Category Archives: Womanhood

The Not-So-Frumpy Campaign

5 Replies

In the past six weeks since I stopped breastfeeding, I’ve gained all the weight I was supposed to have gained while pregnant, my complexion is suddenly shot, and I’m realizing that I look like a frumpy woman, in more ways than I can number.

I know, no sympathy, since I didn’t really gain anything while pregnant, etc. But it’s like the post-pregnancy depression didn’t come until I stopped breastfeeding, at a point when everyone expects me to know how to be a mother because, face it, my son is almost a year old.

I’m just realizing, as I said the other day, that I need to do a better job of making myself look like a real human being. I went on a nine-day vacation to New Zealand (which was wonderful), but every time I looked in the mirror, I grimaced. I’m in need of a Not-So-Frumpy Campaign right now.

That said, I keep thinking of things that I could do to feel like a cute newlywed again:

  • Get a manicure or pedicure
  • Get my hair done
  • Buy new pjs that aren’t fraying or stained with maple syrup
  • Buy new clothes (lots of them!)
  • Have a spa treatment (I’ve never done this, but it sure sounds nice, doesn’t it?)
  • Get a massage
  • Buy a new book (because that always helps…)

Except everything costs money. Since I move across the globe this coming Saturday (!!!), I’m not going to have any spending money for a long while yet.

This is where you come in! Please tell me what I can do to feel cute again without spending a penny!

A few clarifications:

  • I cannot for the life of me put nail polish on my own fingers. It doesn’t work. I feel very gross when I have clumpy nail polish.
  • I can only wear earrings for a few hours before my ears ache. I think my ears are allergic. Instead, I have holes in my ears.
  • I dry my hair on mornings that I have time, and that helps me not feel frumpy. But my hair dryer, which is also a straightener, has an Australian plug, so even that will cost money to replace once I get to the USA. (I burned out my USA one the first week down-under.) I know I could use a regular hair dryer, but those make my hair frizzy.
  • I wear basic makeup. I won’t wear more than that.

Please note: I’m not asking for you to buy me things. I don’t want anyone else to buy me anything; I know what I like, etc. I just want your ideas for free cute-inspiring things.

Is everything that helps women feel cute costly?

Don’t Talk To Strangers, Starting Next Year?

4 Replies

Ever since Paul was born, I get comments and smiles and questions every time we go out:

  • Oh, he’s so cute!
  • What’s his name?
  • How old is he?
  • What a great smile!
  • How many teeth does he have?
  • etc., etc., etc.

I understand this. I read somewhere that people talk to pregnant women and mothers because everyone in a community is interested the next generation: the next generation influences the current generation. The entire community is therefore interested in what mothers do.

The other week, I realized that now that Paul’s getting older, soon, he’s start remembering that he’s smiling at strangers at the supermarket. When do I tell him to “never talk to strangers”? And where do we draw the line for “stranger”? For example, is the checkout girl a stranger? What if she’s new and we’ve never seen her before? What if there is a weird man in the line behind us? Do we still answer when the checkout girl asks us my son’s name and how old he is?

This may come across as paranoia. I don’t really think anything bad will come of telling the checkout girl my son’s name. But I’m seriously curious: when do we stop talking to strangers? Or, rather, when do we stop encouraging our kids to talk to or smile at strangers?

FICTION: Dark

2 Replies

The red glow dims and the movement stops. It is very dark now, and all is still. I like this time. It is time to move!

My arm moves slowly in the liquid around me. It hits the side. Bump bump bump! There is some movement, then all is still again. My hand finds my mouth. I suck the tiny fingers. I swallow. I swallow again.

It is too still. I twist, but it is too crowded: there is not enough space now. My feet kick the side. Bump! Bump! I hear a muffled noise and again feel movement. I stop kicking. The movement stops. Then I kick again. I like this game!

I stop moving and relax in the dark, curled up tightly. I like this dark! I am so safe, so warm, so complete.

I find my thumb and suck it again.

Response to Fiction Friday.

Betty Crocker

2 Replies

My oldest brother, aged 5, was playing with a friend when the friend declared, “Let’s be superheroes!” My brother, living as he did in a 1970s American home without a television, wasn’t sure.

“What’s a superhero?”

“It’s someone with a special power,” his friend responded.

“Oh,” said my brother after contemplation. “I’ll be Betty Crocker.”

By the time I could remember, there was a television in our home, and I don’t recall the power of Betty Crocker dominating my mother’s cooking. But then, despite my mother’s best intentions, I left home without ever learning how to cook. I survived college eating Rice-a-Roni and Life cereal. Somehow, despite my lack of culinary skills, I got incredibly lucky: I married a man who loves to cook.

We got by for a while on my husband’s weekend masterpieces, leftovers, and my mediocre Rice-a-Roni dishes. Then I got pregnant just as we were moving, so I quit my job. In our new home, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A baby was coming, but what do I do in the mean time?

Swallowing my pride, I decided that my role as a wife and mother-to-be was to cook dinner – a “real” dinner – for my family. I collected my husband’s recipes and I started searching the web for cooking tips. And then I tried to cook.

With each meal, I dreaded the next 60 years of nightly cooking. I placed the dishes in front of my husband with an apology on my lips. My cooking was pretty bad. But my husband always thanked me and told me I was a great cook. I didn’t believe him. Sometimes he suggested salt or spices or herbs or “something in the soup other than leeks and potatoes.” But he said it with love, and I knew he made suggestions because, to him, cooking was a riddle to be solved.

My son joined our family. I was a bit distracted and I didn’t cook. My husband was home for a week and he may have cooked, but I honestly don’t know what we ate for the four weeks after he returned to work.

One afternoon, in the midst of baby cuddles with my newborn, I had a weird desire: I wanted to cook.

I found a recipe, and I cooked dinner. I don’t recall what I made, but I cooked, and the end result was satisfying. I knew it could use more salt or spices or herbs or something, but for that night, it was fine. I’d figure it out next time. I had cooked dinner for my husband, and I didn’t apologize for it either.

Somehow, in the months that followed, I found the riddle my husband had found: cooking is a problem to solve. For each problem, there is a solution: I just needed to learn the tools of the trade.

  • It’s still bland: how much salt?
  • The sauce is too thin: what did I forget?
  • The sauce is too acidic: what can I add to balance the flavor?

Now it’s just a few more months down the line. Chicken piccatta, chicken parmesan, steak gorgonzola, fettuccini alfredo, risotto: I can make the dishes I want to eat. They aren’t fancy, but I like them. And, to be honest, home-made anything tastes better than a restaurant. I can make it how I like it. And if it’s not good, I’ll do it better next time.

My husband’s praise hasn’t stopped. Every night after dinner, he tells me I’m the best cook he knows. I tell him he’s the best cook I know. Regardless, I feel confident that when I make him a meal, I don’t need to put an apology on the table with it. It’s okay, and most days it’s pretty darn good.

I can be a “Betty Crocker” Wonder Woman for my husband, one dinner at a time.

Oh, and one other thing: my son is growing up in a home without a television. I hope he doesn’t mind the “Betty Crocker” variety of superhero for now.

To my husband, my culinary inspiration

True response for the July Write-Away contest at Scribbit

Mothering Update and Further Questions

3 Replies

Signing

After I asked you for your opinions on signing and other things, I decided to sign every word I can remember to Paul. The day after I started signing everything, Paul started “babbling” in sign. It was so cute! Now he consistently signs “More” but I don’t think he actually knows what he means. Video here.

(I’m starting to feel conflicted as to which site to put these things on: it’s about Paul so it should be on Paul’s Page, but I’m the one trying to figure things out, so it should be on my page. I guess I can’t separate him from me anymore!)

Sleeping

As for sleep, Paul’s been going from 6:30 or 7 p.m. until 6 or 7 a.m., except for the few days lately when he’s awoken screaming in the night or in the early hours. I’m pretty sure it’s teething but I’m hoping we can get back to a normal schedule. I like the waking up at 7 a.m. thing! I wish it happened more often.

Eating

I’ve figured it out what to cook for Paul. I refuse to make food for myself without salt, so for now I’m still making two separate dinners. Paul eats at 5 and we eat at 8 anyway, so it’s not that big of a deal. But Paul’s food tastes pretty good these days! I really like pumpkin. It’s a good base for just about everything.

TV/Movie Watching

When do kids actually notice TV/movies? We don’t have a TV but I did try to introduce Paul to Winnie the Pooh, watching it on my computer. He didn’t pay attention for more than 5 or 10 minutes.

I ask because I want to buy Signing Time and I’m not sure it’s worth it for such a little boy who won’t sit still anyway. It’s not that I want to encourage TV watching anyway, so I might as well wait, I guess. We do have an actual TV screen in storage, so we’ll have it again when we return to the USA. (We still won’t have TV, though.)

Toys

What is the best kind of toy for a 9-month old? I’m still relying on his rattles and other 6-month-old toys and they are just not enough for him. (I was going to wait until we got back to the USA to get more toys, but I’m tired of waiting and he’s bored!) I got him a ring tower and today I’m going to look for a peg puzzle. Any other ideas?

What’s My Line?

11 Replies

When I was seven or eight years old, my mother gave me a cloth-and-porcelain doll she’d loved as a girl. I loved that doll, despite the arm falling off at the seam. My mother sewed a new arm on her.

My doll was my baby. I put her in a doll crib at the foot of my bed. I changed her clothes. I rocked her to “sleep.” She “napped.”

At some point, I moved on and left her in my closet. She’s still there somewhere.

Almost nine months ago, my firstborn son was born. I admit that I did try every single newborn outfit on him within the first days, just because he was the most adorable baby I’d ever seen, better than any doll. But I love him. I rocked him to sleep, day and night.

Now that he’s squirming and crawling, he’s less doll-like. But he’s perfect, and caring for him is my life every day, 24 hours a day. Even when I get a break, I am thinking about him, worrying about him, loving him. I’m constantly writing things to him and about him, in my mind.

At some point in my life, I’ll probably go back to work. I may write a book: fiction, nonfiction, who knows at this point. When you turn to the About the Author page, you’ll probably see my picture with a description like this:

Rebecca Reid is the proud mother of — and the wife of —. She loves her family with all her life.

It won’t be unusual, though, because everything in the book, fiction or nonfiction, will relate to motherhood, family relationships, and the love of a mother for her child. That is my line now, but it is also my imagined happy ending.

True response to Write on Wednesdays: What is Your Line?, Write Anything: About the Author page, and Sunday Scribblings: Endings.

“Lime Cordial, Delicious!”

3 Replies

When my sister and I were young, we watched Mary Poppins almost every day. One favorite part was when Jane, Michael, and Mary were taking their medicine after being caught in the rain.

“Lime cordial, delicious!” says Jane.

“Strawberry, Mmmmmm!” says Michael.

My sister and I would take a spoon, pour water or something in it and pretend it was magicked into delicious lime or strawberry cordial.

This last week, I bought cordial.

Cordial = Kool-Aid.

It was so disgusting. It was so disappointing.

Questions for Mothers

9 Replies

I’m just a first time mom. I’m sure some of the rest of you “pros” could help. Please, share your insights!

Sleeping

  • At eight months old, how long can my baby go at night without eating (i.e., how long can he sleep)? Is it okay to expect him to sleep 10-12 hours?
  • What’s a reasonable bedtime for an eight-month-old? (Right now, he’s asking for 5:30-6. OR ELSE.)

Baby Signs

My wonderful sister gave me a baby signing book for Christmas and I’ve been signing to him, pretty much just some basic signs: FOOD/EAT, MOMMY, DADDY, BATH, MORE.

I haven’t gotten any indication from Paul that he understands these signs, but he did start communicating via his own sign.

Smacking his lips together/opening his mouth and closing it = I WANT TO EAT NOW

It’s quite cute to realize I can understand what he wants!

  • If you signed to your baby, how long before they actually started to respond? Did they make up their own signs?

Eating

  • Canned baby food tastes like dog food here; not really an option. What did you feed your no-longer-pureed-food-but-still-not-quite-adult-food baby?

My Nights

2 Replies

It wasn’t fair! I was two years older, but I still had the same bed time as my little sister. I complained every night, stomping and whining.

Finally, my parents succumbed. My bedtime would be 8:31 p.m. Her bedtime would remain 8:30 p.m. I was appeased.

Someone would turn off the lights, and I would lie awake, listening to my dad playing the piano — a lullaby to go to sleep by, he always said. I would remain awake, waiting for the music to end so I could sleep in silence.

Sometimes, my sister would stir slightly in her bed on the other side of the room.

If I knew she was awake, I’d make noises with my spit.

“Stop it!” she would complain. “That’s disgusting!”

Sometimes she’d stomp out of the room. The piano would stop mid-phrase, and I’d hear her voice. I would smile into my pillow.

Some evenings, my parents would go out. I don’t know where our older brothers — our babysitters — would be. But my sister and I would go to our bedroom. She would stand by the window while I jumped from her bed to mine and back again, bouncing and laughing. Then I would stand by the window and she would bounce. When I saw the lights for our car in our court, I’d shout: “They’re coming!” She’d stop mid-bounce, and we’d quickly resume a more innocuous activity, like practicing our headstands on the bed, she against her wall, me against mine.

(One night, ten years later, my mother wondered out loud why those mattresses wore out so quickly. My sister and I glanced at each other and grinned.)

Other nights, we got mad at each other, sometimes for doing nothing worse than existing. While we were not usually physically violent with each other, one night we were. We threw things. I don’t know who threw the winning object, but it met its target. The glass lamp shade, dotted with little blue and pink flowers that matched the wallpaper, fell to the floor and broke. We stood over it in silence, staring at the sharp shards of white on the blue carpet.

Eventually, the “cat fights” got to be too much for my parents. The day my oldest brother left home for college, my parents moved my sister’s furniture, clothes, and knickknacks into his room.

At ages 10 and 12, respectively, my sister and I finally had our own rooms.

That night, I dragged my pillow and blanket into her new room, ready for our sleepover.

We had fun.

To my sister.

(True response to Sunday Scribblings #114: My Nights.)

When Will I Stop Worrying that My Son Will Die?

3 Replies

A few months ago, when Paul started to sleep through the night, I’d wake up in the morning terrified that I’d find him dead in his crib from SIDS.

At his eight-month checkup, I was told to stop feeding him pureed food: mix chunky/mashed foods so he learns how to chew. Now I feed him his meal, terrified that he’s going to choke on his food and die, right before my eyes.

He’s becoming mobile now, and I’m realizing that the next step will be terror that in the two minutes I turn around, he’ll put his finger in an outlet and die from electrocution (even with outlet covers…). Or fall down the stairs and die. Or grab at something that I didn’t mean to leave out and choke on it and die. Or cut himself on something sharp I thought I’d put away and bleed to death. Or…

I could go on. All these terrors keep recurring in my mind.

Someone responded back in December that these fears aren’t from the spirit and I shouldn’t worry. But really, they are all very possible. And if he dies because of something I did or didn’t do, I could not live with myself.

When will I stop worrying that my son will die? Or will I always worry?