Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...and other stuff
Vince and I saw CATCF on Saturday night while Steve was at my brother's bachelor party. Johnny Depp was great in the movie. Don't listen to the critics who say the movie's not good. Tim Burton really followed the original storyline very well. If you don't agree, go re-read the book. Willy Wonka was very odd, in fact, I doubt he really even liked children very much. I say, Johnny Depp got it right. I'll have to ask my brother, though, because he did a book report on CATCF every year from 3rd grade until 9th grade or so. He'd be the expert. (By the way, to the bee-atch who said "Oh my god, she's bringing a baby to the movies!": I hope you sat next to the hyper six year old who couldn't shut up and sit still during the entire movie. Had you sat next to Vinnie and I, you might have been able to actually watch the film.)
So somedays I feel great. I'm happy with my body; I like the fact that I actually have hips and a little ass for once. On these days, I decide to turn over a new leaf and enjoy myself. But the next day I'm right back where I started: I don't have a kind word to say to myself. I look and all I can see is ugly ugly ugly. So I try to analyze why I feel like this. It has nothing to do with bad moods, PMS, or meds. It has to do with the fact that I can't let go of the eating disorder because if I do, I'm afraid that I'll lose control and become some fat soccer mom that no one recognizes any more. Having these thoughts in the back of my mind keeps me from going over the edge, and just saying the hell with it all, I'll eat all godamned day if I want. Or so I think. I know it sounds absurd. In fact, I hate thinking about it (no one would believe that, now would they?It has been argued that I actually enjoy thinking like this. Perhaps these people don't know me as much as they think they do). I have so many other wonderful things to think about and so many other things to do that I really don't have time to worry about how I look. And it's not that I judge other women as I judge myself: I think most movie stars look sick nowadays with all their bones showing. Yet, day in and day out, it's always on my mind. A therapist once told me that it's up to me to get rid of this way of thinking. I want to, but I've been thinking this way since fifth grade. I'm 33 now; you do the math.
oh yeah, Steve and I saw Episode Three last week while V was at his grandparents' house. I really enjoyed it. I mean, what the hell do people expect? Episode two and four are already finished so there's very little left to the imagination. We all know what has to happen. It was really funny to see the two people in front of us turn and look quizzically to one another when they "found out" that Luke and Leia were twins! Imagine! I want to know what rock they've been hiding under for the last twenty-some years.(These people were my age, too. No excuses.)
Baby V's making this high-pitched scream right now. I like to refer to him as the Black Canary when he does this because it's enough to bring an elephant to its knees. So I'm going to go see what he wants. He'll probably just smile at me, like he always does. He's saying, "Ha! I got you mom!" You sure do, baby boy. You sure do.
So somedays I feel great. I'm happy with my body; I like the fact that I actually have hips and a little ass for once. On these days, I decide to turn over a new leaf and enjoy myself. But the next day I'm right back where I started: I don't have a kind word to say to myself. I look and all I can see is ugly ugly ugly. So I try to analyze why I feel like this. It has nothing to do with bad moods, PMS, or meds. It has to do with the fact that I can't let go of the eating disorder because if I do, I'm afraid that I'll lose control and become some fat soccer mom that no one recognizes any more. Having these thoughts in the back of my mind keeps me from going over the edge, and just saying the hell with it all, I'll eat all godamned day if I want. Or so I think. I know it sounds absurd. In fact, I hate thinking about it (no one would believe that, now would they?It has been argued that I actually enjoy thinking like this. Perhaps these people don't know me as much as they think they do). I have so many other wonderful things to think about and so many other things to do that I really don't have time to worry about how I look. And it's not that I judge other women as I judge myself: I think most movie stars look sick nowadays with all their bones showing. Yet, day in and day out, it's always on my mind. A therapist once told me that it's up to me to get rid of this way of thinking. I want to, but I've been thinking this way since fifth grade. I'm 33 now; you do the math.
oh yeah, Steve and I saw Episode Three last week while V was at his grandparents' house. I really enjoyed it. I mean, what the hell do people expect? Episode two and four are already finished so there's very little left to the imagination. We all know what has to happen. It was really funny to see the two people in front of us turn and look quizzically to one another when they "found out" that Luke and Leia were twins! Imagine! I want to know what rock they've been hiding under for the last twenty-some years.(These people were my age, too. No excuses.)
Baby V's making this high-pitched scream right now. I like to refer to him as the Black Canary when he does this because it's enough to bring an elephant to its knees. So I'm going to go see what he wants. He'll probably just smile at me, like he always does. He's saying, "Ha! I got you mom!" You sure do, baby boy. You sure do.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
I feel like somebody cut my arm off! I miss Baby V!!!
I remember when Steve and I went to have a look at the ultrasound that first time. I knew I had to be having a girl: I had dreamed about a little girl with dark hair and large oval eyes named Gia skipping between us as we held her hands. I was all set to sew infant-sized leopard-print skirts and I had already made a baby blanket patterned with tiny pink kittens and balls of yarn. I was going to raise her to be the girl I had always wanted to be: independent, nonplussed by what others said and untouched by the propaganda that propelled her mother into an eating disorder. After all, I thought, I know what to do with a girl. Being a girl myself would surely give me an edge. So when the ultrasound tech smeared my belly with the gel and proceeded with the test, I happily peered at the screen, waiting to be shown the little vagina so I could call my mom with the news. "Okay, I know what it is", the tech said in her Italian accent. "Do you want to know?" she asked us. Of course we did. Who wouldn't take advantage of technology nowadays? "Well, if that's not a penis, then I don't know what it is", she said triumphantly. A penis? Gia has a penis? Then it struck me: Gia was a boy.
I literally had moments of panic after that. I had no idea what to do with a boy! How was I going to raise a boy? I did not even have a boy's name chosen yet. I didn't even like any boy's names! After I calmed down, images of my childhood played themselves out in my mind like some lost super-8 films. Age five. First day of kindergarden. I played with the big blocks and built a car with the boys. I had no interest in the wooden stove with its red-handled pots and pans. Fast-forward to age six. Played with spotted salamanders in the creek near my cousin's house. Dug up earthworms and placed them in empty cool-whip tubs to take them for rides on my big wheel. Age nine: If there were girls in the neighborhood, I didn't know them. The boy next door and I were playing with my metal Tonka trucks in the mud behind my mom-mom's house. Age ten or eleven years. Built jumps out of scrap wood and pedaled full-speed over them. I had a boy's racing bike with a yellow banana seat that was the envy of them all. Twelve or thirteen. Played flashlight tag with my brother. Ran into him as we were each coming around opposite sides of the house. He was riding a bike, I wasn't, and I still have the scars on my leg. The images continued, and I started to understand why I was being shown them: I was meant to be a boy's mother. In fact, I knew nothing at all about raising a girl. Did I really want to tell my daughter what I did with my one-and-only Barbie and my mother's old Ken doll? (okay, I stripped the Malibu Barbie nude so I could see her tan lines, and I made Ken wear all of her clothes.) As she got older, how would I shield my daughter from all the skeletal images of women on the pages of magazines, sandwiched in between the instructions for the new "diet of the month" and a recipe for death-by-chocolate brownies? When should she start birth control, and how in the hell do I talk to her about it? What if she became the girl I could never be: frilly, afraid to get dirt under her nails, student council president football-player dating...Oh god, what if she became a cheerleader?!
Everyday, I thank whomever that I was blessed with my boy. I cannot imagine it any other way. I can't wait until we can look for bugs in the woods and we can build forts in the house out of sheets on rainy days and I can share my vintage matchbox car collection with him. Hell, I would've done the same if he were a girl. (It's the only way I know.) And he doesn't even mind the baby blanket I made with the tiny kittens on it.
I remember when Steve and I went to have a look at the ultrasound that first time. I knew I had to be having a girl: I had dreamed about a little girl with dark hair and large oval eyes named Gia skipping between us as we held her hands. I was all set to sew infant-sized leopard-print skirts and I had already made a baby blanket patterned with tiny pink kittens and balls of yarn. I was going to raise her to be the girl I had always wanted to be: independent, nonplussed by what others said and untouched by the propaganda that propelled her mother into an eating disorder. After all, I thought, I know what to do with a girl. Being a girl myself would surely give me an edge. So when the ultrasound tech smeared my belly with the gel and proceeded with the test, I happily peered at the screen, waiting to be shown the little vagina so I could call my mom with the news. "Okay, I know what it is", the tech said in her Italian accent. "Do you want to know?" she asked us. Of course we did. Who wouldn't take advantage of technology nowadays? "Well, if that's not a penis, then I don't know what it is", she said triumphantly. A penis? Gia has a penis? Then it struck me: Gia was a boy.
I literally had moments of panic after that. I had no idea what to do with a boy! How was I going to raise a boy? I did not even have a boy's name chosen yet. I didn't even like any boy's names! After I calmed down, images of my childhood played themselves out in my mind like some lost super-8 films. Age five. First day of kindergarden. I played with the big blocks and built a car with the boys. I had no interest in the wooden stove with its red-handled pots and pans. Fast-forward to age six. Played with spotted salamanders in the creek near my cousin's house. Dug up earthworms and placed them in empty cool-whip tubs to take them for rides on my big wheel. Age nine: If there were girls in the neighborhood, I didn't know them. The boy next door and I were playing with my metal Tonka trucks in the mud behind my mom-mom's house. Age ten or eleven years. Built jumps out of scrap wood and pedaled full-speed over them. I had a boy's racing bike with a yellow banana seat that was the envy of them all. Twelve or thirteen. Played flashlight tag with my brother. Ran into him as we were each coming around opposite sides of the house. He was riding a bike, I wasn't, and I still have the scars on my leg. The images continued, and I started to understand why I was being shown them: I was meant to be a boy's mother. In fact, I knew nothing at all about raising a girl. Did I really want to tell my daughter what I did with my one-and-only Barbie and my mother's old Ken doll? (okay, I stripped the Malibu Barbie nude so I could see her tan lines, and I made Ken wear all of her clothes.) As she got older, how would I shield my daughter from all the skeletal images of women on the pages of magazines, sandwiched in between the instructions for the new "diet of the month" and a recipe for death-by-chocolate brownies? When should she start birth control, and how in the hell do I talk to her about it? What if she became the girl I could never be: frilly, afraid to get dirt under her nails, student council president football-player dating...Oh god, what if she became a cheerleader?!
Everyday, I thank whomever that I was blessed with my boy. I cannot imagine it any other way. I can't wait until we can look for bugs in the woods and we can build forts in the house out of sheets on rainy days and I can share my vintage matchbox car collection with him. Hell, I would've done the same if he were a girl. (It's the only way I know.) And he doesn't even mind the baby blanket I made with the tiny kittens on it.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Tim Burton rocks!
The Corpse Bride is the newest one Tim Burton's working on now..being a huge fan of his, I just can't wait..still looking forward to seeing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory so I hope it's at the Drive-In, otherwise we'll have to wait. I'm just going to get around to seeing Star Wars in the next few days or so since Lil' Vinnie's going to be at his grandparents' house for a few days while I go to work for summer planning. (See, you thought teachers had off all summer.) I have all these plans for what I'll do when Vin is away; hopefully I get some workout time and some sleep. In reality, I know I'll just sit around missing my boy.
It just occured to me that having a kid gives you the excuse to talk to yourself when you're out in public. I'll have Vin in the cart and I'll be self-narrating throughout the entire trip. "Mommy wants to look at these just for a minute" or, "Would you like me to buy bananas this week?". and, now I refer to myself as mommy to almost everyone. It's kinda creepy. I'll say shit like, "Mommy's going to go get a shower now."
Holy shit! I'm a parent!
It just occured to me that having a kid gives you the excuse to talk to yourself when you're out in public. I'll have Vin in the cart and I'll be self-narrating throughout the entire trip. "Mommy wants to look at these just for a minute" or, "Would you like me to buy bananas this week?". and, now I refer to myself as mommy to almost everyone. It's kinda creepy. I'll say shit like, "Mommy's going to go get a shower now."
Holy shit! I'm a parent!
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
PMS or...depression?
Can't tell the difference sometimes. I was just exhausted today for some reason...I went to the mall to walk (that would depress anyone) but when I got there I was so damn tired that I could barely make it two laps. How am I supposed to rid myself of all this baby fat if I can't even get motivated to walk? I'd rather take Vincent outside to walk, but it's so humid and I don't want him to overheat. Then every single driver annoyed me in some way on the way home: cutting me off, not letting me over even though I have my signal on and I'm running out of road. Listen, it's not a personal attack if someone wants to get over, especially if their damned signal's on! For fuck's sakes, just let 'em over! Don't even get me started about driving and cell phones. I saw an episode of Mythbusters recently that demonstrated how driving while talking on the phone is worse than driving (slightly) intoxicated. So anyway, I get home, and I put Vin in his cool little saucer chair thingie that Nat and Thomas lent me (he loves it!!) and I try to alter this dress that I'm supposed to wear to my brother's wedding rehersal in god-forsaken Pittsburgh. (You read it here first: I hate Pittsburgh! Get over it!) I took about an hour last night to "dial up" my dressmaker dummy to my "new size" (don't get me started again!) and I made sure I pinned the dress, and I even tryed it on afterward to see how it fit. Perfect. Okay, so I sew it up today and I try to put it on. You'd have to see this. I'm in my living room, trying to squeeze my ass fat into a dress that somehow is now about three sizes too small! I look in the mirror and I see one of those mothers I don't like- I look dumpy...what the fuck happened to my waist?! I know I had/have an eating disorder, but for crissakes this is disgusting! And while I'm at it, my tits look like pancakes with a single blueberry on top. WHAT THE FUCK?! Look seriously, I love my Vincent more than anything in the entire world. You cannot possibly know this unless you have a child. Yep, I had a miscarriage before him and I was elated to be pregnant again. But the physical part of being pregnant I HATED IT! I STILL hate the way my body looks now, only I realize that some of it is in my head and some is truth, but this is bullshit! My entire bone structure changed! So- back to the dress- I sit down and try to rip out all the stitches, only it's real difficult with this type of fabric because it's one of those cheap chinese brocade dresses. I put the dress away for a little while so I don't have to look at it, and I take Vin out of his saucer chair and play "I'm gonna get you" which is his favorite game of the moment. I love hearing him laugh outloud; there's nothing better that that, let me tell you. Anyway, I'm just real tired. He gets into one of those crying jags there's nothing I can do about it and I feel like a failure. Here I am, at home all day and I can't even get a baby to stop crying. Geez. (Anyway, just as an aside, if one more person asks me if I'm goning to have another kid, I'm going to go crazy! Let me enjoy this one for chrissakes!!)
So, is this depression or PMS? who knows! Every single time I feel down, everyone tells me, "it must be the medication's not working". Could it be that I'm just in a bad mood? Am I allowed to get in a bad mood without having to go see a shrink every time? I haven't had PMS in so long, I forgot what it's like.
So, is this depression or PMS? who knows! Every single time I feel down, everyone tells me, "it must be the medication's not working". Could it be that I'm just in a bad mood? Am I allowed to get in a bad mood without having to go see a shrink every time? I haven't had PMS in so long, I forgot what it's like.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Ev'rybody's talkin' 'bout
TOM CRUISE!!!!
I liked you as The Vampire Lestat, but even that cannot redeem you now, bastard!
The fact that you jump around like a sick monkey with your little girlfriend is no business of mine, even though it's annoying and I've seen Nicole Kidman in person and she's goregeous and I have no idea why you left her (only I'm willing to bet it has something to do with Scientiology and maybe she got sick of the aliens)
But, Tom, listen, Tom, you know NOTHING about postpartum depression. When's the last time you give birth, asshole? Oh I forgot...you're a man! YOU CAN'T! So you CAN'T possibly know what it's like to feel like after squeezing a seven pound human being out of your freshly-cut anus and then having to go home and be totally overwhelmed with the realization that you can't fuck this up and having all of the hormones that were building in your system for nine months suddenly come rushing out of you. You've never woken up with a brand-new body type and I doubt you've gotten up every hour on the dot and cried with your colicky newborn that you have no idea what to do with. I doubt you know the kind of love that a woman feels for her newborn, so much that it hurts and your breasts are leaking and you have to sit on a rubber ring like some geriatric deflated whale. Speaking of breasts, did yours sag? Mine sure did. My ass got wider, too. How 'bout yours? I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Or perhaps you don't. Guess you were too busy getting your medical degree or communicating with aliens to stick your own foot in your mouth. Without the medication I was prescribed, I would have not been able to get out of bed and care for myself, let alone my infant son. SO I say FUCK YOU! Go fuck yourself.
I feel so much better now.
I liked you as The Vampire Lestat, but even that cannot redeem you now, bastard!
The fact that you jump around like a sick monkey with your little girlfriend is no business of mine, even though it's annoying and I've seen Nicole Kidman in person and she's goregeous and I have no idea why you left her (only I'm willing to bet it has something to do with Scientiology and maybe she got sick of the aliens)
But, Tom, listen, Tom, you know NOTHING about postpartum depression. When's the last time you give birth, asshole? Oh I forgot...you're a man! YOU CAN'T! So you CAN'T possibly know what it's like to feel like after squeezing a seven pound human being out of your freshly-cut anus and then having to go home and be totally overwhelmed with the realization that you can't fuck this up and having all of the hormones that were building in your system for nine months suddenly come rushing out of you. You've never woken up with a brand-new body type and I doubt you've gotten up every hour on the dot and cried with your colicky newborn that you have no idea what to do with. I doubt you know the kind of love that a woman feels for her newborn, so much that it hurts and your breasts are leaking and you have to sit on a rubber ring like some geriatric deflated whale. Speaking of breasts, did yours sag? Mine sure did. My ass got wider, too. How 'bout yours? I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Or perhaps you don't. Guess you were too busy getting your medical degree or communicating with aliens to stick your own foot in your mouth. Without the medication I was prescribed, I would have not been able to get out of bed and care for myself, let alone my infant son. SO I say FUCK YOU! Go fuck yourself.
I feel so much better now.
The Necklace
Baby V and my mom and I were in line at the Roses in Chestertown. Behind us was a young man, Mexican, a migrant worker who was probably bussed to the shopping center from the nearby farm. He was swarthy, short, couldn't have been more than twenty-one years old. The locals eyed him with suspicion as they often did to anything different in that town. That's when I noticed Baby V smiling. "A beautiful baby", the man said in a heavy accent. Vin continued to smile. The man's thick fingers, well-worked and rough, reached to stroke Vin's soft feet. "What's his name?", he asked. I told him. "Vincent. A nice name." I was used to people going ga-ga over my son. After all, I did every day. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man untying a necklace from around his neck. A quartz crystal was expertly suspended in an intricate netting of hemp thread, flanked by tiny beads. Two knots supported larger glass beads on either side. He double-knotted the necklace to Vincent's car seat. "This is for- I don't know how to say- for protection." I was overcome with emotion at this gift; a stranger giving something of his own to my baby. I protested at first, but the man insisted. I thanked him, and I was so blown away but the gesture that I instantly forgot all of the spanish I knew. Vincent's tiny hand reached out to touch the crystal. I looked at the man for the last time, and there in the man's eyes was something old beyond his years; a sadness that I could not touch. But my Baby V had, somehow.
