No Weigh

I brushed my teeth as my 2 year old entertained herself on the tile playground below. A q-tip here, a dust bunny there, a roll of toilet paper to stream about, just enough to keep her busy for those few short moments before the day was off to an official start. Rinse and spit, rinse and spit, a sideways glance at a haggard face. I put my toothbrush down and noticed my daughter digging through a pile of old magazines. It was of no consequence at first but as she dug deeper I caught a glimpse of an old enemy hidden underneath. As she scattered the glossy pages filled with waif thin models across the floor, I saw it surface...
My scale.
My daughter looked up at me, eyes wild with excitement. What was this magical toy I had been hiding from her morning after morning? I forced a smile and quickly began to pile the magazines back on top of this forgotten foe. "No Mommy" she shrieked. "Play, play". My heart sank and I knew there was no way around it. I realized this was a crucial moment. How I handled this could be the difference between my daughter loving or loathing her body forever. If I picked up the scale threw it across the room and screamed “Nooooo don’t touch it! It’s evil, EVIL!!” I could be doing irreparable harm. But it went against every bit of fat in my body to embrace the beast that terrorized me for so many years of my life. I took a deep breath, looked into my daughter’s eyes and said “Of course you can play with it. Of course.” I did it, I was off the hook. Or so I thought. For the first few minutes my daughter was intrigued by how she could stand on the scale and the numbers would whirl around. She’d step on and off, on and off. It was the bravest thing I’d ever seen in my life. But soon she craved more. Her little body provided only a short whirl of the numbers…she wanted more and she was coming after me. “On Mommy,” she barked. I pretended not to hear her. “On, On, On!!!” she demanded. As I stepped on the scale I tried desperately to mask my horror as the numbers flew by, finally settling on a number. As I stared at the distressing digits below my daughter smiled and clapped. I had done my duty as a Mom and made my little girl happy.
Thank God she can’t count past ten.

A New Low

I put my daughter in for her nap at 2pm and surveyed the damage of the day. The fort we built earlier had collapsed with innocent dolls trapped beneath the rubble. Crayons and markers littered the floor, some hiding in fear under the couch. Smashed Goldfish crackers and half eaten pretzel rods lay crippled on the rug. It was a typical scene this time of day and there was only one woman brave enough to take it on.
I folded the blankets, fluffed the pillows and put my little artist’s precious tools away. I apologized to the dolls as I gently picked up their crumpled bodies. I gathered the sad little snacks, collecting them in a dirty bowl I found under the coffee table. I followed the routine as I did every day until something in my mouth caught my attention. I fished out a golden snack tangled in a lost strand of hair and stood frozen in fear. No, I couldn’t. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. And there in the middle of the mess I realized oh yes, yes I did. Somewhere between the cleaning and the straightening I was eating…OFF OF THE FLOOR. I was horrified. Disgusted. Shit, were the blinds closed? Did my neighbors see me grazing the hardwood for toddler treats? This was a new low. Had eight months at home with a toddler depleted me of my social graces? Oh my god, did I eat things off the floor in public?! I took a deep breath, pulled myself together and did what any disgraced woman would do next…reached for a drink.
As I took that first sip I wondered… "How long has this milk been in this sippy cup?" Gulp.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

When I quit my job 7 months ago to stay at home with my daughter I promised myself I would never be one of those moms who ends up wearing no make-up, sweats and the obligatory pony tail. Well, today while at my daughter's Gymboree Art class I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized....promise broken.
The woman staring back at me stopped me dead in my finger painting tracks. A haggard face sans make-up, sweats (well, technically yoga pants but let's be honest, they're the new millennium's sweatpants) and yes, the "I'm not sure when I last washed my hair" pony tail.
Just months ago I was a successful career woman with killer shoes, designer handbags, feminine frocks and CLEAN hair. Every single day I took pride in how I looked. I cared what my
co-workers thought of me (not necessarily the healthiest attitude, but totally true). I kept staring at myself in the mirror wondering how I let this happen as my daughter wiped her tiny paint-covered hands on my faded black sweats. Then I looked around at the other Mommies in the class and discovered they too had given up (sorry ladies). Yoga pants, yoga pants, yoga pants! I wanted to scream out "Have we no shame? We're out in public in sweatpants!!" Why did we all do this to ourselves? Did we feel as though our role as "Mom" didn't deserve the same time and care as that of the working woman?
OUCH. I think I just hit a nerve.
My own.
I started to realize this was way deeper then bad hair and dirty pants when suddenly a little voice screamed "Mommy, juice NOW."
Reflective time, officially over.
As we gathered our belongings and headed for the door I couldn't help but wonder what the Art class mirror would reveal next week.
Or maybe we'll try Music class instead.
That room doesn't have a mirror.

A Mother is Mortified....A Blog is Born

When your baby smiles at you for the first time your heart melts and you know you'll never be the same. When that same baby turns 2 years old and screams "Fuck it!" at the top of her lungs in a packed Target store, you know it's time to start drinking....I mean blogging.
Oh yes, my precious little pig-tailed darling decided to bypass potty-training and go straight to potty-mouth.
It was supposed to be just another typical trip to Target.
Get little one strapped into the cart....check.
Distribute snacks, sippy cup and Ruby (favorite doll)...check.
Daughter's first attempt to stand up in cart...check.
Have the obligatory "Now remember we DO NOT stand up in the cart" chat....check.
OK, all systems go.
We moved our way through the aisles, gracefully navigating the sea of customers. The mood was light, the cart was filling up with goodies and then she dropped the bomb. "Fuck it!" she screamed. Wait, what? She couldn't have. "Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!" I was paralyzed. Where did she learn that? Not from me. No way. "Fuck it!" A hush came over the store. "Fuck it! Fuck it!" "Sttopp" I stammered. "Noooo, we don't say that." Her big blue eyes stared back at me, studying my face, she sensed my panic and she knew she was in control. "Fuuuuuuuckkkkkk! Fuck it!" Her screams grew louder, my face grew paler and the crowd grew bigger. There was laughter, shocked reactions and then a Mother's worst nightmare...the judging other Mother. She looked at me in horror, covering her little ones innocent ears. I continued to try to get my daughter to stop her rant as Judger Mother got closer and closer. "The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout...down came the"...."Fuck it!" Sweat was pooling in the small of my back. Judger Mother was now by my side. "Get control of your child," she squawked. "How could you teach your child such filthy words?" I was speechless. I could feel the tears ready to spill down my cheeks. I looked at my daughter, searching her face for some recognition that Mommy needed her help, needed her to be that sweet little girl I knew she was...."Fuck it!"
This time she actually had it right....fuck it...we're outta here.
And so....Mortified Mommy was born.