i don't want to be a fat guy

Dieting is so very boring. I would love to say that pregnancy was my downfall but it was so much more. First university (delivery pizza, beer), then work (sitting for 10 hours straight, bagels, business lunches) and then pregnancy (great excuse for eating Dairy Queen for breakfast) and then anxiety and depression (also great excuse for eating Dairy Queen for breakfast). Before becoming pregnant, I had managed to shed a whopping 50 lbs. but then gained it all back plus and then lost it and then gained some of it back again. So, after learning from the news television in my office building's elevator that being even slightly overweight can increase mortality by 351%, I resolved to get back on the wagon and lose the pesky pounds. I'm not sure what is more disturbing, the mortality statistic or the fact that I now consider a television in an elevator a reliable source of medical information.

Mr. Lemony Lemonade is always my biggest champion when I try to eat well. Easy for his lean and lithesome butt; he's not cursed with the genetic makeup of an eastern european weight lifter. Truly, when it comes to losing weight, I am totally buggered as I seem to have been blessed with one of those metabolisms that needs only 5 or 6 calories a day to function effortlessly; anything over that, and it goes straight to my hips. It's not so much that I put on weight, it's just that it won't goddamned go away. I once watched a documentary on a woman in England who claimed that she didn't eat or drink anything as she had developed the ability to suck all the water and nutrients that her body required out of the air. She claimed not to have touched food or water for, like, eight years. She didn't exactly look the picture of health, appeared dazed and disoriented and sounded like a complete looney toon, but I could relate. I am certain that if I stopped eating altogether, I could last a good six to eight months before anyone would even notice.

As for what form my diet will take, Mr. Lemony Lemonade, in spite of his cougar-like physique, is no stranger to the diet and so, perhaps a page out of his book is just the ticket. I remember one particularly successful diet was his imaginatively titled "apple and vodka diet". I would like to tell you that there is something fancy about this diet but really, Mr. Lemony Lemonade just ate apples and drank martinis for like a week. The final insult was not that he walked around like a wino for ten days, but the fact that he dropped five pounds! Then there was the "apple and soup diet", again, imaginatively named and as the name suggests, consists of eating apples and soup. Although not quite as entertaining as the apple-vodka diet, Mr. Lemony Lemonade dropped another five pounds. It's clear that Mr. Lemony Lemonade could go on the cheescake-lard diet and lose another five pounds. I suspect that he may have supernatural powers of weight loss and that he just sort of wills the extra pounds to flee his body. Of course, his motivation is the much feared "man titties", worse than cellulite, saddle bags and muffin tops all put together. That being said, as much as I personally approve of drunken dieting, I think that I need something more, mainstream; perhaps eat more, exercise less, errr, sorry, eat less, exercise more.

I would love to say that I have a brilliant dieting scheme all worked out but I think that I will opt for plain old fashioned starvation because, we all know how much I love exercise. So, while Mr. Lemony Lemonade downs his fifth "diet martini" and Baby Girl polishes off her nightly chocolate ice cream, I will be in some form of starvation ecstasy having just scarfed my quota of celery, water and tofu - please pray for me.

late bloomer

I have often been struck by how un-parental I can be, like how I didn't really want to be a stay-at-home mom or how I eschewed breast feeding (yucky). Even more un-parenty is how I seem to be so very thrilled at every new achievement of Baby Girl's that makes her less dependent on me to do things for her confirming what I had always suspected about my own parents; they only had children so that one day, someone else would empty the dishwasher.

When Baby Girl learned to crawl, hurray, no more having to move her around like a potted plant or having her scream endlessly about the toy that was just outside of her reach. When Baby Girl started eating solid food, I was mentally calculating how much money we would save on the reduced amount of formula. When she learned to feed herself, hallelujah, no more having to coax her to eat or making stupid plane sounds. When she learned to walk, I was thrilled that my back might finally recover from the months of hauling her around like a sack of potatoes. This was so unlike other mothers that I talked to who seemed saddened by their children's creep toward independence. They would say things like, "I miss giving Emma her bottle" or "I really loved the bonding of nursing Connor". I would of course, nod knowingly as if to say, "I so, know what you mean" when I was thinking "are you freaking kidding me?". What really happened when Baby Girl no longer needed the bottles? I threw them out without a second thought and proceeded to myself a margarita party (for one). However, if I ever let that little internal monologue out into the open, as I have done by mistake on a few occasions, I get this quizzical look that clearly conveys the fact that I have just revealed myself to be a TERRIBLE MOTHER, I might as well have casually mentioned that I was a part-time porn star or kept a switch in the family room for "discipline". That is until yesterday morning when IT HAPPENED.

I was in the closet getting dressed and Baby Girl was happily watching Miss. Spider on the bed when I peeked around the corner to check on her and she was gone. This was unusual, so I called her name and she yelled back, "I'm in the bathroom." I went out to have a look and Baby Girl had not only just gotten up and off the bed and gone to the bathroom, she had put herself on the potty and was reading Dr. Seuss. She looked up from the book and nonchalantly asked "what, Mommy?" and I said, "what are you doing?" and looking at me as if I was the village idiot, she said "I'm doing a stinky Mommy, GO AWAY".

That's when I got all verklempt, because Baby Girl had just, of her own volition realized that she needed the bathroom, gotten up off the bed, managed to get out of her clothes, had the wherewithall to know that she might be some time and grabbed some reading material and then put herself on the potty. That, people, is independence and that was when I got all "oh, my god, she's so grown up" and "where did the time go" and all sad and drippy like a complete and utter LOSER. The unfortunate truth is that I now know why Connor's mom misses the bonding of breastfeeding and Emma's mom is wistful about bottle feeding. I am clearly just a late bloomer when it comes to these things. Where it took other moms months, it has clearly taken me years to develop the wistful, sentimental thing which makes me wonder what other parental pitfalls and anxieties I have avoided out of parental immaturity but that are bound to hit me like a ton of bricks at any given time. Am I going to start getting broody and wanting another child? or even, gulp, wish that I had stuck out the breastfeeding thing? but the even more unfortunate truth is that I can't really share this story with other mother's because it's not cute enough like the bottle thing or the breastfeeding thing; I mean, could I be any grosser - I am getting weepy over poop. What's next, missing her wiping her drippy nose on me when she finally learns to use a tissue and blow like a normal human being?

martial bliss, lemony lemonade style

In the early days of the Lemony Lemonade marriage things could be tempestuous but we were younger and more immature and finding our marriage legs. Mr. Lemony Lemonade was far more volatile and I was far more provocative and I don't mean that I walked around all day in garters and a teddy. We have since mellowed, accepted certain realities about each other's personalities, matured and learned that it is unlikely that holding one's breath and threatening mayhem is not the most productive way to bend another human to your will.

More recently, we have found our stride although I will admit that our testiness levels are directly correlated to Baby Girl's mood and temperment. If she is being a diva, we get snippy and crappy to one another. If she is being a petite ange, life is a box of chocolates. But that all goes out the window when Mr. Lemony Lemonade gets humpfy and sniffy. One might think that sniffiness isn't all that bad but believe me, no one can sniff so derisively, so snootily, so witheringly as Mr. Lemony Lemonade.

Tonight, I got the sniff and I knew that I was in big trouble because Baby Girl was hundreds of miles away with her grandparents, so this mood was clearly ALL MY FAULT and I knew that it was because I am a horrible, terrible, failure as a housekeeper.

Few people would know this or guess this even if they knew us very, very well but when it comes to keeping house, I am a complete and utter slob (not so surprsing) and Mr. Lemony Lemonade is fastidious and regimented (more surprising). Most people would assume that I am the fascist to his pacist but when it comes to housekeeping, I am the slobby bobby hedonist and he's freaking Mary Poppins. Tonight, the sniff was about unpacking. I got in and sat down because I hate doing worky stuff and he promptly, as he does every day, went off to do chores which of course, drives me insane because how can I be expected to relax and decompress when he insists on running around ensuring that the house is kept in order and that a high level of hygiene is maintained so that none of us contract dysentary or the plague. I know, I know, I bloody well know that I come from a long line of malingering lazy bones, so, really, my failing as a housekeeper isn't my fault, it's my parents' fault. If only they had done a better job raising me, I would be a better person. One time, my laziness even made Mr. Lemony Lemonade threaten to leave the country - my laziness was that irksome and vexing that it required not only just leaving my immediate vicinity, it was actually worthy of international flight.

So, because I am relentless in my pursuit of not being bossed, I pulled out all the stops, I argued like I was making a case before the Supreme Court on why the death penalty shouldn't be applied so, of course, no argument was too ridiculous, too flawed, too outrageous. I got so crazy at one point that I actually suggested that Mr. Lemony Lemonade's attempts to get me to do housework was tantamount to gender discrimination akin to 250 years of male oppression of women the world over. Somehow, I managed to justify the fact that I don't touch garbage, do laundry or mop floors by suggesting that asking me to touch garbage, do laundry and mop floors was just another example of the iron boot of white male oppression. Let's face it, I reached marital rock bottom with that line of argument.

Unfortunately, I have made my bed and as we speak, Mr. Lemony Lemonade is sleeping in it like a baby. My argument was so blindingly successful that he has bought my laissez faire stance and decreed that he is going to enjoy life more and clean up less. Fan-fricking-tastic, I say, but how in God's name am I going to manage this frightful situation that is sadly, of my own making. Clearly Baby Girl is just going to have to learn to do laundry or wear disposable clothing and eat only no-cook, garbageless foods and possibly, I can just buy like 150 pairs of underwear and sleep on top of the sheets; my sisters are depending on me and as God is my witness, I will not capitulate, even if it means dysentery and the plague because that would be better than having to admit that I might, just might be wrong.

I want, I want, I need, I need

As I was waiting for my threading appointment (a well kept brow is a must for this gal about town) I was FORCED to read one of the many magazines that are dedicated to celebu-news. I have, on occasion actually paid good money for these publications and probably should have instead simply just wiped my ass with the five bucks or set it on fire because it would have been about as productive and I likely would have lost less brain cells. That being said, I have since resolved to not pay for them so, I am reduced to reading them in kitchen check out lines and at the spa.

Of interest was an article (can I really call something that is only four paragraphs long an article? more like an articlette) about Angelina Jolie's worrying thinness. According to "an unidentifed source close to the star" poor Angelina was unable to eat because every time she tried to eat, she was overcome with guilt about all the people in the world that didn't have enough to eat and was unable to put fork to mouth. I was left wondering if she felt the same guilt when she put on her $1,200 sunglasses or took a private jet; was she overcome with guilt about all the people in the world that couldn't afford Ray Bans or a Gulfstream?

All of this was rather topical given my current obsession with shopping. At the best of times, I really, really love buying clothes, or let's be honest, shoes. But now, I have discovered ebay and have already been able to get the beautiful silver Birkenstocks for half price, HALF PRICE; that's practically FREE! My next objective is to get Puma's at HALF PRICE or, as I like to think of it, FREE.

Of course, Mr. Lemony Lemonade's head is going to explode if I keep going but then I remind him he could be married to Posh Spice and she is obnoxiously spendy, like $20,000 on a throw cushion. Then again, that would make him David Beckham; a studly footballer wandering around the house in a sarong and a faux-hican hairdo, so really, who's he to take me to task over a $20,000 throw cushion.

Just as I am sitting here on the verge of gross delusion having convinced myself that I can, I can afford that Pucci silk scarf, I look over and what do I see - Baby Girl, butt naked (preferred state of affairs in Baby Girl's world) watching Max & Ruby with a hair clip attached to her nose. On second thought, put the $150 in the college fund for my special little princess.

The Omerta

There are things in life that you think you understand because they are so mundane and routine. However, until you experience them first-hand, you don't REALLY know anything about them like the Masons or a Fraternity, jumping out of a plane, and of course, being a parent.

We have all been to Frat parties, done a beer funnel and woken up wondering why it's Monday when our last cogent memory is of Saturday but we don't really know the secret handshake or what happens when you are jumped in or whatever it is that one does to become a "brother". I've seen people jump out of planes and I understand what happens, but it's a far cry from abandoning all good sense and actually jumping out of a plane. Which brings me to being a parent. There are millions of people out there who are parents and in fact, my own parents are parents, so it's not like it's all that unusual and yet, who knew that I knew bugger all about being a parent. The worst part is that just as the whole Frat thing is cloaked in the utmost secrecy, so to is parenting; it's like all parents have taken an oath tantamount to the Mafia's Omerta. The truth is, if the innocent non-parents were ever let in on the secret, the species would end tomorrow.

It all begins with birth; an incrediby misunderstood and poorly discussed event. If anyone actually told you what happened, the species would end tomorrow (didn't I say that already?). I can forgive women their birthing Omerta because I know that they are in complete denial and they should be because what else in life will ever be as painful and, on some level, incredibly humiliating? And when I say painful, I mean that they should really develop a special word for the infinite and crushing nature of the particularly special pain that is birth. Aside from the pain aspect, let's not forget the indelicacy of the entire procedure and the fact that there are typically half a dozen people watching you do the most indelicate thing you could ever do. After birth, I was convinced that there was nothing more embarrasing, more painful, more grueling; I have seen hell, so nothing could possibly surprise me, after all, I HAVE GIVEN BIRTH, right? WRONG.

Birth is like playful foreplay compared to the act of rearing the little darlings. It was while Baby Girl was doing her best impression of the girl from the Exorcist in the middle of seeing "Surf's Up" because I wouldn't let her go barefoot that I realized that I have now officially morphed into that parent that I always looked at pittyingly while smugly thinking, "I'll never be THAT kind of feckless parent". BAREFOOT IN A THEATRE, she might as well have announced that she wanted to lick a door handle or stick her hand in a toilet.

Speaking of toilets, Baby Girl is now potty training, which, let me tell you, is not all it's cracked up to be because I am obliged to use the public bathroom. I have never considered myself a germophobe, but I break out in cold sweats at the thought of having to take Baby Girl into a public washroom. Having fretted over the fact that she seemed to be the last of her class to be in diapers, I am now wondering if any permanent psychological damage could result from putting her back in diapers, because as gross as changing them might be, it doesn't even rank in grossness compared with taking a two year old into a public washroom.

A typical washroom adventure starts with me using my most serious parent tone to tell Baby Girl that she is absolutely not, under any circumstances to touch anything, she of course nods very seriously as if she understands and then promptly drags her hand along the edge of the toilet seat or opens up the sanitary napkin bin. So, while I scream, "why, why, why did you do that?", she quickly whips all the toilet paper off the seat where I have laid it painstakingly so that I can sit her down and hope that her skin doesn't come in contact with the actual seat. It all ends with me close to tears and needing a stiff drink and her delerious with glee and turning the automatic hand dryer on and off.

Currently, I am being driven really, really crazy, like eye-twitchingly crazy, by Baby Girl's incessant, constant, never-ending, did I mention constant, movement. Even when totally exhausted, Baby Girl fiddles with her toes, stretches, rolls, fidgets, until I want to scream and jump out the nearest window because falling two storeys onto cold, hard, pavement, would be sweet relief from the constant fiddleyness. Like right now, we are on the bed watching Babar and Baby Girl is bone tired but she is putting her legs under the covers, then over the covers, then under the covers, then over the covers and so on and so on... I have been driven to such distraction that I am just waiting for the day that she understands the value of money because I will offer her $250 just to stop moving for 15 minutes, 15 blessed, movement-free minutes.

Having said all of this, I am clearly now going to be hunted down by the parenting Cosa Nostra or whoever is charged with guarding the parenting Omerta but I don't care because if I have to smile sweetly one more time and nod earnestly as a complete stranger at the supermarket remarks "aren't children a blessing?" I think that I might just spontaneously combust. It's not like I'm suggesting that you shouldn't be a parent or that ultimately it isn't rewarding and that the good far outweighs the bad, it's more like, don't be a parent because you think that it would be fun or you like dressing things up or because you think that it's going to save your marriage, because it will do the exact opposite. It will kill your love of dressing things up because the thing that you are dressing up, ie, the baby, will promptly puke up and ruin the cute outfit and it's not going to save your marriage, in fact, it is going to be the very thing that drives you both crazier than you ever thought you could be and long for the days when you thought that your marriage was failing apart because now you know, your marriage was a bleeding cake walk compared to being a parent.

But then it happens, there is a moment, a flash of pure brilliant beauty and Baby Girl leans her head on my chest and strokes my hand softly or plants a kiss on my cheek and says "Mommy, I love you". That's when it all floats away; the horrifying public washroom episodes, the public tantrums, the incessant jiggling, the poo, the irrational fixations, the refusal to eat anything that's not pink and it's like a good hair day, chocolate, new shoes, champagne, and winning the lottery all at once.

My inner diva...

My recent hiatus from writing can easily be explained as follows: I have recently realized that my "very cool Fall 2006 haircut" has now become the "bane of my existence Summer 2007 hair disaster."

It all came to me, as if in a dream, when I realized that the entire Lemony Lemonade family has simultaneously fallen into a "hair rut" with all of us looking rather ragged. I have been so preoccupied that I couldn't possibly focus on anything else. Then, the most extraordinary thing happened; Mr. Lemony Lemonade CHANGED HIS HAIRSTYLE. He came out of the bathroom the other night looking smug and triumphant. Although he typically looks smug, he rarely looks triumphant unless it involves holding me down and threatening to tickle me until I puke. His smugness and his triumphantness were the result of his new parting and althougth this may sound mundane and insignificant, hear me now and believe me later, he looked different, improved, groomed in a very Ralph Lauren-in the Hamptons-yachting-prep school sort of way.

Of course, Mr. Lemony Lemonade sorting out his hair ennui was not what this trendsetter really needed. So, for the past week, I have feverishly been seeking inspiration. In fact, I have become so desperate that I even gave a passing thought to a Victoria Beckham. I put it down to sugar shock as I had just downed a handful of Smarties, which I was meant to be using as Baby Girl's potty training rewards but I figured that I deserved potty training rewards just as much as Baby Girl, particularly as I now know the joys of taking a two year old into a public washroom.

And what of Baby Girl's hair woes - she is currently growing out her fringe although she doesn't really have a clue that this is in fact what she is doing. I resolved that she wasn't going to be a "bowl cut" child and I am steadfastly refusing the obviously more practical, child-friendly haircut that involves oddly short and uneven bangs. This of course brings me to confess that only recently has Baby Girl begun to have an opinion on her appearance and let's just say that she isn't wanting in the self-confidence department as every morning she declares herself "gorgeous". The only problem is that her choices are somewhat questionnable and I have had to develop Machiavellian manipulation skills to get her to agree with more appropriate wardrobe selections. Gratefully, her hair repertoire is limted to "big ponytails" or "little ponytails" which makes my life easy although I am getting extremely tired of wrestling with her every morning in order to achieve a straight parting and even ponytails. I have to admit that I would rather that Baby Girl figure out how to work a brush, barettes and an elastic band instead of buying, gasp, whatever pair of delicious shoes I am currently coveting.

That leaves me with my hair, which is now turning grey. The fault for my greyness and general raggedness falls squarely at the feet of Baby Girl. Pre-children, my hair was shiny and sans grey and my face was as smooth as a baby's bottom. Once I had Baby Girl, my hair has turned grey, I have noticeable wrinkles - to the point that my esthetician has recommended Botox and I have dark circles under my eyes. So, not only do I have to now spend a small fortune to get a cut, I am also obliged to colour which vexes me to no end.

Typically, I look for inspiration for a new hairstyle from celebrities; like when I realized that I HAD TO HAVE A MEG RYAN HAIRCUT. That worked out so-so but the real tragedy occurred when I HAD TO HAVE A GWYNETH PALTROW circa the uber-short, gamine, pixie cut. I, unfortunately, just looked like a very butch lesbian. Then there was the inevitable Jennifer Aniston circa Friends and the sort of ubiquitous Eva Longoria diva hair. More recently, I have had the very saucy long straight hair with a thick fringe but now its sort of a very awkward long haircut with a sort of growing out fringe. If Baby Girl had her way, I would get a Dora the Explorer "do" but I just don't have the right shaped face. Clearly the situation has reached Defcon five meaning that I am days away from an impulse haircut and inevitable tragedy.

It may be shallow and pointless and there are a million more important things that I could be obsessing about but this is a matter of me drawing a line in the sand and refusing to become a frumpy, unkempt, mummy. I have given up dry clean only clothing, lie-ins on the weekend, hangovers and three inch heels - there is only so far that I am willing to go and so, as God is my witness, I will find a new, dazzling and fabulous hairstyle proving that this old gal still got game...