Maybe We Should Stop Judging and Start Helping

Wal-Mart check out, 5:22 pm.  The line is eight carts long because Little Miss Emo sulking behind register 7 can't keep her hands off the cell phone in her pocket, and your kid starts Shit Storm 2010 over a roll of Sprees.

Olive Garden, 6:43 pm.  Your toddler bangs his sippy cup off the table while yelling in his "I'm happy" voice, and witches if you take his cup away.  Baby boomers glare and sigh loudly about how "If people can't control their kids, they should stay home."


Park, 3:15 pm.  It's time to leave, and your child falls out on the cedar chips moaning and screaming and acting like you are trying to abduct her.  Every mom stares and shakes her head as you threaten spankings, early bedtime, and homicide. 

Pick a scenario...we've all been there at some point.

Every kid tantrums.  Period.  But we're all too quick to look at the Mom and assume she's to blame.  Why can't she control her kid?  Why can't she shut him up?  Hasn't she taught her any better?  Why does she put up with it?

As I get to know more and more moms, I realize that we all want to run away and hide when our kids start up.  No one likes the stares and comments.  No one ignores the behavior or shrugs it off.  We're all painfully conscious of it.

There are also Moms with children who should be well past the tantrum stage, but are dealing with developmental issues that the public can't see.  Like Reactive Attachment Disorder.  Or the Autism Spectrum.  These Moms live with the stink eye on a daily basis. 

I read a post were one mom wished she could think of snappy comebacks to throw at people who butt in to her parenting.  It got me thinking...  What if we Moms sent a nod of encouragement to the new mom bouncing her screaming baby in the restaurant?  Just a little smile to say, "It's okay.  I've been there."

Or how about talking to the toddler ripping candy off the shelves?  Squatting down and helping to put the candy back?  Just a little distraction could diffuse that situation long enough for Mom to get her bags and get out of there.

I'll even go one step farther...  What if--instead of walking away and pretending we don't see it--what if we walked up to Mom struggling with her autistic son in the cereal aisle and asked, "Is there any way I can help?"

It sounds so simple.  Motherhood!  Sisterhood!  RAWR!  But really, I know when I'm tired and irritated I'm passing out my share of evil looks.  And judgment.  And the last thing I want to do is try to be helpful and have some woman tell me to F-off and mind my own business.

So what do you think, internet?  Should we try to help each other, or are snarky comebacks the answer?

The Best Thing to Spend On Your Child is Time--Except During the Holidays

My neighbors pulled out the pumpkins, ghosts, and decomposing suicide/lynching victim on September 15th.  I pulled into my driveway with the air conditioner blasting and muttered, "Oh good lord, people."  Now it's spread through the neighborhood like herpes.

Since when did Halloween become the crap-gasm of holiday decorating, anyway?

Elizabeth is convinced that Halloween is like--tomorrow--and is freaking out about getting a Dorothy costume.  Yes, Dorothy.  From the Wizard of Oz.  Have you priced a Dorothy costume?  $30 for just the dress.  Forget the shoes, the hair ribbons, and the basket stuffed with Toto.

And I have to buy enough candy to feed the 100+ children carted in from the suburbs because our houses are closer together and kids want a better score.  There's another $30.

Halloween is supposed to be a fun, simple, cheap holiday.  We used to grab stuff from around the house and create a costume because stores only sold junk like a paper Smurf mask.  Now parents drag their kids to Target and blow $45 on whatever bedazzled costume Little Precious points to.

Capitalism - 1.  Creativity - Zip.

Call me Scrooge, but holidays are starting to sicken me.  All I can see are people throwing money around like fools.  (I'm looking at YOU, neighbors with the $60 life-size corpse hanging off your porch.)  $50 on a Halloween costume worn under a coat for one hour...a couple grand on Christmas junk...$60 on 2nd Christmas (a.k.a., The Easter Basket)...

And even worse?  I feel like a piss poor parent if I say, "No."  I start to imagine her telling my grand kids about what a tightwad I was and how she always longed to have what her friends had.  I'm already feeling guilty because I can't afford ballet classes.  Or gymnastics.  Or soccer.  Or even pre-school.  Now I'm feeling guilty over a Halloween costume?

Ugh.  Lame.

I'm Not Feeling Twitterpated

Oh, Twitter.

I'm trying.  I'm really, really trying.

At the blog conference, I realized I was the only human in the room not on Twitter.  In fact, lots of people were on laptops tweeting about everything that was happening.  And?  Some were sending direct messages about what was happening to other bloggers sitting right across the room.

I shit you not.

I peeked at few laptops and muttered "What the hell?" under my breath, then realized I needed to find that old Twitter account I opened up long ago.  (I gave up on Jan 7th, 2009 with this:  "I totally miss the point of Twitter.  Anyone else think this is stupid?")

After seeing the way people drooled over their Tweet Decks and iPhones, I gave it another shot.  I'm following about 100 people.  I have some people following me.  I jump into little conversations.  I throw out ridiculous tweets. 

Sometimes it's pretty cool.  I go on and catch funny one-liners or say hi to a blog friend.  But most of the time I don't get it.  It's like a room full of people where everyone is talking and no one is listening.  Or, if they are listening?  They don't acknowledge you.

I finally figured out what Twitter is.  Anyone remember chat rooms?  From 1996?  I remember screwing around with them in high school.  You'd pick a room, log in, and inevitably there were a few Chat Room Freaks who would roll their eyes at the "new guy" and ignore you.  The more time you spent in there as a lowly peon, the greater your odds of finally becoming one of the Accepted Members.

And then some perv would DM you and ask for your age and panty preference.

To me, Twitter is the world's biggest chat room with a side of High School Popularity Contest.  See how many followers I have?  See how many people @ me?  Everyone, look at the conversation I'm having!!!  I. Am. FABULOUS.

*sigh*

I like blogging.  I like Facebook.  But Twitter?  I can't get into it.

So.  If you follow me on Twitter, you'll probably get totally random thoughts from me.  Like, "RIP Jaci's Mad Boil.  Dr. Loompa stabbed it without numbing it.  'Cause he's hardcore."

Nothing real.  Nothing serious.  Just stupidity from @RavingMadJaci

You're welcome. 

Going Balls Out

After three months on Nutrisystem, I'm down 20 pounds.
I'm wearing the same jeans--only now instead of being my "skinny jeans" they sag off my butt like a pee soaked diaper.  And my face is thinner.  Beyond that?  I haven't noticed much of a difference.

I still loathe my body.  In fact, I used a friend's body fat monitor and found out I'm 40% fat.  FORTY PERCENT!  

Excuse me while I go vomit.

So.  While I am acknowledging that I have lost weight, I'm also admitting that it's not enough.  Let's look back at my original goal chart:

Pre-Elodie Jaci:  5 pounds
Pre-Elizabeth Jaci:  lose another 15 pounds 10 pounds
Happy Jaci:  lose another 15 pounds
Wedding Jaci:  lose another 20 pounds
Skinny Whore Jaci:  add another 10 pounds

I've crossed off a couple goals--and I'm only 10 pounds away from pre-kids weight!  How awesome is that?  I'm determined to cross those 10 pounds off my list this month.

I'm going balls out for 30 days.

I have 30 days worth of Puppy Chow Nutrisystem left and I want to make the most of it.  No more weekend breaks.  No more little bits.  No more bad days.  I can do one more month and then never lay eyes on it again.  *fist pump*

Also, the same friend who horrified me with my body fat percentage--shudder--just finished the Iron Man and somehow talked me and his wife into a 5K in November.  We have seven weeks to learn how to run for longer than 1 minute and do more than walk around clutching our sides and wheezing about how disgusting it is to feel our asses jiggle.

Girl...we're in trouble.

The State of the Marriage - Division of Child Labor

This morning Kevin and I had a fight immediately upon waking up.

(I mean, come on, that takes some talent.)

I stumbled into the bathroom and said, "Would you feed Elodie?"  Then it started:  both of us witching about who had more to do and who had fed her last.

I won because I hadn't washed my hair since Sunday.  Trump that, biatch. 

I hate that because I'm Mommy, I'm expected to jump up and run to the crib when I have to get ready for work, too.  Or that I should be dying to balance her on my knee while shoveling my dinner down my throat at lightening speed because--again--I'm Mommy. 

Kevin will roll out of bed and feed her, but he makes it clear that he doesn't want to.  And he can do that because he's a Dad and he's not expected to have this all-encompassing need for a baby like I am.  I'm supposed to mother cheerfully--he can bitch and moan through fatherhood.

There's also this unspoken rule that Mom Gets the Baby.  If a mom and dad are both in the room when the baby has a problem, it's automatically assumed that mom's got it covered.  And if she asks dad to get it?  Eye rolls.  Heaving sighs.  Judgment.

My greatest wish?  That Kevin would want to do the work.  Not do more work, or spare me more often from the work I don't want to do (like the explosive diaper).  Just go pick her up happily.  Just jump in and do something without being asked.  Don't sit back and expect me to do it.

Can anyone else relate to this?  Anyone else feel like your husband sees himself as Emergency Back-Up when it comes to Baby Duty, instead of an equal partner?

The State of the Marriage: Weight Limits?

Your husband looks deep into your eyes (or maybe he avoids making eye contact?) and mutters:  "Your weight is...I don't know how to say this, but I'm just not attracted to you anymore."

Then you wake up screaming and punch your husband at 2 am for being a douche in your dream.  And spit out, "You know, you're sporting a little pregnancy pooch yourself so don't even--"

Or is it being a douche?

Do you want your spouse to be honest with about your weight (and it's effects on the relationship) or avoid the subject at all cost with a "love me, love my newly sprung fat roll" attitude? 

I am hyper sensitive to weight topics, so I wouldn't want Kevin saying one word to me about my lumpy bits.  If he did, that pretty much guarantees that he will nevah, evah touch me again.  The End.

But, still...I shouldn't have a license to let myself go to pot because he put a ring on my finger.  If I were laying around in an egg stained bathrobe and eating Moose Tracks straight out the cartoon with a serving spoon for the 3rd month in a row--then yeah, we've got a problem.  And he should call me on it.  And if I get upset about it, then maybe I'm the one acting like a douche.

Hmmm...  What do you think?

The State of the Marriage

"Mawage.  Mawage is wot bwings us toogeder today.  Mawage, that bwessed awangement, that dweam wifin a dweam..."

The whole idea of improving marriages and opening communication between spouses is really near and dear to my heart. 

Before last year, I didn't invest much time in my marriage.  I had a 3 year old.  A job.  Bills to pay.  A house to clean.  And quite frankly, Kevin was just...an annoyance.  He was that guy who came home at 7:30 and took over kid duties so I could finally have some time to myself--the asshole that wore 10 white T-shirts a week and made my laundry pile huge--the boss I had to clear major purchases through--the roommate I had to put up with.

"And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva..."

Our marriage sucked.  And we're the ones who allowed it to get that way.  We went from a couple who stayed up all night talking to the couple with nothing to say.  And then disaster struck.

"So tweasure your wuv..."

The key to a strong marriage isn't True Love, or Soul Mates, or Disney Happily Ever After Fairy Tales.  It's actually as simple as having a few meaningful conversations a couple times a week.  Just a tiny bit of effort to stay connected (sans kiddie chatter) has huge payoffs.

I'm going to post a topic here--and you, dear internets, can submit topic ideas too--and we'll talk about it.  And talk about it with your spouse.  Maybe they'll surprise you.  Maybe you'll bond over it.  Maybe you'll fight.  Who knows?

I'll have the first question ready for Friday--and here's a hint:  It involves weight.

Stop Talking About Yourself.

I just read a post from one of the oldest blogs in my Reader--one of those blogs that I started out in 2007 looking up to jealously--

It was about her cat.

Her freaking cat, people.

It reminded me that my blog is heading in the same direction.  Pregnancy is over.  The birth story is out of the way.  The monotonous days of data entry and bottle washing are laid out before me, and unless I want to talk about what I ate for breakfast or the dead deer I passed on the highway, the topic of ME is exhausted.

(Can I get an amen?)

And even though my numbers are way bigger now than they were a year ago, I like my old blog better.  Before The Disaster That Must Not Be Named.  Before The Great Deletion.  Before the pregnancy.

It was funny.

I'm not funny anymore.  I'm sarcastic.  And cynical.  And really?  Sarcasm is just pain and anger oozing out and slowly poisoning life.  It's insult with a smile.  Talking out of both sides of your mouth.  A way to keep the world from hurting you more.  A way to push people away.  A defense mechanism.     

So.

I'm going to take this blog in a new direction.  I want to talk less about MEMEMEMEME and more about what's going on in all of our lives.  Marriage.  Kids.  Work struggles.  Balancing it all.  And sometimes?  Things that are just plain funny.

And if I ever blog about my pets, feel free to hit DELETE.