?  I bet one of them does.  Although, I guess that's a better profile pic than someone dressed as a  Furry...but only by comparision.  Then again, these Jack Sparrow closet freaks might be posting NORMAL profile pics on match.com.  I guess what I'm trying to say is don't ever agree to a blind date at Red Lobster, because YOU NEVER KNOW.     

THIS is the most wonderful time of the year? Ugh. That's sad.

I don’t know if any other “normal” married couple has to deal with this crap, but I do. Anyone else fight with your husband about which family to spend the holidays with? No???


Hmmm. Must just be me.

Kevin is an only child with parents who firmly believe their life should revolve totally around him, and all holidays (including Memorial Day…I’m dead serious) should be spent with Precious. When we first got married, his mom would beg and cry (yes, internets, CRY) because we didn’t want to travel 4 hours to their house and hang out every other weekend.

Because, duh! Every newlywed couple wants to hang out with Mommy!

*Shudder*

The memories. The nightmares. The STUPID fights we would have about it.

(Did I mention Kevin was 31 when we got married? Yeah, that adds a whole ‘nother level of psycho into the mix.)

Since I’m not…you know, an orphan…I like to visit my family, too. They’re big. And loud. And laid back. You can cozy up to the Thanksgiving table in sweatpants and no one cares. We have fun there—while at his parent’s house, the four of us sit silently around the table and listen to the grandfather clock tick.

Honestly? Holidays for the first four years of my marriage were pure hell. I hated fighting about where to spend Christmas and how to make his parents feel better because we didn’t want to spend New Year’s with them. I hated having to stand up and say, “No, I’m NOT dragging a newborn across two states in the dead of winter,” and then deal with the sobbing guilt trips. I hated feeling guilty during “my turn” at my parent’s house because his parents were moping all alone at theirs.

Six years later, I like to think we’ve got this crap figured out. His parents moved to our town, so the huge stress of ridiculous bi-weekly visits is out of our marriage. Everyone lives close enough that holidays are short and sweet, and we can escape back to our own home when we’ve had enough. Problem solved, right?

Then why am I still fighting with my husband over what to do Christmas morning?

His parents want to come over and watch Elizabeth tear into her gifts. As soon as she wakes up and starts screaming about Santa, they want to be called so they can horn in on our family Christmas.

Sorry, but I see Christmas morning as a special time between parents and their young children. Kids are supposed to wake up at 6 am, charge down the stairs, and rip into their new toys while Mom and Dad pour coffee straight down their throats and snap pictures. It’s tradition, people.

It’s not tradition to throw a 4 year old in restraints and say, “No, no! We have to wait for Grandma and Grandpa to get dressed and drive over here. Don’t touch…just look.”

It’s also not tradition for Grandma and Grandpa to hover over their middle-aged son on Christmas morning.

The Great Compromise of 2009 has been reached: We’ll spend the early morning alone with the big E, his parents will come over at 10 or 11, and my parents will get there whenever Mom actually finishes perfecting her 80’s hair and layers of blue eyeshadow (dinner time).

Now, have a Merry Christmas and back the F off.

Dr. Loompa, Please Report to Labor and Delivery

I hit week 20...so I'm halfway through this pregnancy! But even more exciting? I only have 18 more weeks of work!

Squeeee!


At my last OBGYN visit, my doctor had a labor hangover* and totally sleepwalked through my appointment. He found the heartbeat, glanced at my chart, and shoved me out the door while I mumbled, "Wait, what about the ultrasound? Shouldn't you schedule that?!?"


(I only mumble because hello?!? Doctors are GODS and you don't question them.)


Like a turd, he scheduled me for January 4th and I'm pissed. I really wanted to know before Christmas, and since other women weeks behind me already have lovely 3D ultrasounds of their baby's private bits posted on Facebook, I'm hating life. (And my crappy insurance that only provides for one, grainy ghetto ultrasound unless, I don't know, your ovary twists off and you really need another one.)


He also wrote my EDD as 5-18-10, because he was drunk. Or sleep deprived. Or really couldn't wait to eat the Chinese take-out his wife just brought him.


Have I told you about my doctor? No? Well, pull up a chair.


He's a little, tiny, foreign man. I'm not quite sure where he's from, and I don't want to act like a total redneck and and lean in close saying, "Say, boy, where all you FRUM, anyway?" That seems a little rude.


Anyway...back to his, um, tiny-ness. He's about 5'2. Picture this:

coming into you delivery room. Seriously, the nurse referred to his scrubs as his "little outfit".

That's just wrong.

Also? I can't understand his accent. It's like we're on a 10 second delay when we talk. He says something, I smile and nod, then 10 seconds later I scream, "Oh, THAT'S what you said!"

The worst conversation was when he tried to ask me if I had a cat. I could not figure out what the hell he was trying to say, and he would NOT take the smiling nod for an answer. He kept saying, "Cat. Kitty cat. KITTY CAT. KITTY----CAT."

Finally, he scrunched his tiny hands into claws and said, "Kitty cat! Meow!"

I think we both died a little that day.

*Meaning, he was up until God knows when the night before delivering a baby because HE'S A LONER. Or, no one else wants to work with him.

Relief From the Mommy Guilt

When this baby comes in late April, I will be back at home as a SAHM.


I’m so looking forward to it. You have no idea.

Call me a free spirit (or just accuse me of a piss poor work ethic—I’m good either way) but I max out on work after about a year. I get antsy. I wonder what else is out there. I search through job listings, send out resumes, and have to drag myself kicking and screaming into work every morning. What can I say? I’m just not a company man….er, woman.

I started this job when Elizabeth was running around in Pull-Ups at 2 ½. She toddled off to Grandma’s house 4 days a week while I drove happily off to work. After 3 years of SAHMdom, putting together quotes while sipping coffee in a quiet office was pure heaven. I loved it.

Until, in typical Jaci pattern, I hit the one year mark this summer. Now my job sucks, I’m dragging myself into work, and I swear if you could see me sitting at my desk you’d laugh to see me pouting. If I weren’t pregnant, I would be pouring over job listings looking for the next great thing. But since I am pregnant…I’m stuck. (Who hires the pregnant girl stretching out her interview suit? Especially when she tells you she only needs to work for 5 more months—max? Uhhh… NO ONE.)

Last night I laid on the couch and continued to pout (because it’s Monday night and my life sucks) and told Elizabeth that when the baby comes this summer, I’m going to stay at home with her. ALL DAY. EVERY DAY.

She got really excited (awweee) and I told her our life will be just like it used to be before Mommy went to work.

Blank look.

“You remember? Before Mommy went to work? I stayed home with you everyday…?”

Blank look. “No.”

NO?!?! What does she mean, NO? How can she not remember our Disney Princess Movie Pajama Days? And summers swimming on the deck? And finger painting and playdough? And our fun lunches when I’d ask her if she wanted her sandwich cut in triangles or squares and we’d draw E’s in our peanut butter and laugh? How can she not remember all that?!?!

(Because she was 2.)

Elizabeth ran off and left me on the couch, stunned. Since I was already in a pity spiral, I took a turn on the guilt trip—I went to work and my baby forgot me! I SUCK AS A MOTHER!

Now, 12 hours later, I can see the bright side in last night. I can see that the SAHM/WOHM debate really is pointless, because the babies don’t remember.

I don’t remember much of my life before 5. I remember playing with Rainbow Brite. I remember the day I broke my arm. I remember the thrill of finally getting my hands on a Teddy Ruxpin. And I remember spilling milk on my McDonald’s Happy Meal and crying in pure misery because I ruined it all and had to eat peanut butter. Annnd…that’s it. I couldn’t tell you what my SAHM mom did.

What will Elizabeth remember? Who knows? Maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll remember a glimpse of me from her toddler years. Maybe I’ll be in the background of her memories of favorite toys. Hopefully she won’t remember the time when I lost my shit and screamed and yelled and cried over Moon Sand ground into the playroom carpet. (Let’s ALL forget that one, okay?)

In fact, I see the SAHM/WOHM debate as a debate over our own selfish choices. Yeah, we can wrap it all up with a Sacred Motherhood bow and swear on a stack of Bibles that it’s all about the babies—but it’s really about the moms. It’s all about how MOM wants to spend her time.

And the babies? Well, they all turn out the same in the end, don’t they? They all end up in kindergarten together and they all merge into the same, average, normal elementary school kids climbing on and off the school bus—no matter who watched them from 9-5 in their early years.

Maybe the real “work” of raising our children starts when they are at school age? When they are capable of learning, and remembering, and absorbing all the little life lessons we as parents can pass on? Maybe waaaay too much emphasis is placed on the baby years, and not enough on being an active, involved parent throughout our children’s lives?

Or maybe I’m just pregnant and talking out my neck right now.

Eh. Who knows?

The Secret to Baking Christmas Cookies with Kids (without driving yourself mad)

We all know I'm not Super Mom. I can't even get my 4 year old to wipe consistently, so yeah... I feel like I'm bumbling through this whole Mom thing each and every day.

Baking Christmas cookies? Ugh. Yet another impossible motherhood standard that I flunked last year. I expected it to go like this:

(Because every dimpled toddler can roll out perfect dough--and if your kid can't YOU SUCK AT MOTHERHOOD.)

Obviously, real life is not like that cheesy picture. Elizabeth "helped" by screaming and jamming cookie cutters into lumps of dough (ready or not) and I lost my patience within 10 minutes. She spent the rest of our mother/daughter baking time parked in front of The Polar Express while I finished the cookies in peace.

I daresay we were both happier that way.

This year, E wanted to help with the cookies again. And since she's 4, I gave her another shot. She can at least stir, right?

She stood on a stool next to me while I melted butter on the stove, and then I let her stir while I poured oatmeal in. Everything was lovely until she decided to grab the hot pan.

Luckily the heat was on low and she barely touched the thing, so no major damage done. AND she got to break out the special Cinderella ice pack (Target, $1.99) and rub the thing on pretend boo-boos all over her body.

Rather than beat my head off the counter trying to find 100 different cookie related tasks for her and listen to, "What can I do? What can I do? WHAT CAN I DO?" every 25 seconds, I came up with a brilliant idea: Let her wash the dishes.

It's genius, internets! What preschooler doesn't love splashing around in bubble water? I let her wash anything she wanted to, even the dirty mixing bowl.

I guess I should treat my kitchen like a professional kitchen--all new staff have to slave at the dish station before they can move on to actual cooking.

I cracked the code to this Christmas cookie crap, fellow moms.

Your welcome.

Say What You Really Think?!? How Dare You.

Yesterday I wrote a harmless (well, I thought it was harmless anyway) guest post. In typical Jaci-fashion, I said what was on my mind.

What was on my mind, you ask? (What--you didn't read my post?!? Niiiice. Some blog friend YOU are.) My opinion of family members gathered around the Thanksgiving dinner table who remained SAHMs for 20 plus years.

Needless to say, as a woman who went to college and dreams of a satisfying career AND home life, I'm anti-SAHM-lifer. When my children are in school full-time, I will have absolutely zero guilt about working full time outside of the home. In fact, I'm ill-bred enough to be excited for the day when both kids are loaded on the school bus and I'm climbing into my car with my briefcase and a mug of coffee.

So, like any normal blogger, I sat down and wrote my real opinion:

"Don't get me wrong--I want to stay home with my babies--but I don't want to stay home waiting for my pimply-faced 7th grader to climb off the school bus at 4 pm. What is there to do all day? Dust the baseboards? Bake my own bread? Snoop through the kids' bedrooms?"

Clearly, real opinions piss people off.

In the comments people called me brutal, harsh, closed minded, ignorant...and some people who obviously just skimmed my post went off on me for daring to attack their sacred SAHMhood. (Perhaps I should have posted a huge bold-faced caveat on top reading: HELLO?!? I was a SAHM, and I'm not talking about SAHMs with young children. Nah. I still think the hot-headed skimmers would have missed it.)

I'm surprised at how many women were totally supportive of a woman choosing to remain at home indefinitely, well beyond their children's preschool/elementary school age. But more than that, I'm surprised that any blogger who stands up and says, "No, I think that's wrong and I don't plan on doing it," deserves to be tarred and feathered!

I'm sick of our limp-handshake culture where everyone is politically correct and no one dares to voice a true opinion about anything. Instead, we're all supposed to quietly sit back and apologize for our real thoughts, and cancel every point we make by tacking on, "But we're all free to live however we want! There is no "right" choice!"

That's bullshit. We all have opinions! We all think we made the "right" choice and not our neighbor who chose a different path! Personally, I'd rather be upfront and honest about my opinion than two-faced while whispering my real thoughts to supportive friends on the sly.

My writing is real (offensive or not) and I retract nothing from yesterday's guest post. I wrote my opinion, nothing more. And as we all know, opinions are like assholes--everyone has one. I'll take the phrase one step further and add *and everyone NEEDS one*.

Week 18: Seriously? I don't think I'm pregnant.

Does this look like someone starting their 5th month?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

I'm bloated and feel more comfortable in maternity pants, but other than that?  I got nuttin'.  No bump.  No belly.  No visible signs that Yes, Virginia, I am pregnant and not just fat!

I guess I must have a ginormous uterus that doesn't need to expand into my stomach.  That sucker must be like a cave...

In other news, I'm guest posting today at my friend Jen's blog, Maybe If You Just Relax. It might be slightly entertaining to read about how we used to throw wads of paper into kids' exposed butt cracks.  Maybe.