BHBC: My Life Map

I was recently given the opportunity to review My Life Map for Blogher. Unlike most of the books I've reviewed, this was more of a journal, designed to help you map out your life for the next ten years.

The book begins by walking you through a series of questions about your past and your present designed to help you flesh out what was important to you during various stages of your life. You are then encouraged to fill in these time periods on the "whole life map" provided at the end of the book, visually representing your life up until this point. The map is divided into sections where you can write whatever you felt to be important during each "chapter" of your life in the areas of family, friends, work, learning, service, and playing.

After mapping out your past and present, you are then encouraged to begin to plan the next 10 years of your life. There is a chapter on each of the subjects containing more insightful questions about what you want and value, and a map at the end of each chapter where you can plan out that aspect of your life before adding it to the whole life map.

I found these exercises very interesting. I'm not much of a long term planner, but to begin to think about my hopes and dreams for the next several years (and even moreso maybe for the past 31) was a very useful task. The maps themselves were less helpful to me because I've never been a very visual person, but the questions posed in each chapter really helped to flesh out what is important to me and what I'm hoping to accomplish. I really liked the way it was organized too, and sometimes the very subjects made me think. Having to map out a plan for myself over the next 10 years in terms of service, playing, and learning reminded me how much I have sometimes neglected those aspects of my life lately even though they were very important to me in the past.

Overall, I enjoyed this book (even though I was a little skeptical at first), and really was glad to sit down and feed my reflective side a little bit. The specific questions helped keep even my cluttered and distracted brain focused. That's quite the task these days.

Disclosure: This is a paid review for Blogher. All opinions are my own.

Before I was a mom: My bad teenage poetry

A long time ago, my dear friend and fellow Jersey girl Jaime and I were talking about our bad teenage poems, and she asked me if I'd ever think of posting some on my blog.  At the time, the answer in my head was a resounding NO, but I seem to have lost some of my self consciousness because today I was going through my backup files and found this poem from college and just had to post it.  Why?  I have no idea.  But this is for you Jaime ;)

Ocean City

I like it when the boardwalk
isn’t mine. Pavilions full of locals sit
in the same place every night. Better to be
moving through crowds of mostly strangers
always seeing someone I know, always someone different.
Smells of sand and salt and buttered popcorn
and the faint hope that some perfect summer guy will
approach me with a pick-up line fresher than the popcorn.

Somehow,I tell myself, dragged by friends into the deafening arcade,
It’s still exotic. Iconsent to one game of air hockey
and slide past the “Please No Smoking” sign on
the cigarette machine to change my five dollar bill. I play distracted and the buzzards
who might have gone to high school with me
see me losing and start circling the table.
I yield it to them, and leaving my friends to their shooting games
I slip outside to watch the Shoobies in their
tank tops and black socks moving through the crowds.

Someone drives me home and I sit up for a while.
The smell of boardwalk sticks to my skin
and my hair and my high school sweatshirt and I feel dirty
and alone. The house is quiet but
the arcade rings in my ears. I try to calm myself with
fudge or taffy, and when that fails
I take an hour long cool shower
to wash away the grime and tears
before I sleep.

Things I thought

Before I got pregnant

Everything in moderation.
I'll have a glass of wine once in a while.
A little TV isnt' bad for kids.
It's okay to let babies cry a little.
I might supplement with formula, and will definitely express bottles, so someone else can help.
I'll find a great sitter.
My child will be predominately accelerated.
I'm going to have time to read and write.
I am going to be a genius at mothering.

When BG was a newborn
Must follow all the rules.
Letting a baby cry is torture for everyone.
I can't drink any coffee or wine until I wean.
I will never ever leave her with anyone until she goes to college.
I would never let a child under two watch TV.
She's never going to sleep.
She's never going to meet her milestones.
She's going to be permanently attached to my boob.
I am never going to think about anything except my child again.
I am totally incompetent at this.

This morning

I'll just turn on Sesame Street and go back to sleep.
More coffee? Please and thank you.
Okay, just one more nursing session and then we're done for the day. Really.
When did my kid get so smart?
Oh really? Another tantrum? I'll just be over there.
Everything I do is in the context of everything else that I do.
Oh, maybe I'll blog about this.

Be it ever so humble

Last week, my family went on a trip. It was a big trip. It involved being away for a week, a 6 hour drive, and the crossing of a national border (that one to the north).

It was a nightmare. And it wasn't. And I need to write about it, I know I do. And I will, as soon as I have some more time to process it.

But now I'm home.

It's such a relief to be home. My laundry is done. I can cook my meals again. Baby Girl is napping, at least a little bit. Life is back to normal.

Which is a good thing. I think.

Because what is normal?

I'll be cheerful again. I'll be deep and thought provoking again. I'll be funny again.

But today? I'm just relieved to be on my own couch. And ON TWITTER AGAIN. Ahem.

There's no place like home.

Mommy in translation: A PSA

Sometimes it seems that my husband, lovebug that he is, doesn't understand me. I thought I would write a quick translation guide to help him out. Please feel free to share with any other husbands you know.

When I say,

"Oh no, it's okay. I can do it myself."

I mean,

"Get your rear end out of that chair and get in here or I'm going to pout and grouch at you all evening."

When I say,

"Can you hold the baby while I run to the bathroom?"

I mean,

"And let out all the curses I have been waiting all day to say."

When I say,

"No, keep talking about work. I'm listening."

It means,

"I AM listening, but you better recognize because you are so going to owe me later and best be listening when I tell you a story about a twitter/blogger friend you've never heard of."

When I say,

"Oh you're going to Wendy's? Just a salad and a chili. And maybe a baked potato."

I mean,

"And FOR THE LOVE OF GOD A FROSTY. How could you go to Wendy's and not get me a Frosty? And make it seem like it was your idea, so I can act like I'm all healthy."

When I say,

"Can you do this for me?"

I mean,

"Can you do this for me?" (Ahem. That one isn't hard. I promise.)

When I say,

"I'm fine."

It means,

"I haven't slept in a week, my head is about to explode, and I'm 30 seconds from crying and I totally blame YOU because you just asked me that question. Now put the baby to bed for me, get me some cookies, and rub my feet, okay?"

Got it?

Excuse me while I disappear

Sometimes I feel like curling up into a ball on my living room floor and hiding.

I've told you before how terrible I am at making friends. I'm a pretty shy person, really, and generally not very open about my feelings. I don't know how to talk to people I don't know. I crave closeness but I hold myself back.

I went to a playgroup yesterday. I was so proud of myself for going, for opening myself up to that. I was prepared for disaster. When I got to the park, I didn't see anyone. My mind immediately want to dark places. No one showed up. I spent all morning psyching myself up and no one is here. And they didn't tell me. They knew I was coming, that's why they didn't show up. They hate me. How do they already know that? They haven't even met me yet. They must just have a sense for it.

Yeah, I'm that ridiculous.

Because then I realized the park had two playgrounds.

The playgroup was okay. I made it through just fine Everyone was very nice, but , but I felt like I was on the outside. I didn't talk much, and while the moms tried to talk to me, there wasn't all that much to talk about, so I mostly sat and listened to them talk. What if I say something and they don't like it? What if they think I'm weird because I'm not saying anything at all? I need to leave before they realize how uncool I am. I started trying to plan my exit. How could I leave without insulting them? Maybe if it started raining. Or my phone rang.

I had been waiting for this all week, been so nervous and excited, and I was sitting there hoping my phone would ring.

The Internet makes me brave, which subsequently makes me terrified. I write these posts, or say something on twitter, or leave a comment on a blog, and I am instantly terrified that people are going to hate me. Did I say something wrong? Did I overstep? Why hasn't anyone replied? What does that reply mean?

It's never quiet in my head, people.

Earlier this week, I read Yael's lovely post about popularity, and I instantly went on a quest for the scene she was talking about. I found it. Here it is. Watch. I'll wait.



Every time I watch, it makes me happy. I'm uncool. And when I hang with the cool people (probably a lot of you!) it does make me feel cool. But I'm not. And I need to stop trying to be cool, stop trying to fit into some mold, and just be the gushy, overprotective, random, girly, word-loving, coupon-clipping, nerdy, huggy, terrified woman that I am. I need to learn how to let that be enough.

My super sweet lunch date

So, Hubby has off from work today, and he knows I have been feeling a little down, so he offers to take me out for a nice lunch. Baby Girl being the social butterfly she is, she is always well behaved in public, so a lunch date for three sounds perfectly reasonable, lovely even. So, I put some clean jeans on me a new dress on Baby Girl (because she is always better dressed than I am. Always), and we head out the door.

We are seated immediately at the restaurant, and all I can think is how lovely a day it is. We get to the table, I strap her into the high chair, and the waitress takes our drink orders (water for me, of course) and smiles at Baby Girl who promptly giggles and poses - does this kid know she's cute or what? Then I glance down at my shirt which feels wet, thinking oh man, did she spit up on me already? But it isn't spit up.

It's poop.

So, with only half a word to my husband, I grab Baby Girl and the diaper bag and jet to the bathroom. Now, this is the kind of restaurant where the bathrooms have pumps of scented soap. And a bottle of lotion. And hairspray. And mouthwash. You know, just in case.

And I'm in the biggest stall of the bathroom, with Baby Girl strapped to a changing table, prattling away to keep her from crying, and swabbing desperately at my shirt with a Shout Wipe. Only the poop isn't coming off, it's just kind of spreading. Now I have a giant beige wet spot on my shirt. And I have a change of clothes for the baby, but somehow she didn't get any poop on her clothes. Just mine. Thanks sweetie.

I go back to the table and quietly explain to hubby what happened. His eyes get wide and he asks if I want to leave, but I really don't, so I strap Baby Girl back into the high chair and look at my menu. The old ladies at the next table coo at her, and she hams it up. The waitress takes our order.

Then Baby Girl starts fussing. Hubby picks her up, but she just squirms. I try to hold her, but no luck. Finally I concede that she must be hungry.

Now, I'm a big breast feeding advocate, and I have no problem with nursing in public. I don't think it's offensive at all, and I am totally all for it.

Except, y'know, when it's my boob.

But I'm pretty handy with a receiving blanket, so I slide to the back of the booth and try to feed her. Only she won't latch. MY baby? Who would nurse every 20 minutes if given the options? Is this a pod baby? And just as the waitress comes back with our food, she throws the blanket off me in order to look up and see who's coming.

Once we get everything, ahem, covered again, she finally starts to eat and I realize that I can't eat a crabcake sandwich with one hand. Hubby tries to help. ("Should I feed you? Should I move your plate?") I sigh, and pick at some french fries, trying to secure the blanket and maintain an adult conversation.

Then, inexplicably, Baby Girl decides to scream at the top of her lungs.

And miraculously, hubby scoops her up. Walks outside with her. And I am sitting there, still collecting myself, when he comes back with an un-crying baby and slides into the booth next to me.

And, finally, I am able to eat my almost-warm crab cake and talk to my husband. I smile and look around and am so grateful to be there, in this lovely restaurant with the two loves of my life.

And, y'know, with poop on my shirt.