My Mother

Yesterday had me asking…Am I manic-depressive?

I go, go, go and then I crash. It hurts to breathe. Depression deep. All consuming. The pace of life required of me exhausts, consumes my head. Cloudy. Crying.

A day like this—I miss my mother. She’ll never be here again. She’ll never celebrate another birthday with Genny. She’ll never meet Cole.

And I wonder, how can I do this life without her?

And I wonder, how do I be a mother?

Why does Genny have to be so rude to me? “I don’t like you,” she spits at me. She doesn’t want to kiss me or hug me except when she’s scared. How long will this phase last?

How could I have been mean to my own mother?

And again—I feel so different from all the other moms who coo over every baby murmur. I love my baby and my child. But I ache in such a hard way for my own self. I can’t seem to separate the two.

Where am I? I feel like there is something wrong with me when I don’t feel what other mothers feel.

Does Genny see me as inadequate? Does she sense I’d rather be somewhere else, doing my own things? Does my anguish cause her to not like me? Does she already sense and suffer from my depression?

I need to stop caretaking. I need to stop feeling so responsible. I need to clear clutter. I need to rid my self of unwanted pressure—unwanted physical junk, too. I’m holding onto Mom’s things as if they will bring her back to me. Things will not salve my grief.

Perhaps I have not grieved for my mother enough. I need to have more closure. My mother is not coming back.

I am a motherless daughter.

I am a mom.

This is a Mom

Today I was a mom.

Yes, I’ve been a mom for five years now, but today, I was just a mom.

I did not even try to make time for my writing. I did not work on marketing. I did not work on drawing.

I prepared for a gaggle of little girls to invade my home tomorrow for Genny’s fifth birthday party.

I organized the living room, dining room, and kitchen. I cleaned and emptied the back porch and washed off all the outside paraphernalia. I dug up the dirt and grass that had overgrown our slate pathway. I washed muddy slippers and shoes, which reminds me, they are still in the dryer. I cooked supper for daughter and father-in-law. I nursed. I ferried my daughter to and from school.

My back aches. I’m dirty and sweaty.

I now understand why it takes a mom to run a home, to do all the stuff that needs to get done. It really and truly is a job and a half.

It seems the only way to make mothering work is to commit to it absolutely and completely and only do other stuff if you happen to have some free time. I do not like this. But I think I must accept it. Or somehow make oodles of money so we can hire someone to help with all the housework and drudge work.

I know there will be a balance between me and me-as-mom eventually.

But I can’t expect so much from myself.

Nursing

No one ever mentions the downsides of nursing your baby.

There are obviously lots of pluses: nourishing your child with life-giving food, voluptuous breasts even for the small breasted, and an amazing bonding experience.

There are negatives: never being able to be away from your baby for more than a few hours (unless you pump or supplement with formula), never getting many hours of uninterrupted sleep, and uncomfortable, painful, leaking breasts.

At the moment I have one hard, lumpy, painful right breast, which is always much larger than the left, by the way. Cole is nursing on it right now, so hopefully he’ll help the over-milk full feeling.

Nick just carried Genny upstairs to bed since she fell asleep on the couch. I am soon to bed myself.

Random Thoughts

Lack of sleep is making my brain fuzzy. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Cole just doesn’t want to sleep for a long stretch anymore. Maybe I’m the one of the lucky moms who gets one of those babies, you know, the kind who doesn’t need too much sleep.

Unfortunately, I’m one of those babies who DOES need a lot of sleep.

This Saturday our home will be overrun by four and five-year-old girls for Genny’s fifth birthday party. I’m watching the weather with bated breath, hoping the rain stays away, so we can play outside.

Cole is blowing spit bubbles and chewing on a toy octopus’ legs.

I am washing clothes and being splashed by spit bubbles.

Did I mention I’m tired?

This is Me

Stripper Mom breaks expectations and conventions. Unintentionally.

How many mothers do you know that wear makeup every day? Not me. Here's a photo of what I look like on your average day after having maybe four hours of sleep. Yes, I do have a five-month-old baby. Four hours of sleep is good.

When I was stripping most people would never guess what I did for a living. I only wore makeup when I performed. The rest of the time I was simply me.

The same goes today. I hardly ever wear makeup in “real” life. I guess I got that sweet bit of freedom from my mother, who never wore makeup.

I’m happy with who I am and what I look like. I thought most of the world was catching up with the attitude that women are most beautiful when they are just being themselves, but then I realize this isn’t so.

There are so many straightjackets of expectations I have dealt with in my life as a girl, as a woman. I imagine this is true for many women, but having been a stripper, a model and an actress, I’ve been exposed to truly confounding expectations from others.

I realize now though that I truly am fine with what others think of me. I know I can’t control how others perceive me. And I certainly don’t intend to try to figure out what others might expect from me. As long as I am happy with myself—that is all that’s important.

My greatest hope for my daughter is that she will always feel secure in herself just as she is. This is my dream. This is my goal.

Itsy Bitsy This!

Today is one of those days that feel like the universe is laughing at me.

It all started with my second Itsy Bitsy yoga class this morning. Cole napped on our way there and was in general quite happy during the class. I, on the other hand, was cranky.

It must be my post-partum depression coming out because I was thoroughly unhappy with yoga class. I felt so out of place with the other new first-time mothers who were just so happy about everything baby-related.

The instructor asked us to share something “funny” about our birthing experience and that word just ticked me off. There was absolutely nothing at all that I could describe as funny. And then as I listened to the other mothers happily sharing their different levels of labor pain, all I could think about was how horrible my birth of Genny was five years ago.

Nick’s mother passed away the night before Genny was born and my own mother was horribly ill with cancer. To say there was stress involved is putting it mildly.

Cole’s birth was much better, but still, there wasn’t anything funny or fun about it.

The other mothers were also just very happy about the whole motherhood thing. They were laughing and bubbly and loving everything baby-related. I was not. I felt out of place. Out of sorts.

And then the whole Itsy Bitsy yoga thing started feeling so wrong. All the moves are done sing-songy and yes, I do speak to Cole in a cute, sweet voice, but there was just something so fake and contrived feeling about this today.

I’m thinking I should write my own baby-yoga book, but it will be about letting out our mother-angst. There will be drum beating and wailing and moaning and writhing about on the floor. Once we’ve let all that out then we’ll turn to our babies with love and say, “I love you, but I really would love some time to myself.”

Mom’s Day

Stripper Mom was reminded of her past today on the drive to her step-sister’s house.

We drove through the valley along Route 8 and passed through Waterbury.

I remembered The Patio—a strip club that was also a restaurant where I once thought I was going to have to strip for a very elderly woman (her husband removed the unaware woman before the strippers started their shift).

And I remembered another Waterbury club, whose name I can’t remember, where the bar back kept sneaking a peek of me through a large crack in the dressing room’s door.

And at the moment, my children will not let me have two minutes on the computer: Cole sits on my lap kicking me and blubbering, and Genny will not stop saying, “Mommy, mommy, what does this say?” as she scrolls through the LOLcats on icancheezburger.

So I will end with saying Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there.

And a remembrance to my own mother…

The Nursing Post

Multitasker Extraordinaire!

This is the nursing post.

I can nurse while doing just about anything…radio interviews, cooking, playing Chutes and Ladders, blogging…you name it and I bet I’ve nursed and done it.

And now I’ve just been spit up on while blogging! How cool is that?

The coolest part about nursing that no one talks about is how all the closet stripper moms can expose themselves legally wherever they wish. If you’ve always wondered what it’s like to bare your breasts to strangers then just become a nursing mother. Although don’t expect to make any tips.

Men can get pretty uncomfortable when they see breasts being used for something other than their pleasure. The funniest result is when a man comes up to speak to you, not realizing you’re nursing, and then does a crazy fast turnaround in embarrassment.

It never bothers me if people see me nursing, but perhaps that has something to do with my past.

I actually sometimes wish that someone would come up to me while I’m nursing in a public place to tell me to cover up. They’d wish they’d kept quiet.

“Cover up?! It’s my legal right to nurse in public! I’m feeding my child! Nourishing our future!”

Here’s to our multitasking breasts! Lovely to look at and nutritious to suck on!

Suck on!

Radio Time

In case you missed Stripper Mom’s interview today on WLW 700 am - Cincinnati, Ohio, here’s a link to the podcast.

Well, I thought it was a beautiful thing that you could hear Cole nursing in the background of the radio program today. It was pretty funny (considering I was talking about stripping) to have a baby attached to my breasts.

But it totally brings up one of my biggest points about the difficulty of being a mother AND a sexy woman at the same time. Eddie Fingers and Tracy Jones were talking afterwards about how it was “creepy” to hear Cole nursing during my interview.

Why creepy? Because it’s hard to imagine moms and sexual beings in the same thought? This is the dichotomy that mothers struggle with. We have social expectations to be a good mother, which doesn’t include being a stripper or even having been a stripper.

I’ve got news for you world—if we’re mothers, we have indeed had sex at some point!

And mothers who are strippers do indeed use their breasts for something other than as objects to be viewed.

Actually, if you want to talk about creepy and breast milk…I do remember one stripper at The Hideaway who was lactating who would put shots of breast milk into customers’ drinks. I was only eighteen and quite naïve when I saw this spectacle. I actually asked some customer at the bar, “What is she doing?!”

He thought this was quite funny.

I can’t remember if this was the same stripper who also put lit matches around her nipples and swung them around in flaming circles…

Ah, the good old days…

Stripper Mom’s Busy Day

A busy day for Stripper Mom!

I’m the featured poet on my cousin Alison’s awesome Haiku Blog…Provocative Haiku.

You know you want to read some stripper haikus!

And Stripper Mom was interviewed for a radio show airing this afternoon, WLW 700 am - Cincinatti, Ohio…3PM-6PM EDDIE FINGERS & TRACY JONES…For Mother’s Day - Eddie & Tracy support single Moms – and the strip-clubs where they work.

And you know what else? I’ve changed two diapers, nursed four times, washed one load of laundry (one more to go) and one sink full of dishes, dropped Genny off at school, and showered. Not too bad for an overtired mom.

The Thong Post

You know you’re no longer a stripper, but rather a mother, when you are getting dressed in the morning, stepping into your usual underwear choice, a thong, and your almost-five-year-old daughter says, “Mommy, you put your underwear on backwards!”

You spin your head around as she continues to say, “Your tushie! I see your tushie!”

When you tell the story to your husband, he says, “Perhaps it’s time to start wearing regular underpants.”

This freezes you in your tracks. Regular, uncomfortable, full-bottomed, granny panties? The ones you only wear when you have your monthly “visitor”? The ones that show panty lines in your jeans?

You briefly consider making the switch for sake of not wanting your young daughter to want to start wearing thongs, but then you realize, if you’re already feeling unsexy as it is, aborting g-string usage may just completely push you over the edge into wearing mom jeans and baking cookies.

So, right then and there you decide the only answer possible…you will only dress or undress out of daughter’s eyesight. When wandering the house in undies and a tee, you will give in and wear cute, low-slung boy shorts.

A compromise made…your thong is saved for another day!

Everyone’s Doing It

It’s the latest hot trend for the mom on the go: stripper pole dancing.

Britney Spears swears by it for exercise, but it seems a little freaky to want one installed in a schmaltzy hotel suite while on tour with her young sons.

"Britney loves pole dancing, it is her new favorite work out," says a source. "She gets the toning that she needs without having to hit the gym, and she wants to be able to do it in the privacy of her own hotel room."

When I first started as a stripper way back in 1989, there were no stripper poles at any of the dozen clubs I worked at in Connecticut. Imagine my surprise when I first encountered one in New York City.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I wondered as I took to the stage.

I watched as other strippers athletically flung their bodies against the pole, rolling, flipping, and making awful thigh-smacking sounds. It was decidedly unsexy to watch. Not to mention the nasty bruises on their inner thighs.

I never became one of those gymnastic stripper pole dancers. I would just gently grasp the pole (that sounds kind of pornographic) and swing my body around it.

Another wonderful use of the pole was as a leaning device when the men weren’t tipping.

And there was a club across the street from David Letterman’s theatre that had a regular old swing. This, I liked. Once again it had nothing to do with the sexy-factor, which was again, non-existent.

When the club was slow or the customers were jerks, I would sit on the swing, close my eyes, and pump my legs (again, pornographic-sounding). My platforms’ toes would pop against the ceiling; a cool smoky breeze would rush through my hair-sprayed curls. I would forget where I was for a few brief, lovely moments.

So, before you run out and install a metal pole in your house, consider putting in the lesser-known (and less athletic) supposedly sexy strip club paraphernalia, the swing.

Better yet, just go outside and use your child’s jungle gym.

Now there’s a sexy workout for you.

Beauty Queen

Miss California USA Carrie Prejean has been quite the newsmaker.

I didn’t have such a problem with her pageant answer to how she feels about gay marriage as many others did. She spoke what she believed and I can’t blame her for being true to herself, even though I disagree with her.

But now racy photos of Prejean have surfaced and landed her in some more controversy. Her supporters will agree with the fact that they are simply modeling pictures, but her detractors are going to have a field day with an ultra-conservative Christian being photographed semi-nude.

The most ridiculous argument is that a Miss USA shouldn’t be seen in photos such as these. She has an office to uphold for young women everywhere. OK now, let’s get real. It’s not alright to appear in lingerie in some long-ago forgotten photo shoot, but it is alright to parade around in a bikini with fake breasts on national television? Somehow that’s being a good role model?

As a mother who would never be able to hide all the “racy” photos taken of her as a model over the years, I’m disgusted with the whole thing. The whole idea of female beauty as a show thing is the problem, not how much or how little of a woman’s body is shown.

Why can’t we use this whole tabloid sensational story to expose the real issues? The true question is not whether Prejean should lose her Miss California crown; the real question is why it is so important to women to be beauty queens in the first place.

The Two Pounds

Just when I think I’m totally over caring what my body looks like, I’m proven wrong.

Yesterday was a big body issue day for me. It began innocently enough when I decided to go with a pants and a shirt instead of a dress for Nick’s cousin’s baby christening. Little did I know that when I tried to squeeze my fine self into the aforementioned black slacks my body would have nothing of it.

Nothing. Of. It.

Or any of my other nice black pants. My thighs strained at the seams. My tushie was pushing at the fabric’s strength. And the zippers were all definitely screaming, “Ha, ha. That’s a good one!”

It dawned on me that I would not be wearing pants. We were already running late because Genny decided for some reason to have a problem with every dress she owns. The flowered one had “a line on it,” the purple one, which fits perfectly, was “too big,” and so on and so forth with half-a-dozen other dresses.

She went on to have a major meltdown while Cole joined in on the action. He hadn’t even had his diaper changed yet, let alone have an outfit picked out that would fit him (if you will remember, Cole is having similar body issues).

Thank goodness Nick came to the rescue, scooping up Genny and helping her find the one dress that was satisfactory, and taking Cole and changing him. This gave me five minutes to run into the bathroom to shave my legs, since I was now going to wear a dress and could not hide my Mommy hairy legs beneath slacks.

The easy part taken care of, I then had to find a dress that fit. Fortunately for me, my soft jersey, yellow dress fit fine with no embarrassing bulges or straining.

So what happened to my cool? I’ve been fine with my slight weight gain so far. It isn’t even really a weight gain; I only weigh two pounds more than what I was before I was pregnant.

It’s the squishiness factor that creeps me out. I miss being more solid. More firm. More…”me,” or more the “me” I’ve always seen myself as.

Suffice it to say, I’m sure no one at the christening thought I looked any differently than I ever have. It’s all in my mind. Well, not ALL in my mind…there is the matter of those extra two pounds.

Our Garden, Part Deux

Our garden is planted.

Genny was so looking forward to gardening until she saw how much hard work was involved. It took all day Saturday to prepare the ground: ripping out onion grass, hand tilling the soil and then realizing we should rent a rotor-tiller, which we did at Home Depot, and mixing in the fertilizer and peat moss.

This morning was all about the planting, but unfortunately Genny realized this involved dirt. She didn’t want to walk through the dirt after about half-an-hour, so she retreated to the yard.

We will see what grows.




Gardening can really bring out your issues. I was faced yesterday with all the hoeing and weeding and wanting to run away. It’s been a long time since I needed to do such hard physical labor, but I stuck with it and my body is good-sore as a result.

Tomorrow Cole and I start our first Itsy-Bitsy yoga class. I will definitely need a good stretch by then.

On the Verge

I almost lost it completely in the car today.

Cole only napped for an hour. I tried to rest, but did not succeed. I tried to get work done: dishes, cleaning, organizing, writing…but did not succeed.

I managed to be depressed and cranky. Perhaps it started with Gen’s insistence on getting dressed downstairs this morning. Or with Nana’s fifth request if I had gone to the bank yet for her (for a completely trivial matter).

After picking up Genny from school, going to the bank, and heading home, Cole started screaming. I turned on the radio to try to soothe him and then Genny said in a snotty voice, “Both Cole and the music are too loud!”

The urge to screech to a halt and scream was overwhelming. Somehow I found my happy place and made it home. Only to step out of the van and be greeted by Nana at the door, “Did you go to the bank for me?”

Happy place…happy place…happy place…

God is in the Details

“How will I know where to go when I drive?” Genny asked from the backseat as I drove her to school.

“By the time you’re old enough to drive, you’ll know your way around well, or you can use a map.”

“But how will I know where to go if you die?”

And thus begins another one of our death conversations. They tend to happen on our drives to school.

“More than likely you’ll be a grown up with your own children by the time I die. You’ll have learned everything you need to know from me by then.”

I’m always careful to not say, I won’t die before you’re old, because I can’t lie. What if I did die all of a sudden? I don’t want her hating her poor dead mother.

“I don’t want to die.”

“I know, Honey, and hopefully you shouldn’t until you’re very old. That’s why Daddy and Mommy want us all to eat well, exercise, and take care of ourselves, so we can live a long healthy life.”

“I run—that’s exercise,” Genny said.

“Yup.”

“God is everywhere, right, Mommy?”

“Yes, God is love and love is everywhere.”

“Even in the trees, and the sky, and the road!”

“That’s right.”

“And the garbage can, Mommy! God is in the garbage can!”

“Yes!”

“What’s in my lunchbox, Mommy?”

And so the conversation turns.

Trailer Park bride

A 16-year-old girl who lives in a trailer had a $200,000 wedding paid for by her father.

Read the whole article here!

What was most shocking to me was that this girl looks more like a stripper in her wedding dress than I ever did in my stripper attire.

I try to remember back to when I was sixteen and wanted to be noticed, but somehow I can’t seem to remember wanting to wear something like that. And at sixteen she wants to be a “glamour model.”

Perhaps this could be the first young lady for Stripper Mom to go and have a talk with, although she does seem quite happy with being photographed dressed like that. But maybe Stripper Mom might be able to dig a little deeper and find out if any other dreams lie hidden beneath the Swarovski crystals.

I tried to find an update on Missy Quinn, but alas, I could find no mentions of her besides her wedding day.

The Mundane

I am so beyond exhausted tonight. I drove to the city to visit with a friend; I hit I-95 traffic going in and coming home, turning two hours of travel time into four.

Cole, of course, came along. Since I’m breastfeeding and not pumping, I can’t be separated from him for more than an hour or two. For the past four-and-a-half months I’ve only been away from him twice.

He was very good in the car until he wasn’t. The traffic on the way home wore him down and so did the 90 degree weather. For the last 45-minutes of the drive he was screaming and crying. I reached over into the backseat so he could suck on my finger, which usually calms him. Not so much today.

I would have stopped and nursed him a bit, but I was running late to pick up Genny at school.

Then it was a double bath night. Cole went first, nice and quick, and then I let Genny play for a half an hour in the tub. I allowed her to stay up late until Nick came home and so she is still not asleep. She’s waiting for me to come back upstairs and lie down with her. I’m hoping she’ll be asleep in a few minutes so I can crash out for a few hours.

It felt good to go into the city, but I knew I would pay for it tonight. With exhaustion.

Is it worth it? Is fighting to keep some of my old life alive possible and worth it? Of course. Of course.

But, oh, am I tired.

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.