(MommyJD) Taking a Break

MommyJD? Wtf, where you been? Well, let's see- my husband's motivation and drive to own our very own home in the suburbs meant I had to pack up an entire house in the hottest month of 2011- while 9 months pregnant. Three weeks after settling into our quaint house in the woods enters my lovely lovely Ladybug. She's my princess doll baby and she is now almost 6 months old. Man, time flies! She is so spoiled and in love with her big brother. How's big brother? Well he's had quite a few adjustments with a new house, new school, and new little person in his life.

So now that we've gotten all caught up, let me tell you why I'm taking a break to write this post. My partner 2 Karats and a Kid is making me look bad! Lol. She is getting her 2012 ON and I am so proud of her. I just caught up on all her blog posts so naturally I have to counter with at least one.

Life is super hectic but I have to remember that we decided to write this blog as an outlet. So even though it is few and far between that my 3 year old takes a nap anymore, I still have to sit down and vent a little bit. Usually if I get this time to myself I try to clean up, catch up on my coupon blogs, fold laundry... oh yeah, and EAT (still have to do that). Sadly when people send me links to good articles and blogs I find myself only skimming them to get the gist because I know my free time is limited. I just wanted to echo 2 Karats sentiment that this ish is HARD, but it is the most rewarding job a woman could ever have and we are so blessed to be able to spend time teaching and shaping our children into wonderful people.

On that note, hope to see you more in 2012. I gotta go put something in my own kangaroo pouch before Ladybug wakes up from her cat nap!

(2 Karats and a Kid) The working mom/stay-at-home mom conundrum..(Part 1)

Mommy-ism #21: Don't freak out if you question everything that you thought you knew about yourself after having a baby.

So I started this post around in February 2011 right before I returned to work from my maternity leave. And by "started", I simply mean that I named it and saved it as a draft. Ten months later, as I find myself returning back to my poorly maintained blog, it's funny how my perspective and my reality of being a working and now, non-working mother has evolved.

In February, I was wrapped up in the allure of being a new mother. My baby boy was (and still is) pretty freaking cute, seemed to be a very laid back kid, and had a congenital heart issue which meant that he was sewn to my arms for the first few months of his life because I never wanted to put him down. Just as a eigthteen year old girl can't imagine leaving her first love for college - the thought of leaving the pint-sized version of the love of my life to return to a job that I loathed seemed unimaginable. In fact, it seemed damn near like cruel and unusual treatment. I was pissed at my husband for reasons that I couldn't articulate. I had anxiety of leaving my sweet little baby in the care of someone else - even if it was my parents and only for two and a half days a week since I was returning to work part time.

Yet, when I returned to the real world of actual adult conversations, lunch meetings, and coffee breaks, I quickly realized that having time away from my baby was not only welcomed but much needed. Yes, I still hated my job and my boss at the time - yet, I found myself looking forward to dropping my baby off in the morning so I can hurry up and get my latte and be "me" - even if it was only for 4-8 hours, two days a week.

In many ways, it was the perfect setup except for the fact that I was often too exhausted on the days that I worked to cook for my husband. So when my project ended and me and MOFO (my boss) came to a mutual agreement to part professional ways, I wondered whether I had what it takes to become a full-time stay-at-home mom (until I transitioned into a new job).

I imagined that I would finally find time to write, and would have endless joy gazing into my infant's eyes throughout the day just as I had ten months ago when I was on maternity leave. Very quickly, I realized that was the far from the reality.

Being a stay-at-home mother is without a doubt the hardest job that I have ever worked in my entire life. 

I have worked since I was 16 years old and have had more jobs then most people have had in their lives. I've worked with Chicago politicians for peet's sake! But I soon realized that caring for a crawling, growing, curious, and hungry little boy is not for the weary or meek of heart.

I quickly had to grow accustomed to vacuuming, cooking, and washing clothes while holding a baby or while holding his hand simple because he wanted to work on his standing and walking skills. And writing? Fat chance.  There was no possibility of opening my laptop or picking up my iPad without my curious little boy seeing it as an opportunity to bam on the keyboard or try using them as chew toys.

Being a stay-at-home mother also changes the dynamic of a marriage. With my husband as the primary financial contributor to our household (and by primary, I mean the "sole" provider to our household) there was a self-imposed pressure to increase my domestic skills from nill to awesomeness.

Cleaning - not cooking - has always been my domestic skill of choice.  Yet, as my husband bravely stepped into the role of sole provider I knew that I had no choice but to do the same in the role of Awesome Domestic Goddess/Mother/Wife.

Starting between 5:30 and 6:00 am everyday I play lead in feeding my child/cooking for my husband/cleaning the house/walking the dog/going grocery shopping/and trying to teach my child how to say "hi", clap his hands, walk, and recognize the letter "a".

Most times, our television remains off (which the exception of the Discovery or History channel) because I don't want my child to develop ADD from watching too much television. On the days that my husband is not working, which are few and far between, I continue to play the lead in feeding my child/cooking for my husband/cleaning the house/walking the dog/going grocery shopping/and trying to teach my child how to say "hi", clap his hands, walk, and recognize the letter "a" because I want my husband to rest since he "works" so much.

There are no days off.

Yet, the silver lining is this...I have began to re-learn the lesson of being present. Even when I'm about to put a chicken in the oven, and the water is about to run over in the sink, and the dog is barking like crazy because he needs to be walked, and I want so badly to be able to complete SOMETHING, when my child begins to cry everything must come to a stop. Rather he is hungry or fell off of the couch, or accidentally ate something that is typically used as currency - things come to standstill when he needs me. And though this is sometimes annoying and inconvenient in it's own way it has been a reminder to not fight against the current of my life and to trust that at any given moment I am exactly in the place and space where I am supposed to be.

(2 Karats and a Kid) The subject of my (x-rated) dreams...

Mommy-ism #20:  Even when you don't like him, it helps to want to have sex with your husband.

Suddenly, I have found myself to be an accidental stay-at-home mom.  I didn't like where my career was progressing and fortunately, I'm no longer working at a place that I loathed more than anything else on earth.  Yet, my husband works more.  Which leads to less time to be intimate and more time to figure out how to teach my son how to talk, or how to identify his body parts, or that electrical outlets are bad things. 

At times, I am angry because this is not what I saw for my life.  I was supposed to be someone doing something very important.  And regardless of how much I clean, or cook, or wash the clothes, or remember important family dates - nothing can take away the guilt that I feel about my husband working more to help sustain the family.

As a result, my husband is more tired and I am more tired.  I can't count how many times I have randomly yelled, "THIS SHIT IS HARD!" to myself, in my house, when no one (or when someone) was there to listen.

Needless to say, this does not help one's sex life.

Between my ever growing postpartum kangaroo pouch, being exhausted from being with the baby all day, and struggling insecurities as I navigate through my career purgatory -- good ole' fashion hard core sex is many times hard to come by.

One night, in the midst of a combination of anxiety and anger and exhaustion, I closed my eyes hoping that I would have a good x-rated dream about someone like Brad Pitt (pre-hideous facial hair) or John Legend, or even a single and younger version of Barack Obama .  As I closed my eyes and fell into a deep dream, I was excited about the mere thought of going to a fantasy world where some hunk was going to throw me up against the wall and tear my clothes off.

I awoke the following morning feeling relaxed and happy, so I tried to recall the identify of the man that I had a scandalous tryst with the night before.   After a few moments, loe and behold...I realized that my costar in my x-rated porn dream was my husband. 

I breathed a sigh of relief because at the end of the day, even in the crevasses of my mind, my husband is still my biggest crush and the sexiest guy that I know.

(2 Karats and a Kid) Sometimes you come across forks, spoons, and knives in the road...

Mommy-ism #19: Sometimes the only way out of a storm is to go through the storm.

My first anxiety attack happened three years ago when I was fresh out of graduate school working at a public sector consulting firm.  I felt out of place there and despite the director's persistent efforts to bring out the best in me, I always felt like the "project of the month" when I was continuously asked to do improptu policy speeches and presentations to fine tune my public speaking skills.  Every Wednesday I walked into the team meeting about to piss my pants because I didn't know who and what I would be asked to talk about in relation to the arbitrary and oftentimes complicated nature of Chicago politics.

One day, on a particulary uneventful afternoon, I found myself in a washroom stall incapable of breathing.  My brain knew to stay calm but my chest continuosly retracted inward until I thought I was going to pass out.  I wanted to yell for help but the closest office to me was the Mayor's office and I refused to be forever known as the little Black girl who was taken out of the Mayor's Office in a gurney.  Eventually, I walked into my manager's office and discretely told her to call an ambulance who gave my "episode" an offical name -- anxiety attack.

Since then, I have made pretty huge strides at keeping my anxiety abay.  Breathing, for one, has helped tremendously.  "Being present" or at least trying to be has done wonders as well.  Yet suddenly, about four months ago I, again, felt the weight of all my fears weighing down on me like a ten ton elephant.

I hated my job.  I hated my career.  I didn't know how to use my degree to get into a different job but I knew that I couldn't continue to do what I was doing.  I felt like I was dying every single day that I went into work - completed my projects within 45 mins - and sat looking at the computer screen for the remaining seven hours of the day. 

But how could I leave or change the trajectory of my poorly planned career now that I have a son?  Would my husband resent me or even worse...loose respect for me?  I felt physically and mentally stuck.

For months these questions seemed to swirl above my head to no avail.

I always said that I wanted to write but I could write nothing.  No blogs. No pitches. Nothing. 

My fear had me stuck. No -- it had me frozen in place.

It would be much easier to have this post-quarter life crisis if I weren't married, with a child, with a condo, and a car note.  But no such luck. 

I wish I could say that as I write this - six months later - that I have figured out the answer but I have not.  The only thing that I know for sure is that fear is an illusion which is the only reason why I am about writing at this very moment.  My favorite author Paulo Coelho aptly states, "the fear of suffering is far greater than the suffering itself," and I believe that to be true. 

Though I am no longer at the job that I so deeply hated, I don't know what the next step is yet -- which is a scary thing.  Yet, even in the midst of the uncertainty of my future, at this beginning of this new year, something makes me think that I am moving in the right direction.

(2 Karats and a Kid) What can you do with a year?

Mommy-ism #18:  The success or failure of your goals can only fall squarely on your shoulders.  If you are a mother, or a wife, or a student, or...whatever, if you are not moving in the direction of your goals there is only one reason -- fear.

I'm not going to lie, I was very anxious during the weeks leading up to 2012.  It's in part because I watch too much effing History and Discover Channel and -- even when I don't want to -- I'm continuously pulled into the shows regarding the end of the world, global warming, and conspiracy theories.

Nostradamus, the Mayans, the I Ching -  it will truly screw your head up if you let it.  So when I started contemplating my escape route out of Chicago if there was an 10.0 magnitude earthquake, I realized that I had to boycott all television shows related to history, aliens, and endangered animals for a few months.

But then I started to think, what would I do if I only had a year to live?  And the answers actually surprised me.  My answer wasn't to rob a bank, or go to Paris, or stalk Oprah, or even sky drive.  As it turns out, I would want to spend my year saying thank you to everyone who has meant anything to me, I would want to perform random acts of kindness like Oprah but on a more economical scale, and I would want to apologize to everyone that I thought I may have hurt in my past.

I would stop bullshitting and to write a book
I would tell myself that it's okay to curse sometimes if its apart of the honest thoughts that are in my head
I would put as much effort into my sex life as I do cleaning the house and taking care of my child
I would forgive myself and others for friendships, jobs, and relationships that were supposed to be forever but ended much, much, sooner
I would tell my husband that I love him, every day, and to tell him that he has taught me more about love than I could ever teach him
I would not complain about being at home with my son because it's truly the only job I have ever really enjoyed
I would tell myself that it's okay to only have 3 pairs of jeans
I would tell myself that it's okay to refuse to pay more than $30 for a pair of jeans
I would call the three teachers who truly believed in me and to tell them thank you
I would apologize to my first love for almost screwing up both of our lives
I would tell myself that it's okay to prioritize myself as much as I prioritize everyone that I love
I would believe and act as if my dreams are just as important as anyone else.

While I understand the inclination to be lured into anxious thinking in regards to this upcoming year, I think it's a better use of time and energy to see this upcoming year for the opportunity that it presents to us all.  If there is something that you have always wanted to do then do it.  If there a relationship that you always wanted to repair then repair it.  We don't need the Mayans to tell us that life is short so let's instead see 2012 as our time to truly begin to live.

(2 Karats and a Kid) 2011 was a MUTHA...

I won't write much about 2011 but I will say that it was a muthaf______ and a son a b_____ rolled into one.  Whew!  It felt good just to get that out.  See, I consider myself a pretty devoted player for "Team Jesus" so I try to choose my words wisely and in a way that will make my husband, mother, and savior proud.  But as this year comes to an end, I'll give myself a break and let loose...at least for a bit.
The truth is, I have alot to be grateful for and I don't want that to go unacknowledged before I tell 2011 to go piss off.
For starters, my child's heart defect healed on its own which is a miracle akin to Moses parting the Red Sea in my eyes;

My husband and I made it through our first year as parents alive and still married;

I made it out of this year more happy than sad, more grateful than bitter, more determined than detoured.


On the downside of things, my life was affected by ninja-ery at an epidemic level as our apartment was broken into, my husband's car was broken into twice,  for a majority of the year I continued to work at a place where I thought I would get shot, and I am in the midst of a postponed quarter-life crisis - as I have turned 30 but don't have no effing idea what I want to do with the rest of my life.


Yet, as this year comes to a welcome end, I trust beyond all rationale that there is still an invisible hand guiding me along my way.  I trust that in the midst of this chaos that things are unfolding exactly the way that they should.


So, while I'm glad to say, "piss of 2011...you can kiss my a___," in the same breath I say thank you to the year that forced me to make some of the hardest decisions of my life, that has made me more courageous, and that reminded me that I write the book of my own life.

(2 Karats and a Kid) This da** kangaroo pouch....

Mommy-ism #17:  The only thing standing between you and the body that you want isn't your time or the baby, it's cupcakes.

Confession:  It seems as though I've let myself go.

There, I said it.

I can admit it because in 2012 - the year that is going to be the most kicka**stic year of them all - I am determined to change my healthy habits. Truth is, I tried to return back into my pre-pregnancy workout regime around 8 weeks post-partum.  I had always been a fit person. The most weight I had gained since college was four pounds during a cookie-eating binge phase while in graduate school.  So my point is, I usually could lose 5 pounds just by blinking my eyes twice and wishing for it to be gone.

So when I walked into my cardio kickbox class after my 10 month pregnancy, I was pumped and ready to sweat off the last ten pounds from my pregnancy in an hour's time.   The bass in the music pulsated throughout the room.  The other women were stretching.   My heart began to race before I had even began to move.

This is it, I thought.  Time to kick this baby fat's ass.

The instructor called us all to take our positions on the floor.  The cardio kickbox warmup has always been a piece of cake.  30 right hooks, 30 left hooks, 30 left leg neck-breakers, 30 right leg neck breakers...repeat.

Marky Mark's voice came over the speaker:

It's such a good vibration.
It's such a sweet sensation.
Feel the vibration.
Come on. Come on.

I started out strong.  I got the encouraging head nod from the instructor that indicated that she too, thought that I was kicking ass.

Then the right hooks started.  Suddenly out of breath, I began to wonder how much time had passed since the class had started.  15 minutes?  30 minutes? 

When I spotted the clock on the other side of the room, I couldn't believe that only 5 minutes had passed.  My heart was pounding outside of my chest.  By the time the neck breakers started, I was gripping my side looking for the water fountain and the nearest Starbucks because only a soy white chocolate mocha could cure the defeat I was experiencing.

Somehow, I made it through that first session back in the gym.  However, I haven't been back since. 

Initially my lack of physical activity hadn't been a problem because I was breastfeeding.  Whatever I ate - fruit, cookies, sushi, or chicken - went in through my mouth and out through my tit.  It was marvelous, until I started to begin to wean my son from the boobs around the time he was 8 months.

In the course of the one week (post-weening) I put on five pounds...and it didn't go anywhere.  Putting on 3-4 pounds over the course of a weekend wasn't unusual for me but the inability to loose that weight throughout the week was something that I wasn't prepared for.  So now I'm stuck with an extra 5 pounds of meat around my waist that no spanx, girdle, or tight jeans can hide.

So now I have this da*n kangaroo pouch and a fear of cardio kickboxing and I don't know what to do to get rid of it.  So I've tried to become far more accepting of my voluptuous curves.  Yes, my six pack of gloriousness has turned into a little Pillsbury roll of muffins around by tummy.  The upside is that I have alot more booty and an inch more of hips that seems to make my husband happy.