The Sassy Uterus

Couch is my new drug

I have become far too placid and complacent with doing nothing.  I don't know if it's my ADD medication that has slowed me down or the prior neck/shoulder nerve injury that forced me to consume painkilling narcotics, muscle relaxers and nerve medication by the handfuls that has effected this result, but the truth remains the same: I'm a couch potato-ette. 

This is bad news in a house of seven where we have one regular-sized couch, one recliner and one love seat.  I take the couch and stretch out and stay there.  I contemplate the ceiling (regular 1970s popcorn-sprayed-type) while wondering if my ass is indeed spreading or if that is just the wadded-up quilt stuck around the outline of my hips.  I eventually work up enough motivation to sit up and grab my iced latte from the nearby table and take a sip (let's not even talk about the movtivation that I need to start working on the night before in order to get out of the house to buy the coffee in the a.m.).  Sometimes, but only in times that I can't avoid it (I haven't figured out how to get someone else to go pee for me) I get up to cross the room or pick up the baby if he protests too much.  And it seems that either the cat or a kid swoops into my spot in that amount of time.

I don't understand why my couch is so coveted by small critters furry or otherwise.  Personally, I hate sitting in a spot pre-warmed by another ass.  It's gross.  But my kids (and Piper counts as a kid) act like a warmed spot is somehow more valuable. 

But really, it isn't the seat-stealing that is bothering me lately.  It's the fact that I have so utterly given up on any pursuit of hobbies, reading, or Jennifer-esque leisure time that I lay here like the deflated chick for the Drug Free America commercial or whats-ever.  I get that this description may not mean anything to you upwardly mobile folks who actually remove themselves from the TV for a good portion of the day, so here, I provide you with a link to the commercial: Anti-Drug Commercial-Couch Weed.

The impetus to this laziness (oxymoron?) episode started approximately a year ago when Sir Isaac was born and loudly decreed that no person over the age of 20 be able to rest while under his roof.  My days consisted of work-isaac-feed isaac-isaac sleep-isaac awake five minutes later-repeat process.  I just gave up but it took nearly a full year to completely give in.  I used to sneak in trying to read (until he started to angrily bat the book away, "No, MOTHER, you must look at BABY ISAAC at ALL times) or attempt being creative. 

But lately, not so much.  And now, of course, Isaac is mobile and that requires me to be mobile or at least make very good use of the baby gate.  But envitably those go-go-go kiddos leave the gate open and Isaac makes his third great escape of the hour. 

I can't believe how easy it is to give in to the lure of the couch.  It's always there!  Always beckoning, "Awww...you poor Jennifer.  Are those kids being mean to you?"  And I hang my head and say, "Yes," not at loud of course, I'm trying to keep my craziness somewhat concealed still.  Then the couch says, "Well, you deserve a good 'ol sitdown on your cozy, comfy couch."  And I have to admit, what the couch says is not a lie.  I DO deserve a good sit down on the cozy, comfy couch.  It's true.  And so it begins.  The couch is my drug.  I used to say that the left side of my couch was my favorite-est place on Earth and now it seems I've embraced the middle and right sides as well.  I'm so equal opportunity, evolved really.

I have to get up and get going sooner or later.  The good Dr. David Burns (Feeling Good) says that motivation doesn't come first, action does and only after action do you start to feel good.  I think he's right.  Starting tomorrow I'm going to ungraft my ass from this couch and do something.  I don't know what yet because everything sounds lame and boring, but nothing could be worse than laying on the couch all day (and for what it's worth, my house is clean, I do fly-by clean ups when I have to get up and pass through a room...that's *efficiency*).  All this laying around reminds me of when I was pregnant.  Shit. 

Ok...so if I'm *not* pregnant, starting tomorrow I'll go do something.  For starters, be relieved.

Oakland PD

Today's commute home left me sad, tired and wrung out emotionally and it wasn't because what should have taken me 30 minutes on any given day at 3:00 p.m. took 90 minutes today. 

For those who don't know, I work in Oakland, CA.  I take a pretty long commute to and from each weekday.  On the way in today, I noticed fire engines on the overpasses in Hayward.  Lights flashing, pulled over to the side while the firefighters stood watch over the freeway.  The first time I saw this, I thought, "Hmmm, wonder what's up."  The second time I thought, "Some s*its going down in Hayward."  Yes, I am usually this slow in the a.m. In the meantime, cop cars from all around the Bay Area passed by me. It wasn't until the freeway came to a grinding halt where it usually speeds up and I saw a sign that read, "Oakland Coliseum, Exit Hegenberger" that I realized what this was-the memorial for the four fallen Oakland Police officers.  And just as I was merging on to 238 to get myself over to 580, my eyes blurred and my heart ached.

On the way home, much was the same except that 580 was bumper to bumper.  511.org informed me that it wasn't due to an accident but because they had shut down parts of 880 (funneling traffic to 580) that was the cause.  880 was shut down so that the families and the funeral procession from the Coliseum could move, without unnecessary delay, back to their homes through the East Bay. 

The traffic didn't get to me.  For the first time in my life I was alright with heavy traffic.  I knew what it was for, and I would gladly do whatever I could to help, even if that just meant stay out of the way and be patient. 

What did get to me though, was once I was back on 238 (mid-way home for me) and I saw police cruisers, one right after another, some spaced apart by five or so cars, following in the traffic.  Seeing all these men and women who lost such wonderful colleagues.

I don't usually cry during my commute, but my heart grew heavier and the lump in my throat took over and I couldn't hold it back anymore.  I said a silent prayer, a thank you to these fallen Police that selflessly protected all of the innocent people in Oakland for so long.  I thought about all of the Oakland Police Department and how they have stood in the background of my days: As I commuted while pregnant with Isaac each day,  as I walked around Piedmont Avenue looking at the stores or when I'd stop off on Telegraph for some random errand.  Or more common still, as I flew through Oakland, along 580, oblivious and in my own world as I pondered the oddities of my life that would later become blog posts.  I thought about my two grandmothers, who have lived in East Oakland, one not too far from the site where Officer Dunakin and Officer Hege were gunned down. 

In the end, I just came home and sobbed.  Sobbed because it was a horrible thing and because no one, especially great souls that spend their lives protecting strangers, deserves to die like that.   I sobbed because I am a wife, a daughter and a mother and I can't even begin to imagine the pain of these officer's widows, children and parents.

And I sobbed because there was nothing I could do.  Nothing except make space on the road for the car next to me that needed over and later, when I spotted a Highway Patrol officer pulled over with a civilian car, keep a close eye as to what was happening.  It may be the mother in me, but I feel the need to watch out for those who watch out for us.

Officer Dunakin, Officer Hege, Officer Romans and Officer Sakai-May you rest in peace and thank you for your years of selfless service and protection. 

For more info: Thousands attend funeral for 4 slain officers

Hotel Sugarfornia

I was reading in the newspaper today that ever since this economic downturn more Americans are turning towards sweets and sugary foods to ease their tension.  The article, When Economy Sours, a Tootsie Roll Can Still Soothe the Soul by Christine Haughney in the New York Times today says:

       

"The recession seems to have a sweet tooth.  As unemployment has risen and 401(k)'s have shrunk, Americans, particularly adults, have been consuming growing volumes of candy,   from Mary Janes and Tootsie Rolls to Gummy Bears and cheap chocolates, say candy makers,     store owners and industry experts."

 I can only imagine the political cartoon for this new fad, as we all balloon up and get fat while searching for jobs online with a bag of trusty gummy bears by our side.  As an aside, I have no clue what Mary Jane's are in terms of candy, but I could see how a Mary Jane, in the way I define it, would definitely soothe the soul right now.

And I'm glad to see people on my side of the camp finally.  This organic food craze has driven me and my package of Double-Stuf Oreos up the wall.  (Spell-checker thinks I spelled "Stuf" wrong.  Ha, it doesn't know Oreos like I do).  Since my first taste of refined sugar as a mere toddler I was hooked and knew that it might very well be the manna that some people search for.  (I was a wise toddler.)  And then everyone started poo-pooing sugar saying it causes hyperactivity.  Isn't that the point?  Anything that is euphoric in nature can cause hyperactivity.  Caffeine causes hyperactivity, that's the point--to happily get shit done. To go about your daily dribble with a skip in your step and a manical smile on your face, which by the way, also keeps people from getting in your way. 

As a parent, you can use this strategically.  Let the kids have Lucky Charms in the a.m. and then send them outside to clean up the backyard.  You'll be amazed at how fast that yard is immaculate.  Teenagers do well with a cup of coffee or other caffeinated beverage here and there.  Skyler can do amazing things with enough Red Bull.  All at once he's doing the dishes, being a comedic genius and doing a little jig at the sink.  It's not all bad.  Moderation, folks.  And moderation helps with the "healthy" stuff too.

I once heard a comedian talk about the water bottle craze where everyone was drinking water and carrying their own little water bottle everywhere.  He said something along the lines of us having evolved to the point where we are complex mammals with ingenious digestive tracks..we can handle soda, we can handle coffee.  Thousands of years of evolution being thrown away as we drink water like rabbits. 

Do you really want to diss evolution and drink soda?  You're either for evolution or not people.

So I am glad that I am finally not alone in my finely-granulated sugary world.  Welcome to the Hotel Sugar-fornia.  It's a lovely place.   I'm happy to see visitors.  In this hotel you will find the best Christmas cookies from around the world, the most divine chocolates and yummiest pastries.  And in addition to the standard American holidays we celebrate, there is one more that comes every March:  Girl Scout Cookie Week.  I wait all year for Tag Alongs.

My guess is that even after the economy turns up and everyone is happy-go-lucky and spun off their dividends and 401(k)s and they are once again purchasing houses that are way out of their financial league and SUVs that leave a huge carbon tire print, they will still find the sugar-habit hardest to kick.  The Eagles said it best, "You can check out anytime you like, but you can't ever leave." 

And who'd want to?  We've got Peeps galore.

A rolling mother gathers no toys...

If I had to give yesterday a score, in terms of happiness, it would have been an 8+.  I had my review at work.  I got a raise.  I got inspired to be a better office manager.  I had a good lunch, complete with a yummy cookie and I got a lot accomplished.  I was a productive being. 

Unfortunately, that productivity did not stop at bed time.  After taking some pain meds for a persistant neck and shoulder ache and having a late night snack (hmmm...cereal) I tottered off to bed like a drowsy toddler.  Baby Isaac was snug as a bug in a rug in his Disney Cars bed and that in itself was a miracle.  Awww...sweet oblivion.  Me + Pillow + My own half of the bed all to myself = Whoopdyf**kingdoo! 

So I closed my tired little eyes and I felt dizzy.  I didn't despair.  The tell-tale sign of a good pain med is a slight woozy feeling.  Some people get addicted to that woozy carefreeness.  Other people, like me, simply tolerate the experience as they know it leads to pain relief. 

I was just about in la-la land (right before deep sleep) and my stomach lurched.  Hmmm...maybe I ate too fast.  It lurched more and some weird top-like structure deep inside the recesses of my grey matter began to spin.  And then it was on. 

In short order I was sweating, my mouth was doing that pre-vomit watering thing and soon I was hanging over some random Rubbermaid bin that *used* to house all my writings through the years, that is, until I poured them all out on my bedroom floor in pre-puke mania. 

Enough with the gory details...but I puked my effing head off last night.  I puked like I was never going to puke again (please God, let that be true).  And each time, after I'd clean up my sweaty, pukey self and begin to fall asleep, that top would begin to spin in my priomordial brain and my stomach would start to contract and it would be on, all over again.

So I don't know what you party-people do between the hours of 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. on any given Friday night into Saturday morning, but I cling to the side of a Rubbermaid bin and purge myself. 

Disgusting.

Of course, Phil works Saturdays and my parents had to go visit my uncle who is post-esophageal reconstruction at Stanford Hospital so no one could assist me today.  Selfish people.

And so I tried to keep the insanity level down in the Martin Household from my control tower (couch).  I won't lie, there were times I was ready to turn the terror alert to red out of the sheer chaos, but we got by.   Dylan helped a lot and even got the baby asleep so I could take a nap. 

Upon awaking from my nap I found myself covered with random toys: A pokemon stuffed toy up at my cheek, a mini-calculator down on my stomach, a thermometer Dylan had tried to force in my mouth next to my ribs, and a rattle down on my feet.  I look up to see my children all standing around the couch, eyes wide and staring imploringly at me, almost like holding vigil over their sick mother.  The toys being, of course, sacrifices to the gods as to restore their mother to health.  It was actually quite touching. 

Until the thermometer jabbed me in the side and I yelled and then the grandparents stopped by with the great-grandmother to show off the sleeping...oh wait, by now they had woken him up....baby.

Aww...sweet chaos.  I'll take it any day OR night over quiet me-time spent puking my entire stomach contents out.

The curse of the angry parent

Nearly every child has heard it uttered (or screamed) from their parent's mouth, "I hope you someday have a child just like you so you will know what it is like!"  Well, thanks Mom and Dad.  You could have given me a trust fund, yet I seem to have inherited something much more priceless-five mini-mes.  Or five mini-Phils as the case may be. 

Listen, everyone, I am not happy about this situation.  Everyday I am faced with one of them displaying an unsavory trait from mine or Phil's childhood.  On the really bad days, segments are taken from both of our youth years. 

Now, I remember myself as being a shy child.  A kiddo not prone to talking to strangers or even returning their glances.  Nope.  Me in my little world was a happy thing.  Still is, except now I have children that rip me out of it.  Most days I am left feeling like a newborn, just having been taken from the soft, warm womb of Mommy and into a cold, bright, loud room with lots of people talking.  Well, lots of children talking anyway. 

So yes, I was shy.  But apparently my ability to be abrupt and tactless left my parents a bit exaspperated.  Man, if I had a dollar for each time I heard, "Jennnniiiifffeeerrr, you really need to learn to think before you speak," well, I'd have that absentee trust fund I bemoan.  In this case, I feel that my parents should feel relieved, if not grateful, that I was so shy because that kept me from speaking (sans thinking) on a more often occassion.  Because to have someone who is tactless and outspoken is to have....well, my OLDEST SONS.

Tonight I ran to the store because Phil had Isaac asleep on his lap.  You do not do anything to wake up Isaac.  It's a general rule and it relates to his rapid acceleration from totally OK to totally 'effing pissed off in about 0.03 seconds (which, I might add, he gets from Phil's childhood.  Phil could be an angry child.).

The oldest two boys, Sky and Dylan wanted to go with me.  I said, OK because they had money and they wanted to buy their own junk food for a change.  As it turned out, our local Safeway had a long line at every checkout stand.  That was fine, I just chose the line that shot up the magazine aisle so I could peruse headlines and browse magazines as I waited.  But Sky and Dylan had a better idea.  They decided this was the peerrrfect place to wrestle.  I stopped them before they dropped to the floor with a loud hiss, "If you two don't get the hell up off the floor and act right, I'm going to put all your junk food back!"  Yeah...right.  I was too into figuring out what Boho magazine was all about (borrrriiinnggg, unless you are organic-minded, green-living, yada, yada). 

They stood up and decided to start trading barbs.  Dylan went to look at something on the ground, bumped his head on the cart, Sky (and maybe me too) started laughing, Dylan started to laugh, then got mad and grabbed for Sky over the cart (I had seperated them) and Sky says, "Oh my God Dylan!  You are an ass!"  "Skyler, I am warning you..."  To which Skyler says, "What I meant to say is that Dylan is a donkey."  Right.  Still name-calling, still punishable by junk food deprivation.  When Dylan started horsing around, Skyler says, "Ugh...white people."  (Note to self: No more Comedy Central or Dane Cook for him).

I would have paid serious cash to have this line move faster but that couldn't be, because I had to suffer the ill effects of a delinquent childhood (although I suspect I was suffering some of Phil's comeuppance tonight as well).  This situation went back and forth a few times, with me threatening to bite them if they didn't shape up (not my proudest moment) and came to an absolute tip-top pinnacle when Dylan decided to start talking in different accents.  Cute...all kids do it.  They mean no harm.  Right?  Well, if the accent he chooses happens to be the race of the person behind you in line who has nothing better to do than watch your family's circus act, it is really, really bad.

I wanted to die of embarrasment, just curl up on the bottom rack of the magazine stand, right next to Tiger Beat and Highlights and just die.  But then the line moved.  Finally.

If you think my boys need a good ass-kicking, I wouldn't argue with you.  And don't think that they don't know better because they do.  But this is how it is.  They have a misfire in their brain.  I'm sure I read about it in my Scientific American Mind magazine (although I did not find that little gem anywhere on the rack in my moment of crisis).  See, they want soooo bad to be soooo funny that they say the stupidest crap at the wrongest of times.  I have tried to tell them about time and place.  I have impressed on them that if a joke makes fun of a person or groups of people, it is wrong.  And they agree.  And then comes a trip to the grocery store and they misfire.  It's gotta be the testosterone. 

Anyway, I've made a conscious effort not to curse my kids in such a manner as most parents do.  See, Phil got cursed by it a few times over by his parents, and I don't think they ever took his prospective wife into consideration.  I am doing just that.  Future daughter-in-laws and son-in-law, you can thank me later.  Plus, if I end up watching my grandkids like my parents watch mine (awww...the irony, can you taste it?), I don't want to end up having to deal with it a second time.

So, thanks Mom and Dad, I really love having my mini-me's and Phil's mini-mes throwing every bad trait of ours up in our faces.  But a trust fund would have been easier to manage.