I Only Wanna Be With You

As you may have guessed, I’m not great at getting rid of stuff. This has worked out well for some things, such as my husband, who I have kept around for more than half of my life. But it does not always work out so well. For example, I may have kept my son’s umbilical cord stump in a drawer in his nursery for a few months. That’s right – I couldn’t bear the idea of parting with the black, hardened remains of my first child’s bellybutton. Luckily I got some sage advice from a mom friend of mine about this situation. When she saw the stump laying in the corner of the diaper drawer, she recognized it immediately (it still had that hospital clip thing on it) and said: “OH my god, what the hell is wrong with you, that is so effing disgusting, throw it AWAY!” When I began to protest she said, “Look, it’s not OK to hoard rotting body parts.” Which is just good advice for all new moms, and people in general. I sadly wrapped the stump in tissue, said my farewells, and placed it gently in the trashcan.

I still wonder where it is today.

But what about hoarding things that are not rotting body parts? Despite what you might think from watching TLC, there is just no clear-cut rule. Right now I am trying to come to terms with getting rid of a sentimental piece of furniture in my house:
Rocking Chair

To people who do not attach emotional value to every inanimate object in their lives, that is just a banged up rocking chair and footstool that could probably get $50 at a garage sale. To me, though, that is the place where I learned how to be a mom, where I fell so in love with my little babies and their long eyelashes and chubby cheeks, where I learned how to soothe them and make them giggle, where I cursed everyone who told me that breastfeeding was natural and beautiful, where I fought sleep and lost hundreds of times. I have the clearest memories of my husband passed out on the nursery floor, a chubby baby sleeping on my lap, and rocking back and forth in that chair for hours, convinced that all the goodness in the world at that moment was right next to me and wrapped up in my sweet little family.

So maybe you can understand why I don’t just want to sell it to some a-hole scammer on Craig’s List.

But the chair just doesn’t fit in our house any more and I know its days are numbered. The kids are on to their new big kid furniture, their new toys that need floor space. And I’m slowly starting to realize that that is what little kids do: they push you forward, constantly on to the next thing, excited for what is to come. And most days I go along happily and share in their excitement, but sometimes I just cling desperately to those sweet, fleeting moments that have already come and gone and won’t come again.

So in honor of my milk- and snot-covered rocking chair with the deflated cushions and wobbly right arm and matching broken nursing stool (I will not put any of that in the Craig’s List ad), here is my favorite song about rocking. If you are as scared of old-timey carnies and tattooed ladies as I am, just avert your eyes and listen to the bluegrassy magic.

Apparently Hootie from Hootie & The Blowfish (not the OTHER Hootie) covered this song, and really enraged some of the commenters on this video. Hootie is not the first person I think of when I think of sentimental songs, so I chose to link to this version. But I do think of Hootie quite often, and fondly, because once I danced with a boy to a Hootie song. It was Let Her Cry.

Thank you, Hootie. I think I will.

Insane in the Membrane

My husband and I started an appropriately named workout video called “Insanity” a couple days ago. If you enjoy spending 40 minutes of your day trying really hard not to have a stroke, then I totally recommend it. After only three workouts I am so sore I can hardly function. I asked my husband today how he was feeling: “OK. I only feel pain when I move.”

I decided to do Insanity for the standard reasons: to look better, to feel better, and to jumpstart my next career move as a skripper. But I’ve also been thinking about setting a good example about body image for my daughter. And this mom making the talk show rounds this week has really made me think about it. She very publicly chastised her clinically obese 7-year-old daughter in Vogue magazine, and put her on what sounds like a mean, mean diet. The mom has written a book that, I guess, has a happy ending because the girl lost weight. And now I guess she’ll treat her daughter with a little decency? I hate that the lesson for this poor girl is that she was fat and then learned some self control, when I think the lesson should be that her mom never dealt with her own body issues and her poor daughter paid the price in a really hurtful (and public) way. And now her mom is making money off of it. It all just grosses me out, and makes me want to eat a big snack.

I read a Jezebel article last week that said women’s bodies are “always fodder for public consumption.” (Read it here – scroll down to the Life&Style recap. And yes, those are free, snarky summaries of all the gossip magazines. You are welcome!) That sentence has stuck with me. And I’m realizing now that it starts YOUNG. I’ve noticed that my son gets compliments about what he’s doing, or what he likes – “That was an awesome fart noise you made,” or, “Wow, you really like farts,” or “Did that sound just come from your body?” – but nine times out of ten, the compliments my daughter gets are some form of, “Aww, you/your clothes/your hair is/are so cute.” And all of those things are true (mostly – she did go through a phase of using her hair as a kleenex, and boogery hair is not always “cute”), but she also makes really good fart noises. What if I said that to some random person after they said my daughter was cute? “I’ll have you know she can rip one, too, jackass.”

Exhibit 1: we visited my father-in-law over Thanksgiving and hung out at his restaurant. My kids were so good, sitting quietly and coloring while my husband and I gorged on free, amazing Chinese food and tried not to look like uppity east coasters. And three different times, three very polite midwestern folks walked by my two kids coloring and said to my son, “WOW, look at that drawing, you are a such an artist!” and then said to my daughter, “And aren’t you just the cutest thing?!” For the record, here is what my son was drawing:

StickMan
And here is what my daughter was working on:
Masterpiece
I MEAN, come on.

I Heart Celebs

Alert, alert, the Golden Globes are on tonight! Even though my husband keeps saying, “This is like your Superbowl!”, no, it is not, the Oscars are my Superbowl and the Golden Globes are my NFC playoffs. I just Googled “important football games” to come up with that.

[Side note: Al Roker is interviewing celebs on the red carpet now, and instead of listening to a single word Julia Louis-Dreyfuss is saying, all I can think is that Al Roker pooped himself at the White House. And I don’t know which was worse – that he DID THAT (I can’t even type it again), or that he then sat down in a staged “hard-hitting” interview to promote his book and in a misguided attempt to open up to his fans, he actually revealed that HE DID THAT.]

So yesterday was my husband’s birthday. This was his birthday present (well, the one I can show you pictures of, rowr!):
MultiGym

Do you know what that is? Because I didn’t. It is a bar you hang in a door frame so that you can do pull-ups in various positions throughout your house. He actually wanted this as a present. Do you know what I would do if someone gave this to me? I would flail my weak, flabby arms in the air and be totally offended, and then ask for some help lifting the box into my car so I could return it to the store. This is just one of the many ways in which my husband and I are different: he is not particularly sensitive (one might say “insensitive”) and I am extremely sensitive (or “constantly reasonable and predictable”). Also, he has upper body strength.

So my husband opened his present in the morning and then got a few hours by himself over the weekend, and we had a nice dinner with friends. That he cooked pretty much on his own. That was his birthday. For my kids’ birthdays, I plan weeks and months ahead of time, spend hundreds of dollars and days planning, and try to make every party meaningful and fun. And right as I am starting to feel a tinge of guilt, both for doing next to nothing for my husband and going overboard for my kids, I stumble across an article describing how Beyonce and Jay-Z spent $200K on Blue Ivy’s first birthday party. And while (1) I am sure the article is mostly not true, (2) Beyonce and Jay-Z could probably find $200K in the cushions of their solid-platinum-yet-perfectly-comfortable couch, and (3) a diamond encrusted Barbie doll just sounds dangerous, the article made me feel better. At least I am not spending $200K on my kids’ birthday parties, right?! Once again, thank you, Bey and Hova for putting things in perspective.

And now I have to wrap this up because I just saw Benedict Cumberbatch on the Golden Globes and almost fell off my couch. And his date for the evening is wearing a turban. Seriously, is he real?! I need to go ask my husband if I am hallucinating. More than usual, I mean.