Stripper Savior!

Nick, Cole and I went to Nick’s cousin’s wedding this weekend while Genny stayed with my father and stepmother.

On our ride home in the minivan we were throwing around ideas of what our reality television shows would be if we had one. Which one would have the most chance of making it? Where was the drama?

We realized that Nick’s doing flash design (sitting at a computer all day and eating) might not make for very exciting television. But Stripper Mom? Hmm…some potential there.

I quickly nixed the idea of Stripper Mom returning to stripping across America to see how American men would react to a late-thirties, out-of-shape mother taking her clothes off. True, drama might ensue, but I’m not sure the kind I would want to deal with at this point in my life.

But Stripper Mom traveling to strip clubs and trying to convince strippers to get out of the business? Hmm…possibly. I was quick to point out to Nick that I have nothing against women stripping if it’s what they really want to do, but from what I’ve seen, there aren’t too many women who fit into that category.

Perhaps I could have a big bus with some slogan painted on the side…Stripper Mom—Saving Strippers Across America!

I would stage interventions where I helped exotic dancers figure out why they were stripping…I would offer new possibilities…money to fulfill and pursue their real dreams…

Wow, how cool if the Stripper Savior had rolled up to a club I had been working in.

Of course, I might not have as much to write about now.

So...what would YOUR reality show be?

Power in No Shame

I don’t know who Beth Ditto is besides that she’s a plus-sized singer not ashamed of her body, but I totally love this quote from her on Perez Hilton.

Girls in general have really nice things to say—especially big girls. It’s mostly men who aren’t as open. I think men fear me sometimes. I played in Greece last summer and, I swear, when I went into the crowd, people actually ran away from me. But things like that make me really happy. You make a decision: if you are going to participate in the music industry and put yourself out there, you have to know that it’s all full of shit.

There is a lot of power in the shock of being unashamed. A friend told me that flaunting a big girl body in a punk-rock way is kind of a libertine thrill, like a drug.

It’s kind of like a drug… it’s a performance. It’s funny how something so normal and mundane that you see every day—your body—can be controversial. The shock value is intense. It’s like carrying an art piece around with you all the time.

I most like the part about power lying in not being ashamed. I would like to make this a motto to live by. It won’t be easy, but it’s what I think is so important.

I can say, yes, I was a stripper, yes, I’ve got lots of issues that I’m trying to work out, and, yes, I think it’s important as a mother for me to be honest in a way that’s appropriate to my children’s ages and stages.

I never want to be ashamed of myself again (unless, of course, I do something that is really shame worthy…but I guess I’m the only one who knows what that would be for me).

The Secret to Marital Bliss

Well, I knew it had to be true and now there are scientific facts. Having kids is the worst thing for a marriage.

According to a study reported by MSNBC, 90% of couples had less marital satisfaction after the birth of a first child’s birth. And supposedly the satisfaction only gets worse. The article doesn’t explain precisely what is meant by “marital satisfaction,” but I imagine they mean it in a general sense.

What does this mean for the Stripper Moms and Dads of the world? It means we better get real with our spouses and talk about our marriages.

If this much dissatisfaction is rampant, we need to be prepared and be proactive. The best way to handle relationship issues is to talk about them.

I’m thankful every day that I have such an open, talkative, and loving husband.

Only this morning I woke up and realized I was angry at Nick. Why? Get this—because he can’t lactate! Yes, it’s crazy, but true.

I’m the one who has to get up three times a night to feed Cole. I haven’t had a halfway decent night’s sleep in almost five months. I know Nick would gladly give Cole formula in the night, but I really want to only breastfeed. And if I don’t want to pump, which I don’t, then it’s up to me.

For nursing mothers, I imagine this fact is probably one of the major psychological reasons that we have issues with not being interested in sex after childbirth (besides the obvious reasons).

The baby needs us and then our dear husband who gets full nights of sleep wants us to feel sexy, too? And to have the energy to want to get busy?

When nighttime rolls around, there’s only one thing I’m thinking about, and it doesn’t involve heavy panting on my part; it involves the sound of silence.

But I do want marital bliss and I do love my husband. And I do want to feel sexy again. I AM Stripper Mom, after all.

From what I’m reading online, this sex after childbirth issue affects a lot of women. So, expect to hear Stripper Mom talking more about sex, or lack of, or attempts to get that sexy feeling back.

Octo Mom in the News Again

If you follow celebrity news at all, then you’ve probably already heard the latest on Octo Stripper Mom. You’ll remember that a few weeks back it was revealed that Nadya Suleman had been a stripper, but she said:

It's true that I was a topless dancer, but that's all. I went to a gentleman's club and performed as a topless dancer. But I only did it one night.

Perez Hilton reports today:

Turns out Nadya, or should we say ANGELINA, was a stripper for at least a year!!!

Of course, I don’t think it’s a problem she was a stripper…it’s a problem that she felt the need to lie about it. And for someone who’s now “famous,” it’s not like the public isn’t going to find out the truth.

Why do we feel the need to hide our pasts?

I don’t recommend going around just blabbing away to anyone you meet all your past indiscretions, but when you’re asked point blank in the media? And Suleman’s the one aiming for the media to cover her life (she’s supposedly in talks for a reality show).

I wonder how many women out there have a past that they’re afraid to talk about. And why?

Miracle Beans

It’s amazing what Genny will do for three jellybeans and some playground time.

I needed a new dress for a wedding on Saturday; I told Genny if she would be patient while I tried some on then we’d buy a small bag of candy from the overpriced mall candy man and then play on the indoor playground.

Eight dresses and two bathroom breaks later, I had a dress with no fuss from Genny. Cole woke up as we wheeled to the sweet shop. We bought about seven jellybeans for 51 cents and headed to the bizarre soft sculptured playground.

Genny told another little girl that she didn’t want to play with her because the girl was trying to tell her what they were going to do. I was proud of her for not being a follower. Later, the girl started following Genny and imitating her as she ran and jumped onto the bridge-slide. This Genny was fine with because it was on her terms.

I sat on the pleather couch nursing Cole wondering whether a mall cop might scold me for indecent exposure.

I gave Genny a 15-minute countdown to leaving, which she didn’t argue with at all. She even held it together long enough for me to stop and buy a new pair of shoes, too.

Man, those jellybeans were the best 51 cents I ever spent.

A Stripper Mom Booty Dancing

This video is what I imagine many people are going to be looking for the next time they google Stripper Mom.

Just for the record, that’s not me.

I think Stripper Moms should make sure their kids are in bed before they start shimmying around seductively in their underwear. But maybe that’s just me.

The Momentary Silence

I am feeling the darkness of the rain today. I’ve given in to it; there’s no sense in fighting this gloom.

Genny is hunkered down with a Care Bears movie and Cole is sleep-nursing on my lap.

I should be doing laundry, washing dishes, cleaning, figuring out dinner, practicing yoga, or being otherwise productive. But I am not. And the very fact that I am feeling guilty and depressed clearly means I have not given in to the darkness.


I know the video will end and Cole will wake up and I will need to be Mom again.

For a few moments, let me just be Sheila and sip my coffee in silence.

Our Garden

You would think starting a garden would be easy. You would be wrong.

Our garden area is infested with onion grass that we casually threw aside last year and since then decided it wants to live. The roots are deep and if we don’t get rid of them, they’ll just multiply.

Genny was gung-ho about gardening until she got outside and realized farming involves work.


“I want something cold to drink!”

“In a little while.”

“My hands are hot!”

“Take off your gloves.

“I’m tired!”

“Sit down.”




Instead, she woke Cole up in his stroller.





Nick was left to cultivate the ground with a pitchfork while I tended to the screeching and whining.

Nick made it about halfway through one row. We plan on having about one gazillion rows, so we have a bit to go.




Just a normal day of family fun.

The Busy Day

Cole has been trying to eat our food. Well, not literally, but his behavior is definitely pro-food. When we eat, he watches our food all the way up to our mouths and his arms get stiff and shake. Even his legs get in on the action—stretching out and quivering.

So, on doctor’s recommendation, Cole tried his first food today—rice cereal mixed with formula.

As the spoon first neared his mouth, his body tensed, shook.

His mouth popped open in excitement.

The baby spoon slid in with the sweet, delectable treat.






Of course, most of the cereal goo mostly slid right back out onto Cole’s bib, but the enjoyment of finally being included in this mysterious dining ritual was seen across his cheeks.







Then it was off to Touch-a-Truck where that is precisely what we did. We all had our favorites: Nick loved the black hawk helicopter; Genny liked trucks with loud horns and the bouncy dog ride, which made it seem like you were jumping around inside a dog’s belly; I was most interested in seeing the inside of the mobile police unit trailer (very cushy) and meeting the police dog. Cole, on the other hand, was not so pleased with the flocks of children honking and tooting the various noise implements in the vehicles.





After lunch at home we were off on one more adventure—going to Treeland to buy seeds and plants for our garden.







Genny is now passed out on the couch.


Cole is being changed by Dad.


And I am wondering, once again, what’s for dinner.

What Is

The sounds around me: Cole nursing, smacking his lips, and purring, cars on Broadbridge Avenue swooshing by, birds tweetering (not twittering), Genny’s spider movie’s character shouting, “Squirt! Squirt!”, the subdued clacks of my keyboard.

The smells around me: key lime cheesecake, Cole’s head, reheated fish and canned corn.

The thoughts around me: my lower back aches, my right arm hurts from holding Cole, I have a headache, I’d like another piece of cheesecake, it’s going to be a busy weekend, I love spring.

Amen to Nannies!

Just when I thought I was going loony insane with motherhood, I see this article!

Laura T. Coffey sums up very well how I feel. It’s not that I don’t love and enjoy spending time with my children; it’s just that I don’t want to do it every minute of the day. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Especially in the case of a sleep-deprived (and own life deprived) mother.

After non-stop mothering all day long, when my husband comes home at eight pm, guess what? All I want to do is sleep. This is not the makings of a deep and romantic relationship. My husband is a saint, of course, and understands my need for sleep whenever I can get it, but I would really like to be able to spend time with him without fantasizing about sleep!

I imagine that this is why the human species evolved the way it has. Babies nap not because they need to, but because mothers need them to nap. If there were no baby naps the human being just might be extinct right now.

So when a baby doesn’t nap for some reason on any given day, it is the mother who suffers. And all humankind. At least all humankind that lives under that same roof.

He’s a Healthy Baby

At Super Stop and Shop I saw a woman with a baby in a carrier. This baby was eight-and-a-half months old and weighed the same as Cole. Yes, the baby was a girl, but still.

I have a big baby. And now that I’ve said it so many times, that’s become his “thing.” Cole IS the big baby. Perhaps I should stop all this labeling right now before it gets out of control.

Cole is simply the size he is. Not that there is anything wrong with being a big baby, or a big grownup for that matter. I guess I just don’t want him to get stuck with a label so early not of his own choosing.

It’s amazing how much we label ourselves and others even when we know it’s not healthy.

This is especially true when it comes to the labels applied to body image. I’ve noticed most people who comment on Cole’s size use the same safe label that I model—big. How different would it be if he were an older child in the 95th percentile for weight? Would he still be big or simply fat? Would he have adorable chunky legs that I like to call ham hocks or would they turn into thunder thighs?

And why am I so focused on his body anyway? Yeah, I know—he’s a baby and we’re delighted in their cute, new bodies. We can’t stop talking about the arms, legs, toes, etc.

And I do love the roundness of his “big” tummy. I know that it’s only “baby fat” and he’ll probably lose it all and be a skinny little guy, but really, I only want him to be healthy.

Hmm…maybe that’s a good label? My healthy baby.

Repetition

Cole had his four-month check-up today, which included three shots to the thighs. He screamed mercilessly, of course.

The nurse commented on his chunky thighs, “He’s only four months old?” Yes, but he is in the 90th percentile for weight.

What must a baby think as he is stabbed while his own mother holds him down? Talk about buried trauma and anger toward the parent! Anyway, he seems quite content now, so hopefully he won’t get a fever or be extra fussy.

I should have tried to squeeze in a nap earlier, but now Genny is home from school, making a time-out for Mom an impossibility.

I believe it will be another leftover Easter dinner night, but I guess I’ll have to draw the line at three nights in a row of the same food. Although Genny probably enjoys eating the same foods repeatedly, just as she savors the same Care Bear movie over and over.

The Unexpected Life

I’m struck by this quote from A Year by the Sea: Thoughts of an Unfinished Woman by Joan Anderson: “Doesn’t change occur only when we stop living the expected life?”

How difficult it is to not fall into the “expected life” of a mother. As a mother, our entire waking hours are seemingly devoted to taking care of others, of putting others’ needs before our own. This is the role we are supposed to play. This perfect mother is who we are expected to be.

Thank goodness that this mindset has changed some. I do say “some” because I think although it’s easy to say we know we need to live our own lives and selves apart from being mother, it is harder done than said.

I want and need a balance of me as Sheila and me as Mommy. I know this, but am I willing to work through the guilt of not being the perfect “mom”?

Can I embrace and be proud of my unexpected life so far? Yes. Now, I must work on living that forward.

The Easter Thing

We did the Easter thing today. You know, the bunny came. Genny did not notice that the bunny didn’t leave anything for her four month old brother, but did leave some Peeps for her parents.

Today, once again, it hit me hard how much of a parent I am now.

I was sitting in the very back row of our minivan with Genny in her booster seat, Nana sat with Cole in front of us, and then Nick drove with his dad next to him.

We slowly traveled up Route 8 in the right lane to my father and step-mother’s house. I pointed out forsythia bushes and willow trees to Genny and then it turned into a contest to see who could spot them first.

I had on my happy sing-song voice as I tree-spotted, even though I was not feeling cheery. There was a sense of Genny playing up her own happiness at our sport. Perhaps I only imagined it, but it felt as though she is already aware of her own passing childhood and was trying desperately to grab onto it.

Just as I did as a child.

Questionable Material

I love this piece at The Huffington Post because it made me realize that I’m not the only one with embarrassing things to write about. It’s not easy being a memoirist and having to reveal the things that most normal humans keep hidden. I guess that’s the thing about being a Stripper Mom—I have to be willing to continually expose myself.

The worst part isn’t exposing myself though, it’s the embarrassment I worry my family will feel. From everything I’ve learned though (about writing and life), I can’t let that stop me. Just like Ashley Parker’s uncle who published his senior illustrated sex book without worry of his family’s or anyone else’s squirminess, I just have to write what I need to write. If other people have a problem with my openness, then that will be their issue, not mine.

Times are Tough

This blog post got me thinking about something…I wonder if there really are a lot of women out there who are thinking of stripping now that times are tough. We’ve all heard the old single-mom-stripper sad story. Stripping so she can afford diapers.

I imagine that customers are probably being especially stingy though.

Getting a guy to tip was almost always a challenge. I can just imagine their excuses now.

“I was laid off, Darling. You understand, right? I really need to see some T & A to make myself feel better…to feel like a man. How about helping a fellow out?”

“I’m a little low on the ones tonight, Sweetheart. How about floatin’ me a lap dance until next week.”

“How about a recession special? Private dances half price? Huh? What do you mean? Well, yeah…I’ve got enough money to buy beers, but, um…you’re already naked, so why should I have to tip you?”

“I will gladly pay you tomorrow for a peek today…”

Who Gave Her Sugar?

I’m really wondering if someone snuck some sugar (or some speed) into my daughter today. I picked her up from school with Cole in tow and went to the library. As soon as we hit the children’s department she was running and saying in a booming voice, “Fairy books! Fairy books!” And she was doing it in a baby, sing-song style.

Of course, the shelf had the same Rainbow Fairy books that we’ve already read one zillion times each, so we asked the librarian if she could recommend something similar, which she did. Every book she showed Genny got a, “Uh, nah…”

Then Gen starts yelling, “I have to go to the bathroom!”

Once that was taken care of, it was more, “Fairy books! Fairy books!” Finally, she settled on some Tiara Club books.

We went downstairs with me now holding Cole because he was fussing and then Genny has to go poop. So it’s back to the bathroom where the other lady in there gets to hear how it’s “a messy one.”

Now, it’s finally time for me to look at some books for me and Genny wants to crawl into the shelves. Then at checkout she’s lying on the floor under the counter with her fingers in her mouth. Next it’s time to get her coat on, Cole’s bear zippy-coat, and oh, yes, don’t forget, mom…your own coat.

We get outside and some other Mom has parked her minivan so close to mine that I can barely get my stroller in the trunk.

We’re home now. Genny is watching one of her library videos, Cole is in his bouncy seat talking to a plastic squirrel, and I am dreading the pile of dirty dishes. And I have no idea what I’m cooking for supper.

Look, Up in the Sky, It’s a…Shovel?

This is supposedly a drawing by a child of her mother at work. When I first saw it I thought it was a stripper mom, but then I read the explanation. This is just your average mom selling a shovel at Home Depot. Hmm…why’s the shovel so big?

Another mother thought the drawing showed a bank teller. Hmm…even children know you can only approach a bank teller from the front. And where’s the bowl of lollipops?

I think it’s probably just a drawing by an adult trying to be funny. A child who would have drawn this would (hopefully) never have been inside of a strip club, so how would they know what a stripper pole is? Oh wait, I do remember a few times when stripper moms actually did bring their children to work. It was more than odd to have a little boy acting blasé in front of half a dozen naked women.

Leave Octo Stripper Mom Alone

By now you’ve heard that Octo Mom, Nadya Suleman, was once a stripper! And of course this is sensational and surprising—scandalous even. But then you learn that she was a stripper for one night. One night.

"The only thing I'm going to say is we all have a past," Suleman said, "and I don't want to resurrect that. It's dead...but no, not like a career or job. Not like that."

I hardly think that doing something once makes you one. For example, I once worked at McDonald’s for an hour and a half, but I do not consider myself an ex-McDonald’s employee. I consider myself a smart young woman for getting out of a horrible and low-paying possible job.

So, let’s leave Octo Mom alone on this one issue. She was not a stripper. She tried out stripping and decided it wasn’t her cup of tea. Good for her. Suleman respected herself. Something I wish I could have done better.

Perhaps I would have been better off at McDonald’s.

Jessica Biel Has New Respect for Strippers Indeed!

There’s a new stripper mom movie coming out, “Powder Blue.” According to Jessica Biel, the star,

"I've gained such a greater respect for the women that actually do this for a living. It's so difficult.”

If Biel wants to understand the true difficulties of exotic dancing then she needs to head to her local dive strip club, which is where most strippers earn their living. There’s most definitely no sling hanging from the ceiling for you to gymnastically entangle your limbs, no million-dollar lighting shining off your ass, and no stage the size of a trailer.

She would be more likely to encounter a few broken red and blue theatre lights clinging from a low ceiling, a card table type stage with some folding chairs pressed right up against it, and leering, drunk men slobbering onto the floor.

"Physically, I had so much to do and so much to learn. It was so much harder than I ever imagined," Biel adds.

Actresses miss the point entirely when they make comments about how physically difficult stripping is. That’s not even scratching the surface of what the real job hazards are.

Try listening to customers demoralize and berate you for not being their ideal or for not shedding your top fast enough. Try living with knees swollen like balloons, the constant smell of beer and cigarette smoke plastered to your skin, and the thoughts in peoples’ heads that you’re rolling in dough and self-empowered.

She's Back!

Stripper Mom is back. I’ve been away from blogging for too long. There’s a lot to catch up on.

I got an agent who’s looking for a home for my memoir and I’m currently working on a new writing project, but I miss writing short bloggy pieces.

I had a baby boy, Nicholas, on December 11th, 2008. We call him Cole, so as to avoid the whole, “Which Nick are you referring to?”

The impetus for returning to blogging was in fact a baby bathtub. Last night, after emptying out Cole’s tub, I noticed the tag on the cloth seat part said, “Do not use near an open flame or a burning cigarette.”

Now, my question to you is, who the heck smokes a cigarette while washing an infant? Or allows someone to smoke near a baby at all nowadays (let alone a bathing baby)? I really want to know why that warning has to be included. If you or anyone you know smokes while bathing a baby, I’d appreciate you leaving a comment here.

So anyway, I’m back and I hope to pick up where I left off. A blogging I will go.

Fun Times

Stripper Mom is going to be a mom again. Mom times two. That is if I make it through this pregnancy. I’ve been lucky enough to be suffering from severe morning sickness again, just like when I was pregnant with Genny. I was in the hospital for dehydration a week ago. I lost eight pounds.

My due date is Christmas Day.

I should be feeling better in a few weeks when the first trimester is over.

Until then I will probably only have grouchy comments about how I feel like throwing up 24-hours a day.

Pole Tax

Judge declares $5 'pole tax' unconstitutional

A $5-per-customer fee on strip club patrons dubbed the "pole tax" has been declared unconstitutional.

Check out the article here.

Interesting new tax idea in Texas, but it’s been shot down for the moment.

A state district judge ruled Friday that clubs can't collect the fee. The charge went into effect in January and was expected to raise about $44 million for sexual assault prevention programs and health care for the uninsured.

I find it very humorous that witnesses for the strip clubs argued they would go out of business if they had to charge customers an additional $5. Most strip clubs, even a decade ago, charged $15 for a cup of soda. I don’t think men would be arguing over another $5. They would pay it. And it would be a clever way to raise awareness.

I wonder what else we could tax to help save the world?

Stripper Claims Sexual Harassment!

Now if only there'd been a club like this around when I was stripping. What stripper wouldn't want to work in a vegan strip club?

The Entrepreneurial Spirit!
When Johnny Diablo's year-old vegan restaurant failed to catch on in Portland, Ore., last year, he converted the space into Casa Diablo's Gentlemen's Club, which is what he believes is the world's only vegan strip club. He has no rule against meat-eating dancers, he told Willamette Week newspaper in February, but won't permit leather, fur, silk or wool outfits on stage (no "murder victims" in the club, he said). [Willamette Week, 2-6-08]

Hmm...no murder victims, but I'm sure sexual harassment victims are fine. I mean, isn't this a bit ridiculous? I'd really love to hear the owner of this place explain his animal rights on one hand, but his owning a strip club on the other.

I think it's time for someone to points out the absolute ridiculousness of the world. Maybe it's time a stripper sued for sexual harassment...

This is America! The country where everyone is entitled to his or her fifteen minutes of a lawsuit. I can just see it now. Stripper sues for sexual harassment! I think I'll look for representation. I think I have a pretty good case.

I’m an ex-stripper. My charge? It’s sexual harassment, of course.

My only question is—whom do I sue?

The club owners for providing a hostile work environment? The bar patrons for the actual harassment?

I guess it would be pretty hard to charge the thousands of customers who harassed me, seeing as I’m not even sure of their names. Could I bring charges based on physical descriptions, for example…that fat bearded man with body odor at “Flashdancers” who grabbed my hand and shoved it down his pants, or…that skinny Viet Nam veteran at “The Blue Angel” who said, “I bet if I had a dick, it would be getting hard right now” as he reached for my nipples?

Or maybe I could just sue society as a whole, for creating a culture where it’s permissible for women to be treated like sex objects in strip clubs?

One thing I know, somebody should have to pay for all my pain and suffering. Do you have any idea how many times I was subjected to cat-calls, sexual innuendoes, and flat out propositions?

I was grabbed, kissed, fondled, groped, leered at, and name-called. And make no mistake about it—these were unwelcome advances. I was just trying to make a buck. None of us asked to be manhandled (okay, maybe a few…), or did we?

Was my nakedness on stage a license for a man to grab my breasts? Was my bare butt a call for it to be spanked? Was my exotic dancing really a yearning to be asked out for a “date”?

And what about the fact that I said “no” when propositioned, but was asked again and again? I just wanted to be treated like a human being -- with a little bit of respect.

The heart of sexual harassment seems to me that one can claim injury even after one “allowed” the behavior to occur. If women in offices and bars can sue leachy jerks, then why can’t I?

Strippers all over this beautiful country of ours are subjected to the worst sexual harassment imaginable. In a way, strip clubs have become the last great sanctuaries for ignorant men who still feel the need to degrade women to feel better about themselves.

Striptease is no longer an art form, rather it has evolved into one of the final resting grounds for legal sexual harassment. No one considers the toll expelled onto us, the stripping women who take the abuse so normal women can walk freely down the streets unharassed by construction workers. Strippers are a final dump sight for the toxic sludge of sexual degradation.

Well, this exotic gal isn’t taking it anymore! I want reparation, damn it.

My self-esteem was shattered. My body image was distorted. My relationships with men were devastated. My sense of guilt and shame crippled me.

I figure I’m looking at least a couple hundred million dollars in damages. Any lawyers care to take on American society with me? Let’s take it to the Supreme Court if we have to!

My only worry is that I fought off a few of those obnoxious men with pointy high-heels to their sweaty faces, warm beer on their bald heads, or shoves to their bulging bellies.

I hope they don't counter sue.

Are You a Stripper Mom?

I am a stripper mom. Are you?

It doesn’t mean that you’re out there working the stripper pole at your local “Gentlemen’s Club.” It’s about being a woman who’s willing to strip down your present self to discover who you were. It’s about embracing your past. Stripping down to the truth, to the bareness, to reality. Facing what was there.

By remembering our past and discovering and creating meanings from it we learn how to move forward.

Being a stripper mom is about stripping down to your past, no matter what it may be, and embracing and accepting it, so that you can live more fully in the present. We all have experiences or jobs or actions from our personal pasts that we view as negative. Instead of letting those things constantly hold us back in life, we can look them squarely in the face and learn from them.

I was a stripper. I was a nude model. I was a serial sexaholic. I was in an abusive relationship. I struggled with my body image, with self-image, with what I wanted to do in life.

Now I’m a mom. I’m happily married. I have a wonderful family. I graduated as valedictorian from college. I have a Master’s degree. I write, I teach, I practice yoga. I create who I am. I look at my past stories, so that I can discover and glean new meanings from who I was. I rewrite my future.

Are you a stripper mom? Are you a woman engaged with using her past stories to create the life you want for yourself now?

Be a stripper mom. Strip down to the truth, to what and who you were, so that you can move forward and become who you want to be. Claim what was, so you can claim what is. See yourself naked then, so you can truly see and be yourself now.

Be a proud stripper mom. Tell the world! And even show the world by wearing a Stripper Mom shirt proudly (plug, plug)!

Tell me about your experiences. Have you stripped down? What did you find?

Stripper Mom on Oprah

I heard through the Internet-vine that Oprah had a real, present-day, stripper mom on her show today. She’s 41, single, and has three kids. And she’s a stripper. Now. Today. In her present life.

Pretty amazing. Makes me think about a lot of things.

I couldn’t imagine being a stripper today at 36. Although I do have to admit, if I was doing it with today’s brainpower, I’d be making a lot more money than I did back when I was a teenager. I had no idea how to be a saleswoman then. At least now I would know what to do to make good tips. And by that I don’t mean doing more than I would want to. I just mean that I would know how to relax and enjoy myself more. I wouldn’t be so wrapped up in whether I was the “perfect” stripper.

But, of course, when I was a stripper, I was not a mother. These two aspects of my life have been mutually exclusive. Although I knew a lot of strippers who had children. I even remember mothers having to bring their kids with them to work sometimes if the babysitter cancelled.

I remember one time; a little boy of maybe seven sat in the dressing room for my entire shift. He did his homework. Ate supper. And went to sleep on his mother’s coat. He didn’t seem to pay much mind to the half-naked women walking around him. I wonder how it affected him.

Stripper mom. Teacher mom. Writer mom. Yoga mom.

Will everything I do forever now be followed by “mom”? Once a stripper. Always a mom.

No Hurry, No Worry

Patience is a virtue. My God, it is.

I read something the other day about ways to avoid temper tantrums before they begin (in your child, not yourself).

One of the suggestions was to not hurry your toddler. They’re busy exploring their world and how things work. Along comes Mommy, who needs to get the child dressed, the lunch packed, the car to the Montessori School, and her own self to the train for work.

It’s easy to become frustrated when we’re in a hurry. I guess the solution is trying to always plan extra time for everything in life. Ha, ha. Not so easy.

Yesterday, Genny was chatting on about princesses and lollipops and her friends at school, while I managed to get her to step into a pair of blue pants that she never wants to wear. Yes, I was aware that she was so wrapped up in talking that she hadn’t noticed what I was dressing her in, but I hoped that once the pants were on her that she wouldn’t mind. Not so.

We walked into the hallway when all of a sudden she looked down and freaked out.

“I don’t want to wear these pants!”

To save time and avoid the whining fit, I marched her right back into her room and said, “Then pick out the pants you DO want to wear.”

At least at this point she realized I meant business and she went right to her dresser and pulled out her stretchy aqua pants that are too small on her. Yes, I should remove the pants that are too small for her and box them up and label the box, etc.

Then we had the whole discussion about what snack she could eat in the car on the way to school, about what she could not bring to school with her, and about which foot each boot goes on. And I tried not to rush her as I shuffled her out the backdoor while carrying a pink princess lunch box, my black purse that weighs 20 pounds and my brown work bag slung on my shoulders while I simultaneously hissed at the cat and stamped my feet to prevent him from running outside where he could be hit by a car.

The Yoga of Bath Time

Yoga in action tonight. I’m usually very resistant to giving Genny a bath. It’s such a big production, makes the night drag on longer, and generally leads to my frustration.

Tonight, I asked Genny if she wanted me to bathe with her, which of course, she did.

And I don’t know how or why, except to say that all the yoga of staying in the present moment must really be paying off. I kept returning myself to the moment of bath time, of fun, of splashing, and playing. I did not worry or even think about all the student papers I need to read or the letters I need to write.

I just played. And splashed. And it’s amazing what a fun time I had. And Genny didn’t get cranky or have any tantrums either. I know she sensed the difference in me. She told me that I was her cat. I meowed.

After her bath, sitting on her potty, she noticed her veins on her inner wrists for the first time.

“Mommy, did someone draw on me?”

“No, Honey. Those are your veins that carry blood through your body,” I said. “Look, I have them, too.”

“Someone wrote on you, too?”

“No, this is the blood that runs through our bodies. Keeps us healthy. Brings oxygen to all our body.”

“And we have blood in our ninas, too?”

“Yes, but that’s a little bit different.”

“And in our tushies? And in all our body?” Genny rubbed her hand across her round belly.

“Yes,” I said.

Then, when we were snuggled into her bed, she turned to me and said, “Mommy, I really like you.”

“I really like you, too.”

“You’re my kitty-kat, Mommy. And I miss Lula.”

“I miss her, too,” I said.

Genny rolled over onto her side, slipped her two fingers into her mouth, and rubbed her nose.

Genny's first "sick" day

Genny is 3 1/2. Today may be her first official "sick" day.

Don't get me wrong. She has honestly had a bad cold for three or four days. I even had to take her to the Medical Walk-In Center yesterday because her ear was hurting. The doctor said Genny has a cold and the goop is running down her throat and filling up behind her ears. She's taking Mucinex and feeling much better.

But this morning, I made the mistake of asking, "Do you feel well enough to go to school?" I probably should have said, "You seem well enough to go to school!"

She dropped her head down, batted her eyes, sniffed a little, and said, "My nose is crunchy. And I'm a bit coughy. I better not go to school today."

She got me. I'm the one who asked. And she gave me my answer.

So, Genny is home today. I have about a zillion things to try to get done today. I need to finish a syllabus for my Intro to Literature class, which begins on Friday. I need to send queries to agents. Wash clothes. Do dishes. Write. Practice yoga. And, of course, there's more.

Right now, Genny's saying, "Moooooomy..."

I need to go look for a little pencil.

Hello again

It's been quite a long time since I've blogged. If you remember why I stopped, it was because I began my MFA program. Well, I graduated in June, so I do not have that as an excuse anymore.

Quite a lot has happened since 2005.

In April of 2006, my mother passed away from breast cancer.

Nick, Genny, and I moved to Connecticut this past October.

My life is slowly resettling itself.

I still teach yoga to private clients and a gentle yoga class at fresh yoga (freshyoga.com) in New Haven. I've been exploring how to define my approach to yoga practice...as an opportunity to begin again, another chance to remember who we truly are, another possibility to find joy in being fully alive. My teaching focuses on a gentle, slow flow, and encourages students to discover their own selves and how best to nurture and express themselves.

Since receiving my MFA in Creative Writing from Hunter College, CUNY, I have been teaching Creative Writing, Composition and Literature at Hunter, too. And, of course, I've been writing.

My focus has been on completing my memoir, “Stripping Down,” which has been excerpted and published in Salon, Conversely and Moxie. I have been editing like a mad woman for quite some time and am now doing an agent search. The project has taken on much larger themes.

And I've started work on some new writing projects. I'm also busy exploring the connections between yoga and creativity, using yoga as an entryway into creative expression.

And how am I doing all of this and still being a mom? Good question!

I'm just doing it. Because I feel like I must. My happiness is that important.

Genny is doing very well. She's three (and a half, she would have you know) and just as wonderful as ever. And just as much a handful as ever.

Well, that's a quick summary of where life is right now. I promise to update this blog more frequently now. It shouldn't be hard to beat my latest record.

Walking

So it happened today. We went to the Queens Zoo and while we were there, Genny realized that she truly could walk on her own. Armed with that knowledge, she was off down the pathways pointing at furry animals here and there. Every so often she would plop down accidentally, I’d help her stand back up and then she’d let go of my hand and be off on her own.

Our little girl is growing up. Pretty amazing.

I’ve been working like a maniac on schoolwork. I really do enjoy being so busy with different things. It helps me to enjoy the time I do have with Genevieve that much more.

Chilling

Genevieve is growing out of many of her 12-month clothes now, but oddly enough, she still fits into a few of her 6-9 month clothes. I guess that’s for the baby who wants to feel slender—clothes sized just like for mom!

It is no longer possible for Genny to go to the playground without a pair of long pants on. Her knees get filthy. Her ankles get black. Her hands have sticky dropped ice cream and tar pellets on them. It’s a scene.

I finished all of my homework for school tomorrow. Yeah. What a relief. I think I’ll actually take the next half-hour or so to totally chill. Maybe I’ll watch an episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm”. That would be most relaxing.

Love Fest

I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve blogged. I miss you, oh sweet, dear blog. I’m sorry I have not been faithful, but my other writings have demanded more from me. Blame it on them. Blame it on them, not me, oh dear, sweet blog.

I did make it through my second week of school. And I am proud of that. I am sinking into a rhythm, a schedule, a way of finding enough time to please all my selves and hopefully, all my loved ones as well.

Genny has reacted a bit roughly to the expanded babysitting hours by deciding she wants to nurse again. I understand. She’s clinging to Mommy. Now I need to figure out how to wean her off again.

She’s still almost walking. I’m sure one of these days out of the blue I’m going to be like, “Ack! She’s running everywhere! I can’t keep up with her.”

She’s taken a sudden disliking to the bath because she got water in her face last time and was traumatized. I think I’ll get her one of those little water visors. What a loved child.

And I do love school. And I do love writing. And I do love blogging. And I do love my husband. And I do love my baby.

It’s a love fest.

Holiday

Nick, the baby and I didn’t do much this weekend at all. We were supposed to spend the holiday at my mom’s cottage, but my mom is still in the hospital and on top of that I was feeling sick.

We did make it to Connecticut today though, for a visit with mom and then to our friends’ place by the beach in Milford.

My mom seems better today. The infection they thought she had turned out to be a problem with fluid around her lungs, which she has had from chemo before. The doctors performed a procedure, which entails sticking a large needle into her chest to draw the fluid out. When that happens, the lung expands and it’s possible to get a nick on your lung, which of course happened to my mom. Her breathing was very labored yesterday. I was surprised at how well she looked. Hopefully, she’ll be out of there within a day or two.

Genny is being lovely and wacky from moment to moment. She tries to say everything we say now. Today her clearest words were: blue shirt, pineapple, and I love my mommy sooo much. Okay, maybe not that last one.

I have successfully completed three papers that I am handing in tomorrow. It was a challenge I must say. Writing for school muscles get cranky and stiff after not being used for a few years. Not to mention the old baby brain problem.

It's Me

I realize that I won’t be able to blog every night anymore. I honestly don’t know how I am going to manage the workload at school along with my yoga clients and taking care of baby. I know people do these things and manage them well, but I know my own body and it’s tolerance level.

The major problem is just going to be finding enough writing time.

Let’s just leave it at that for now.

I was feeling under the weather all day today. And Genny was fussy to top it all off. She is about to walk off on her own. And she said her first sentence fragment the other day, “More cheese”. She really is quite the talker. She calls everything on her face an eye though.

That’s it for now. Sorry so short. Once I get into the flow of school I’m sure everything will settle down.

Let the scheduling begin

Well, it happened. The school semester began. I feel jubilant, exhausted and buzzing. The load of work from these classes is truly loading. There will be much writing of papers and writing and writing and gnashing of teeth. My literature class, Gendered Writing in the Renaissance, feels a bit scary and overwhelming. My memoir workshop and craft class are awesome. I’m overflowing with ideas and insights after our first night together.

My mom is still in the hospital. When I spoke to her earlier she was feeling lousy and her fever was going up again, but Nick spoke with her later and she seemed to be doing better.

Nick picked Genny up from the babysitter, which was totally unexpected for Genny (although I did mention it to her earlier). She was upset that I did not pick her up at our usually appointed time of 4:00. She was waiting at the door and I did not appear. When Nick got there she was not happy—Nick suggested that she might have been worried about me and my nonappearance.

I looked in at her when I got home. She’s splashed out on the pale yellow sheet. Her long body fast asleep.

I need to work out my working schedule for homework and writing. It is going ot be important to structure my time well. I foresee some frustrating moments when I will feel the need to be writing, but the baby will have other ideas.

Bills and other crap

Monday night always makes my stomach a little weasy—it’s bill night.

Nick just said, “Crap!” as he looked at our spending and earning curve on the computer. It’s so frustrating because we are still spending so much more a month than we earn. And we are so frugal and conscientious. We track every last penny that we spend. Sometimes I feel like slapping my previous self for relying on my credit cards all those years, but when you live in the city, you tend to need some help if you aren’t a stockbroker or something else magnificent like that.

I need to shake it off now and finish preparing for my first day of classes tomorrow. We will all be introducing our projects in our first memoir workshop. It’s time to fully enter back into my stripping days. My life as a nude lady.

My stepfather just called to let us know my mom was admitted to the hospital. She has a 102.3 temperature—she has an infection. The doctors took cultures and now they wait to see where and what kind of infection it is. It’s most likely in her port a cath. Hopefully, she will only be in the hospital for a few nights and it will be cleared up.

I hope this doesn’t turn out to be another long hospital stay. I hate thinking of her lying there on the seventh floor in the cancer patient hall.

And on a final note, Genny took a few unaided steps in the library today although I do not think she was aware of her accomplishment.

Kerpoop!

Did you miss me last night, Mr. Blog? Nick, the baby and I were out in New Jersey with Grandpa Terzi celebrating his birthday. We dined out at a Japanese restaurant. Genny had her first bite of ice cream, but she seemed more interested in the fresh cantaloupe.

We had a first tonight. Genny was in the bath, splashing along. All of a sudden she stood up and we heard a wet, squishy unfolding sound and then a sploosh, kerplunk, plop. Genny pooped in the tub. Three turtles floating around, bobbing up and down.

I’m really sorry for the graphic nature of the last paragraph. For those of you reading this who don’t have children you’re probably thinking, “Man, that Sheila sure spends a lot of time thinking about and writing about poop.” If you have a baby, then you understand how important a thing poop is to one’s day.

At least we have passed the dreaded half-a-dozen poops a day phase of Gen’s life. One or two, or three at the most, poops a day is nothing. I remember when Gen was first born; I had never changed a diaper in my life. I felt so completely out of my element (or my smellement), but now, I can change a poop-filled diaper on a squirming, rolling, crying and generally unhappy toddler. Pretty impressive, I know.

Poop—it does a body good.

Oh, Blog

I start class on Tuesday. I am going to be so busy writing with my three classes, but do not worry. Do not fret. I will not neglect you, oh blog of mine.

This blog has really become one of the most committed writing assignments of my life so far. I feel a great need to report on the day’s happenings every evening. I have finally loosened up on myself about having to write something brilliant every time, hence my latest downward spiral into ending every entry with, I’m tired.

Today is Friday and that is very good. Nick will be with baby and me for the weekend making my life much easier. Although I have noticed this past week that I am beginning to enjoy my time with Genny more. I do love hearing her babble on all day. And as people point out day after day, she is such a happy baby. And, yes, cute, of course.

Her latest thing is walking around on her knees, which is adorable, but very rough on the pants. She actually had dirty knees when we came home tonight even though she had on pants all day. How does dirt get through pants?

She is so laughy and sweet and intense all at once. I do love her so.

Bath

Genevieve was talking nonstop all day. She’s got a running commentary going on. Perhaps she’s going to be a talk show host one day—The Genevieve Terzi Show.

I also learned an important lesson today—do not mention the word bath to Genevieve while she is still eating dinner. This is how the scene unfolded: Baby happily eating her macaroni and cheese. Mommy says, “Genny’s going to take a bath tonight.” Baby’s face turns up and brightens. Baby says, “Ba! Ba! Ba!”

I brought her to her bedroom to undress her and then she took off at full crunning speed right into the bathroom and hoisted herself up against the tub. She turned and looked at me over her shoulder as she tried lifting her left leg over the tub’s edge.

Tonight was only the second time that I dumped water over head to rinse the shampoo out. I used to have her in a reclining baby tub that made it very easy to pour water over only the back of her head, but those days are over. She has to get used to getting water in her face. Don’t ask me why—she just must. Anyway, she did not so badly tonight.

And I hate to bore you with the same old tired song and dance, but it is true. And so I must call it quits for the night.

Life

Genevieve nods her head up and down. She says or tries to say just about anything you say to her. She walks holding on to only one hand. She is turning into quite a toddler.

I feel my head bobbing up and down from sleep deprivation. I say anything you say to me in some sort of dyslexic, twisted attempt at communication. I walk holding on to only one cup of latte. I am turning into quite a mommy.

I sit here in my rolly chair, my feet tucked up underneath me and my chin resting against my knees. I have hiccups and I feel hungry, but it seems too late to eat. I have much work I should be doing. I have only choppy sentences coming to mind.

I feel the need to be entertained. I feel the need to roll around in a king-sized bed naked. I feel the need to sleep for a week. I feel the need to not think about Cookie Monster or any ABC songs.

My arm itches. And now the back of my ear itches. And now my right calf.

This is what is happening now in my life.

Boys

The big news today was three poops. And I’m not talking three tiny turds, no, I’m talking three full diapers loaded down and up with poo, poo and poo.

The only way to get Genny to lie somewhat still during changing time is to give her a special toy only used for these instances. Somehow the toy that was selected is not even a toy, but some baby gift topper from my baby shower. It’s a small blue plastic baby carriage with plastic baby inside. All pieces are choking hazards. I do need to find a new diaper-changing toy.

Genny tried to climb a red chain link ladder at the playground, which is surely for bigger kids. She actually did very well, with my help, of course. She also was crawling back and forth over the wooden suspension bridge, which she has always been nervous about before.

There was a little boy, Adam, aged two-and-a-half, who kept following Genny everywhere she went. Genny would crawl a bit and then give a quick glance over her shoulder and yup, there he would be. At one point another boy was following her and a few little girls just stopped and stared at Genny—I guess to see what kind of magical powers she held.

Only fifteen-months old and she’s already got the boys chasing her.

Home Again

It was an uneventful trip in terms of E.R. visits. In fact, except for Nick having a one-day bout of stomach upset, we were all extremely healthy our entire trip.

We stayed at my mom and step dad’s cottage on Lake Williams in Lebanon, CT. Our drive up was excruciatingly hot, like 99 degrees, but after a day of heat, the weather cooled enough that we were cuddled under blankets at night.

Genevieve, Nick and I lazed about the cottage most of the time, which has a beautiful view of the lake and a cove, which was named after my mom, Mary’s Cove. We went out in the rowboat and the paddleboat—cutting through the lily pads and splashing through the little waves.

In the evenings after Genny went to bed, Nick and I got to work. All together, we wrote about six children’s books. Nick is great at coming up with rhymes. We had a lot of fun writing.

I was even lucky enough to find a Starbucks in Colchester, only a few towns away. We visited a few libraries and even found a huge pile of kids’ books in a dumpster behind the library (no, we weren’t specifically dumpster diving, just illegally dumping our trash).

I definitely came back relaxed. I only had a few days of feeling depressed, but not monumentally. I wish I had more time to sit by the water and veg out. I’m not fully discharged of stress yet.

But school starts next week and I’m still busy trying to get myself prepared. I am going to be very busy. Stop thinking of the future, Sheila, try to stay in the moment for at least a moment.

Oh, yes, Genny’s new words are boat, bowl and up. All very clear and lovely. And her walking is coming along very well. And she happily humped the cat this morning as Lula tried to lick her in the face. Yup, we’re home alright.

We're Back

We are back from vacation. I’m relaxed and exhausted at the same time. I will blog more tomorrow, but I am wiped out right now.

Adieu

The time has finally arrived. Vacation is here. I will officially be unblogging until my return on Sunday, August 21st. I hope to return somewhat relaxed and less stressed, ready to begin the school year with much gusto.

A fond adieu until I return.

Flat

I think Genny must have had leftover doctor bad vibes today because she was a little crank-meister. She may in fact have been feeling a bit yucho from the shots and she appears to be getting her two eyeteeth in. She was fine for my friend who babysat while I went to work, but once I got home, she wouldn’t nap and was screaming and crying nonstop for many moons, or so it felt.

I seem to have pulled a muscle or twisted something in my upper back/right shoulder type of area. I can barely turn my head to the right. It happened last month, too, but then healed quickly. I don’t even recall tweaking it at all.

That’s it. I don’t know. I just feel kind of flat emotionally tonight. Neither here nor there. I need to stretch out again and see if I can work out some of this pain. It’s amazing how pain can stop our entire ability to function at times and then at other times, we can snow plow through physical, emotional and spiritual pain. Maybe mine is a whole combo situation right now—stress from different areas nudging the others over the edge.

21 Pounds, Give or Take

Off the high of yesterday’s good mood—today I splatted like a bug against the windshield of a semi-truck. I watched in horror as it happened, the truck’s window nearing my face and I powerless to stop it.

It all began when Genny wouldn’t take a morning nap and for some reason I found myself in the middle of a coma like need for sleep. Genny pooped all over her own foot thanks to a misaligned diaper. Then her afternoon nap, which should have been miraculously long turned out to last only forty minutes.

Then Genny and I needed to travel into the city for her doctor’s appointment (yes, her year-old one, and yes, she’s well into her fourteenth month). We were lucky enough to encounter not one, but two un-air-conditioned trains. We waited at the bank for twenty minutes to take care of some business and finally gave up and left when Genny’s cries were drowning out the muzak. Not to mention that while we waited, a gussied-up blonde sat next to us looking all lovely, wearing heels and a mini and I felt like one of those, dare I say it, moms, slumping in her old shorts, tee and unwashed hair. Yes, I cursed her quietly. I felt like screaming to the world, “I look that good, too! Just give me a couple of hours in a salon and spa, buy me a new wardrobe and hire me a nanny and I’ll outshine you anytime!”

Then a doctor’s visit for Genny where three needles were popped into her tasty little thighs. She’s wonderfully healthy, 21 pounds and either 2 or 12 ounces, unsure of which (bad mom syndrome again).

So, that’s the day. And now day is done.

Caffiene

Nick made a good suggestion on how to handle my days with Genevieve, which seemed to work pretty well today. I imagined taking care of Gen as my “job” and she as my boss whom I was responsible to. My main focus when I was with her was taking care of her, playing and learning. I looked at any few moments I could spare toward my own endeavors as a bonus. And she wasn’t such a tough boss today.

I discovered my tolerance level for caffeine. My new theory was that I would begin to allow myself a little bit each day to help fight off the fatigue I’ve been feeling. Well, a Dunkin’ Donuts Turtle Nut Latte, a homemade coffee concoction and a Starbucks decaf mint mocha chip Frappucino is too much. Lesson learned—I developed an ocular migraine with a throbbing in my left eye socket like someone was drilling.

I somehow managed to wash my system out with lots of water and was able to make it to my now weekly new yoga client. I still have more work to do tonight, so I better make this closing quick and snappy, like—may all the babies all over the world sleep well tonight.

Taking Out the Trash

I think Genny must have been sensing how stressed I’ve been because she actually took two good naps today. I took a half an hour nap in the morning and then got the laundry and some writing done in the afternoon.

I was still pretty edgy with Gen when she threw all her food on the floor, but I just ended the meals as soon as the food started flying. By dinnertime she must have been pretty hungry because she ate a full jar of chicken dices, and four big crackers dunked in pear yogurt.

The rest of the day was pretty much a taking out the trash type of day. We went to the Jackson Heights Parent’s Group in the morning where Genny crawled all over the dirty church floor with four other toddlers. We did the grocery shopping and went to the playground.

I didn’t find any good trash though. I’ve been getting lucky of late: I found a Chinese screen, an almost brand new baby walker, and a two-wheel bike for Genny. I am the queen of garbage picking, of course, I don’t know if I should really be bragging on about that.

My mood seems to be equalizing a bit. Hopefully, next week’s vacation will ease my soul. That’s it for tonight.

The Me in Mommy

What is it with babies and mornings? What is it with babies and wanting to cling to mommies all the time? What is it with sharp little finger and toenails that can slice like those magic knives they used to advertise as cutting through tin cans?

It is a day for questions. Answers are not so readily available. I feel as though I am floating through reality and time—neither here and now nor there and later. I am like a guppy being tossed through a turbulent river that twists and winds and has no foreseeable end, at least not for eighteen years.

I am a mommy. That is who I am. There seems to be no way to deny it or step around it. There is no dance that will alleviate the fact. I am a mommy. And as my therapist pointed out, there’s no “me” in “mommy” (although there is a “me” sound, so maybe that should count for something). Maybe somehow someone (whoever decides on how all these mommy things work) should work in some non-mommy time for mommy.

Baby could wave “bye-bye” as she evaporates into thin air to be babysat by whomever that someone is who could do such a thing as to create a creature that never wants to give mom a break. That mom would laugh and wave bye, too. She would not worry, knowing her little darling rested easily and gently under the most watchful eyes.

And what would mom do? After the shock of having one free moment for her own brain and soul wore off, she would rip off all her clothes and luxuriate in a warm bubble bath. She would skip off to Starbucks with her pen and paper in hand and find the big comfy chair by the window reserved for her. Free-flowing Frappucinos would be pumped into her veins. A most contented buzz would well up in the pit of her throat as she felt her face relax for the first time since baby had been born.

Later that day, baby would be returned with a clean diaper and jammies on. She would be resting peacefully in her crib. She would sleep until seven in the morning the next day. And the “me” would be back in mommy.

The Game of Life?

Today was most definitely a mom on the edge day. I’m thinking my whole system is out of whack after running out of my antidepressants. I’m hoping that this glimpse back into my moody dark side is not my true self, but only a momentary squelch in my mental chemistry.

Genevieve was determined (okay, she wasn’t determined, she’s a baby) to make me swear and scream and generally freak out all day. We went to Grandpa Nick’s in New Jersey and she wouldn’t take an afternoon nap and was just screaming and crying and complaining. It got to the point where I found myself crouched and huddled against the wall while she just carried on.

I felt as though I could not take it for another moment. I distinctly did not like her. I absolutely didn’t like myself for feeling so full of rage and annoyance at her. I began thinking all kinds of silly thoughts—from understanding why it would be easier (and a great way to kill my soul completely) to just be a stay at home mom with no job and no school. It’s when I set my sights to larger goals of writing and being creative that I can then get so knocked down when I have no time or energy or sanity left to do those things.

It is days like today when I feel like curling up into a ball under the covers and giving up. I feel as though I will never be able to achieve while I am dredged down in this state of mind. I need a lift. I need a shift in perception. I need to have some small part of myself back again.

I feel trapped in this mom game and my last battleship has just been hit and I’m afraid I’m about to hear myself say, “You sunk my battleship.”

Stressed

“That makes Mommy sad when you throw food on the floor.”

I keep seeing Genny strapped into her highchair, her chin falling down toward her chest as she repeatedly says, “blah, blah, blah”. Smushed orange carrots and sweet potatoes stain the white wall. Blueberry mush and biscuit crumbs slobbered up with some milk all tangle together on her tray as she slides and sloshes her fingers through the mess. Almost as an afterthought, she reaches her hand up to her hair and gives it a twirl, eyeing me to see my reaction.

“That makes Mommy mad. I don’t like that.”

Yet I offer her more foods in different varieties because she’s not been eating a lot lately. I feel myself losing it, food bit by food bit. My anger is slipping out at her. I am getting frustrated with a fourteen-month old.

Thank goodness that when Nick comes home he comes baring my antidepressant prescription from Caremark. It’s been two days since I ran out. My mind must have been going through some cold turkey type withdrawal.

I’ve calmed down a bit, but of course, the baby is sleeping. I get annoyed with myself for not handling my emotions better. I get envious of all the other patient moms I see on the sidewalks with two or even three kids in tow who seem relaxed and fine. Meanwhile, my one little girly girl of a child pushes me to using profanities just because she refuses to eat.

The Heat

I’m thinking I need to have a larger goal with my blog writing. Should I be more focused? Should I only write about my life as a mother? Or as a former stripper? Or as a writer? And already I think I should just continue on as I have been.

The heat today was the kind of hot where you walk and you feel the sweat smack you in the face from the air around you. I found myself being quite cranky right along with Genny. We drove to our local Target, Starbucks and T.J. Maxx, and yes, I’ll admit, Starbucks. A very consumer driven day.

Later on we walked to the deserted Travers Park where the sprinklers were turned off, I think because of the threat of rain. How sad to see the large red metal hook-like devices standing dry while my clothes stuck uncomfortably against my drenched skin.

I have begun reading Paul Auster’s “Invention of Solitude” for my memoir craft class for fall. I am already sinking into his writing. I also worked on some poems tonight and worked on just accepting them for what they are.

I am wondering what it is going to be like to submerge myself again into writing about my stripper experiences once school begins. What will come out that hasn’t before? How will my being a mom now color my memories and attitudes toward who I was?

Repeat After Me

Genevieve had language explosion today. Almost-words were sliding out of her mouth like soy peach yogurt. She most definitely said diaper and cheese, not that I was using both these words in one sentence. If I say a word a few times, she wants to repeat them back. I see her studying my mouth, lips and tongue movements.

When Gen and I were browsing used books in front of the grocery store today, a nosy old man on the street said, “Oh, what a cute baby. It’s a boy, right?”

“No, she’s a girl.”

“Oh, well then you shouldn’t dress her like a boy.”

I just furrowed my brow at him and he shuffled along. I’ll dress my baby any way I want to dress her, and besides, she was not even looking boyish in the least. Just because her frilly romper is blue she’s supposed to be a boy?

I bit the inside of my cheek to refrain myself from expressing my true emotions. It would not be prudent for me to freely express my rants in front of Genny. I do not want her to be like the “Meet the Fockers” baby whose first word was asshole.

Not that I ever would have called the old man a nasty name. I long ago eradicated most expletives from my speech. Except when I get really frustrated then some things just plop out, but I’m trying to change my worst insult into “jack rabbit” or “fudge” as in, “Fudge you, you gosh darn old jack rabbit, she’s a girl!”

Relax

I had a very tightly scheduled day today and I did really well with that. I even somehow squeezed in time to work on my poetry. I am finding that the key to my successes lies in being regimented when it comes to things I want and need to get done.

Genevieve began to have another tantrum upon leaving Travers Park. I was clear and told her we had to leave and that was that. I got her strapped into the stroller and just started pushing and she accepted it quicker than she did last time. A small success, but rather satisfying.

Therapy and then a venti decaf mint mocha chip Frappucino to round out my afternoon. A visit with a friend after picking Genny up from the sitter and then back home to feed her, bathe her and plop her into bed. I cooked dinner and then headed out to work with a new yoga client, which went very well.

I am gearing up now for the upcoming hectic pace of school life. There is preparation to be done and I have committed myself to getting the pre-work done on my manuscript, so that I am ready to tackle it come September, or August 31st to be more exact.

I close my eyes for a moment and remember my own instructions: shoulders back and relaxed, chest open, deep and easy breaths, top of head floating toward ceiling. And relax.

Tantrum Monster

There were no themed playgrounds when I was a kid. There were metal slides with sharp edges and hard rubber swings with squeaky chains. Genevieve is growing up in an era of fun lands around every corner.

Julie and I took the wee ones to a Kew Gardens playground off of the F train today. I’m always amazed when I enter a new area of New York City that looks so much like a suburb. You step off a dirty subway train into lawns, sidewalks and large stone houses.

I stripped Genny down to her diaper and let her crawl off into the froggy fountains. She’d touch the large cement frog’s head and then point at one of the other ones. She wanted to be spritzed, but then once she was, she didn’t like it, but then she’d reach out again.

When it was time to head home I tried to get her dressed. The tantrum monster roared out in screams and back arches turning Gen’s little chest red and blotchy. I settled for just getting her strapped into the stroller with her shirt on. How a sweet angel child can turn into such a raving lunatic is hard to figure out—hard to comprehend, but I have seen it with my own eyes and let me tell you, it is terrifying.

Foggy Funk

Unexplainable blue foggy funk creeping through my brain and belly. I wonder if waking up to the alarm clock of a baby’s cries for fourteen months now has anything to do with my mood. Whatever happened to lovely weekend mornings spent racked out in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin?

I could barely get my legs moving today. Nick let me sleep in for an hour and then we switched duties. Gen and I strolled to The Met grocery store on 37th Avenue to get her some milk and we lost her purple binky along the sidewalk or a grocery aisle.

I ate an extremely unhealthy strawberry frosted donut with sprinkles on top from Dunkin’ Donuts, which used to be my favorite breed of donut when I worked at a D’D back in Connecticut. With my sugar buzz and decaf iced latte with soymilk and, you guessed it, sugar, I headed home with Genny.

She did take a morning nap, but no afternoon one because we were too busy having fun. We went with friends and their baby, Vedaant, to a downtown nautical themed playground along the Hudson River. Genny dug around in the sand pit, splashed in the cement river and slashed with her hand at the sprinkler spouts.

After the playground, Vedaant and Gen shared a cool bath and some rubber duckies. We sat around drinking homemade Indian spice tea and getting sleepy. Gen is now in bed and Nick just ran out to the grocery store to pick up some things. I find myself alone, somewhat, for a few minutes. I sigh and breathe deeply. I listen to the rattle of the air conditioner. I close my eyes.

Date Night

Nick and I had ourselves a little date tonight thanks to cousin Alison. We saw War of the Worlds. Overall, the movie was disappointing, but it was a lot of fun to get out of the house on a Saturday night.

Earlier today we drove out to cousin Bob’s house to get our tire fixed. I took Genny to a nearby park that had an enormous playground, but she slept the entire time and didn’t get to play at all.

I do want to give Genevieve a big kiss after seeing this movie, but I will certainly not risk waking her up to have that beautiful moment. I will kiss her plenty enough tomorrow.

Dream

A mother’s dream—I brought Genny into her room for bedtime, placed her on the floor while I plugged in the monitor and nightlight, turned around and saw her butting her head against her crib. She was saying with her head, “Mommy, I want to lie down. I’m tired.”

I quickly changed her diaper and pulled a pink onesie over her outstretched arms and placed her down on the crumply yellow sheet. Her fingers in the mouth and body limp; I crept out of the room shutting the door behind me.

I washed dishes and read a magazine, checked e-mails and decided on my classes for fall and now I am blogging myself asleep.

Quacky

Genevieve’s latest trick when she does not wish to comply with my expectations is arching her back, stiffening her entire body and screaming bloody murder. And so, apparently, the lifelong tensing and tightening of all our muscles into knots and bolts begins.

She still prefers kneel walking to regular upright on her feet walking. She’s now drinking regular old moo-cow milk. And she knows that a cow says moo. She likes to watch her DVDs and lets me know it all the time by taking them out of the cupboard, cling-hugging them and pointing repeatedly and gruntily at the television.

I still prefer napping to chasing a half-naked baby around the house trying to Velcro on a diaper to a wiggling butt. I am still not drinking cow milk because of a lactose type situation, but I went all out tonight and ate real ice-cream (mint chocolate chip). And I know that a cow says moo. I like Genny to watch her DVDs because I get a moment’s rest, but I have been pretty good at limiting her video intake to under an hour a day.

Quack, quack, waddle, waddle all day long. Quack, quack, waddle, waddle sing a duck song.

School Registration

Genevieve is talking in little bursts of word strings. Sometimes it really does sound like she’s actually making sense. Today we went to my dad’s house and she stood in the kitchen with her hands pressed against the sliding glass doors, stared out at the pool and kept saying, “poo, poo, poo”. And she wasn’t pooing. There was an almost “l” sound at the end of the word, but just not quite yet.

Genny was resistant to the pool once we finally got out there, but she warmed up to it the more I bounced up and down with her safe and snug in my huggy hold. She then let me put her in the pack and play in the shade while I jumped in and out of the pool. She laughed when she would see my head pop back up.

I successfully completed my registration for school. At first I was shut out of the Literature class I was supposed to take, but my persistence paid off and a seat opened up. So, August 29th is the first day of class. It’s hard to believe. Now that we know my schedule we can start trying to figure out how we’re going to work the whole childcare situation.

My life will be opening up very soon.

Around We Go

Genevieve is drinking regular milk now. I hear myself saying this in my mind. It seems beyond ridiculous that this is the most important thing going on in my life today worth mentioning. When did my life go away so that my daughter could exist? Fourteen months ago.

Now, I hear in my head the voice telling me to quickly affirm that, of course, I wouldn’t change it for the world. Celebrity moms are always sure to make this point when they detail their post-partum depressions in tell-all interviews.

“Having my baby was the worst thing in the world. I hate it. It’s awful. But, of course, I love it. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

And I understand that need to correct oneself as a mom because, of course, it sounds horrible to say you wish your child didn’t exist. But I’ve got to tell you, there are times when I fantasize what it would be like to have my own life back again.

There’s the voice again—pushing me to emphasize how cute Genny is when I ask her what a cow says and she says something that sounds like, “moo”, or the duck goes, “duck, duck”, or the feathered friend outside our window is a “burrd”.

Yes, it’s true. I love her. I want her to exist. But even when I have those feelings like I wish she didn’t, I feel the need to censor myself because of my love for her. I love her so much. I just don’t love the job of mom so much.

Tired

Once again Genevieve was awake at about 5 am. This is entirely too early for one’s brain to function properly. If I don’t catch up on some sleep soon, I may be heading toward a nervous breakdown.

I know the only way I’m going to get ahead in this world is by working super hard, but when I’m exhausted, I can’t get my creativity to flow. There’s seems to be no choice other than sacrificing creativity for sleep, but then I’m depressed because I’m not producing anything creative. It’s thoroughly frustrating.

We went to a friend’s first birthday party today. Genny was brave enough to be crawling in between all of these strangers’ feet. Then we were home and the whole family took a nap. After an early supper, we strolled to the playground where we ran into more friends and played in the sprinkler, on the swings and slides.

Gen went to bed easily since she’s probably as exhausted as we are. I’m planning on going to bed very early tonight and seeing if I might feel better. My energy and mood are very low at the moment. My sentences are not flowing—a reflection of my mind.

Delayed Reactions

One of the worst things to see is a car accident on the highway. I don’t mean passing by one that’s already happened and been processed, but one that’s unfolding before your eyes. I’d already seen a horrible one on I-95 many years ago when I was returning from a stripper shift.

A car was driving like a lunatic and then up ahead I saw it sliding sideways back and forth across the three lanes. We all slammed on our brakes. As I slowed down and held the center lane I saw the sports car flipping and rolling along the median and then I saw a man fall or drop or jump from the passenger window. I remember it all happened in such slow motion.

Tonight, driving home from Connecticut on the Merritt Parkway there was a red mid-size car tailing people with only like inches to spare. The next thing I know, he’s passing a Volvo station wagon on the right and then deliberately steering into the car, hitting it and causing it to swerve out of control and hit the median.

I stopped the car and ran out to the Volvo; the red car took off. The young woman stepped out of her car totally fine and already calling people on her cell phone. We waited with her until the cops came and I told them what I saw. Unfortunately, no one got the license plate number.

It was a scary scene—the whole front end of her car smushed in. She was so lucky to be uninjured. I was just talking to her and making sure she stayed calm. When we were leaving she was finally starting to cry.

I can’t imagine what would have happened if it had been our minivan that this crazy person decided to tail and smash. Genny was secured in her car seat, but still, you never know.

So, Genny went to bed late tonight. And I’ve got a bag of ice on my swollen toe—I think running over to the accident exacerbated it.

I feel very hazy and spacey, like I’ve just seen a dream and I’m trying to remember it so I can analyze it or share it with friends. It’s all cloudy in my mind and I see the screeching tires and the flying smoke, but I don’t hear any sounds at all. It’s very quiet and still, like being underwater.

Minivan Day

I set an official record for length of trip from Bridgeport, CT to Jackson Heights, NY today. Unfortunately, the astonishing feat was on the long side not the short. It took me three hours and twenty minutes to make a drive that usually lasts one hour and ten minutes. Now that’s a lot of traffic.

Genevieve handled the constant stop and go very well though. We’d had a busy day: drive to CT in the morning, swimming in Grandpa’s pool and then a trip to the Beardsley Zoo in the afternoon. Genny saw monkeys, tamarinds (which are orangey, like tangerines), two bears, a momma tiger and three cubs, foxes, and lots of birds. I think Gen’s faves were the ducks and, oh yeah, the ducks. When I asked her what a duck says, she said something like, “duk, duk”.

We went to the zoo with my stepmom, Pat, her daughter, Lisa, and her boys. Genny’s three little cousins, Christopher, Jimmy and John, are so enamored of her and take such good care of her—patting her on the head, rubbing her back and checking in on her in her stroller. It was really a fun day, at least until the drive home.

I even found myself jotting down ideas for poems this morning on the drive there. Of course, it’s not a good idea to write and drive, but sometimes you’ve just got to write whenever the feeling hits. And I don’t know why I’m all poemed up all of a sudden. I’m just feeling like working on my stripper poems for some reason.

It’s not my job to ask why; it’s just my job to write down what comes to me. And to not crash the minivan while I’m busy being creative.

Need to Sleep

Genevieve wasn’t much into her supper of green beans, corn and peas. There was lots of eye and nose rubbing, which is her sign language for sleepy time.

Then something you don’t see very often in baby world—Genny was actually trying to get into her pack-and-play to go to sleep. We’re hoping she’s zonked out enough to sleep in a little tomorrow, you know, like until 5:30.

My brain feels flat tonight. I can’t seem to get my thoughts moving out onto the page. Maybe I’m tired. I suppose that is a distinct possibility. I think I need to honor how I feel and not push myself to write anything else tonight. That’s a new concept for me. I usually get down on myself about not writing, but tonight it just feels right to say, that’s enough, I need to sleep.