Crazy Days

The crazy three days has begun. Today was all about getting things done for the wedding and trying not to chip my nails. I think almost everything is just about ready—the keywords being “almost” and “just about”.

I am feeling a strange and breezy excited buzz. I remind myself every once in a while that I’m getting married in a day and then I feel tingles in my cheekbones. It’s a rush, rush, cool kind of sensation.

My friends and I had a dinner tonight in the city at The Sanctuary on 1st and 1st. My sweetheart friend, Wendy, organized it. The restaurant was out of cold beverages and only had a buffet—all you can eat for five dollars! The man in the saffron robes told us they might be closing because the running of the restaurant is cutting into their spiritual practice.

Yup, so I was baby free in the city. Nobody knew I was a mother (except for everyone who knew me). I actually was able to just allow myself to be out and not feel bad about leaving Genny. It’s okay to allow myself to have some free time without baby when I have the opportunity.

And I had Starbucks twice today. I may not fit into my wedding dress. And my face may break out. But when faced with the opportunity to have two Starbucks in one day, one must dive fully into the experience.

I must say adieu now. It is way past my bedtime. The baby will not allow me to sleep in tomorrow morning.

Now I know my ABC's

Why am I always looking for controversy in life? I was just saying to Nick, I don’t know what to blog about tonight. If there isn’t something big and exciting, or profound and sweet, but just ho-hum, I feel like I’m not supplying good material worthy of being read.

I guess I’m a bit of an attention-monger. I certainly was the center of attention when I stood naked on stage in a room full of men. How much more desperate can someone be for some “look at me” time. I’m used to there being certain expectations set up for me when I present myself in any way. When I was a stripper, in exchange for the attention and the money, I had to be dolled up and, oh yes, naked. A pretty straightforward exchange.

As a writer, I need to be able to provide a window into experience or feeling. If I have no interesting stories to share on a given night, do I blog just the same? Can I allow myself to be boring and uninspiring, but write anyway? Can I reveal no secrets, but only chitchat on the screen?

Well, I appear to be doing the boring thing pretty well at the moment, but I must admit that the back of my mind is desperately searching for some cute way to tie things up and make you go, “Aha!” or “Really? Isn’t that delightful and intriguing.”

Speaking of being the center of attention, Genevieve said the letter “A” today. It was quite distinct and right after a Leap Frog toy began singing the alphabet. She said it about half a dozen times. “A. A. A. A. A. A.” I believe it was the capital “A” she was hinting at and not the little “a”, although I have no proof of that.

You know, I myself must have said the letter “A” one hundred times today, but I don’t pat myself on the back. I don’t get all excited. I don’t hush everyone in the room to pipe down so I can hear myself pronounce the first letter of the alphabet. Maybe I’m making too big a deal out of Genny’s little accomplishments. I don’t want her to grow up thinking she needs to be praised for every little thing she does. And I certainly don’t want her to wind up feeling the need to shed her clothes to get the attention our culture so readily supplies to naked females.

Hmm, just the right amount of attention, so she is neither starved for it or living for it. Now, if I can only figure out the perfect quantity and quality of attention a baby needs to grow up with a healthy self-image—it should be a small undertaking for a woman who can so clearly pronounce the entire contents of the alphabet forward and back.

My American Idol

It’s embarrassing to admit, but I just watched the American Idol finale. My whole life I have avoided liking anything that is popular among the masses, or at least liking these things publicly.

I’m not sure how I got hooked on Idol. The cheesily bad auditions drew me in and then the weekly anticipation of the singing and more importantly, the excruciatingly drawn out results shows, kept me finagling with the cable to get reception. Not that Idol is an original show; I am carried back to my childhood—sitting on the scratchy couch in the den watching The Gong Show. I always admired the folks who ignored the gong, or who honestly didn’t seem to hear it, even when it was being pounded upon by some has-been celebrity judge.

Tonight, the gong rang for Bo and Carrie was crowned Miss American Idol. She helped her mom up onstage and bear hugged her. Mrs. Mom Idol patted her daughter on the back, just like I pat Genny, and just like Genny pats her Baby Doll.

From one mom to the next and already we are passing the baton down to our daughters, even when they are still in diapers. Genny is already maternally caring for Baby Doll. True, she does lose her patience with the doll every now and then and toss her onto the sidewalk where she is then run over by the stroller, but other than that—true love and caring.

Perhaps one day my baby will be helping my aging body up on stage to be congratulated for her accomplishments—American Idol, Academy Award winner or Spelling Bee Champion. I will certainly be clasping her body to mine, jumping up and down, hooting and hollering and proclaiming wildly, “That’s my little girl!”

Squishy faces

Genevieve makes the cutest little scrunchy face when she’s happy. She wrinkles up her nose, opens her mouth in a half moon smile and chuckles. I squish up my face when I’m happy, too.

I am so much happier nowadays than when I was taking off my clothes for a living. My life and my choices have steadily improved throughout time. I’ve managed to extricate myself out of unwise career decisions, unhealthy romantic relationships and dangerous lifestyle habits. I’m sure we all have escaped specters of death, but when I think of all the events in my life that could have turned out differently, I feel grateful for having survived.

I am a survivor. Depression, regret and guilt may tug me down to the ground sometimes, but I know now that I will always be able to pull myself up again. I will learn from Genevieve as she becomes skilled at physically hoisting her trembling body onto her standing feet.

Genny and I both know that she will be able to get herself up soon. Even though right now she needs lots of assistance to stand, there will be no stopping her. She will stand on her own.

And I will continue to move forward in life, just as I always have; only now I am not alone. I have Nick’s hand and Genny’s hand wrapped in mine.

There are many squishy faces to come in life.

The Price We Pay

Yes, the rumors are true; my baby has fat feet. I bought Genny a pair of wedding shoes, which should have fit her, but her puffy feet squeegee out the tops. She may just have to wear white plastic grocery bags tied with ribbon around her feet.

Speaking of things squeezing out of their holders, I bought my seamless, strapless push-up bra for the wedding at David’s Bridal. When I reacted to the $69 price tag the saleslady was quick to point out that the exact same bra sells for $89 at Victoria’s Secret. Ever the bargain seeker, I bought the floor model and received 20% off.

I even sought good deals on clothing when I was a stripper. Flimsy little nothings cost a lot of dollar bill tips and paying for lingerie in singles is always a dead giveaway that one is an exotic dancer. To save on spending all my hard-earned cash on costumes I even handmade many of my bikini sets. I still have a large blue bin stuffed with fading colored thongs, plastic bras and lacey what-nots.

Unfortunately, I do not have any rolls of dollar bills stashed away anywhere. People often ask me where all my stripping money went. The answer is, the same place anybody’s money goes. The cash flow potential of stripping is overrated unless you’re willing to perform extracurricular activities outside the clubs. The most I ever made on a shift was like $600, but the average daily rate was about two or three hundred dollars. Not bad money for dancing around in your skivvies, but not great by any means.

Well, at least I kept most of my morals intact, although “morals” is a funny concept. Who’s to say what’s right or wrong when one isn’t harming anyone else, except perhaps for oneself and possibly the dignity of womankind. I’d rather not speak for all women though, seeing as I change my own mind about stripping around twenty times a day.

Pee and Planes

I felt like a bad mom today. We were busy all day, from going to brunch, to attending Nick’s mom’s memorial, to shopping at WalMart. I picked Genny up out of her stroller in Wally World only to find her flower-skirted bottom soaking wet, then it took me only another moment to realize that I hadn’t changed her diaper in like eight hours.

I had done smell checks a few times, but there had been no offensive odors, so I kept thinking, I’ll just wait a little longer. I guess I just pretty much plain forgot to take care of my daughter’s bathroom needs today. So she rode home wrapped in a blanket. She survived.

I’m surviving the final week before the wedding so far, but there are still a lot of last-minute details to attend to. It is amazing how all the little this and thats add up to create a frenzied state of pre-wedding stressamopolous.

The apartment is a mess. Genny still needs white wedding shoes because the ones I bought her at the flea market don’t fit. I’m not happy with how my wedding bra fits (it’s an old one and has seen better days). We still need to do work on the ceremony and figure out how all the people go and what we want here and what goes there and so on.

I hear a plane overhead. Our apartment building is directly in the path of one landing route for LaGuardia Airport. Planes only seem to fly over us on weekends when there is a certain wind pattern, but when they do, you need to be ready to duck because these bad boys could singe the hair off the back of your neck.

The underbellies of jets are really quite lovely—round and white just like my once pregnant belly. But my plane landed over a year ago now. She touched down just fine.

The Way to Go

Not only did Genny survive her first year on this planet, but so did Nick and I. Not only that, but she fit into a size 3-6 month outfit today. Way to stay nice and trim, Genny. (For any babies that may be reading this, that last statement was a joke. Baby fat is adorable. Love yourselves.)

I fit into a size 4 Gap pants and a small top today. Way to go, Mom, but really, we would have still loved you if it had been a size 6.

For Gen’s big day, we went to her friend Abel’s birthday party at a baby gym in Astoria. She loved the pink ball and the cyan balloon with the yellow string. She crawled through a large plastic caterpillar and lounged on his red tongue. She even had “Happy Birthday” sung to her after Abel’s turn. This didn’t register at all—her mouth just hung open in mild confusion.

Tomorrow is Nick’s mom’s memorial in New Jersey. Then next Saturday is my birthday followed the next day by our wedding. And while the wedding is being held in Astoria, it is not at the baby gym, although it might be fun for one hundred wedding guests to roll around on a padded rainbow floor.

We are all belly button deep in planning. There are still a zillion details to be figured out, but that is okay. We get done what we get done. And what we don’t get done, well, it goes undone. Way to impart the wisdom, Mom, but really, you made it through the year, way to go.

Take Two

For your reading pleasure, I give you, Emergency Room visit number two.

Genevieve’s being sick has become second nature to us this past week, but this morning took a new turn. She was crying uncontrollably for an hour and a half and had a red pin-prickly rash all over her body. We called our nurse line, a service provided by our insurance company, and were instructed to take her to the Emergency Room.

This time we strolled the sidewalks in the slanting rain. In the hospital, we waited for Genny’s name to be called, while in the background Montel Williams supplied a poor, unfortunate 4’11” girl with a makeover to make her feel good from the inside-out.

A short time later, Genny was awarded the Triple Crown: a new tooth, a virus called Porvo and an ear infection. Certainly nothing worthy of a hospital visit, but more than enough to cause an about to be one year old girl with a crying jag. We set back out into the cold rain with a prescription for antibiotics in hand, or rather, in pocket.

These must not be the times that other moms mean when they say, Enjoy every minute of it. It goes so fast. I could stand for a few of these screaming baby days to go a little quicker.

But it is true that tomorrow is her first birthday, which is strange—since she was only born just yesterday.

Security

Genevieve developed a need for a security blanket today, or rather I should say, a security baby doll. It’s a simple plastic doll with fluttering plastic lashes that her great-grandparents gave to her. She hugged the doll to her face and every time I tried to pry it from her dirty hands, she would wail.

So, Genny ate dinner with Baby Doll, who enjoyed her own banana-blueberry treat on her round cheek. Baby Doll went for a swing at the playground. And Baby Doll got dragged around the apartment, sweeping up kitty-cat fur clumps as she went.

I don’t think I ever had a security object. My sister had a blankie that eventually disintegrated from so much use. I did have a “pretty spoon”, which I loved to eat my cereal with.

As we strolled along 34th Avenue, Genny with Doll and I with iced latte, my mind floated back to my teacher’s lingerie comment and I realized that he might have said black negligee, not black lingerie. Not that there’s much of a difference in the impact of the meaning.

Did my teacher see something in me that I didn’t? Or did he create some desire in me to fulfill men’s fantasies?

Perhaps it’s all hooey and his words didn’t get into my brain. Maybe I would have become what I became no matter what, but it does make you think about how a simple statement just might impact a child’s life path.

The definition of "awed"

I love the mind buzz that happens when I make a new connection that I’ve never seen before. Sometimes the realization isn’t even one hundred percent, but just the possibility that I’m being enlightened about something that can make my ears tingle.

My friend Julie and I were holding our writing workshop tonight. We were discussing a piece of her memoir. I felt very excited when a parallel became clear to me that she’s working on in her manuscript. For a brief flash I could envision her completed work—finished and structured and published.

I have moments like this with my own memoir, but tonight’s revelation was smaller. Just more of two parallel moments worth exploring. Something that might have had a bigger impact on me than I ever realized before.

Well, I’m not one to tease and leave, so—When I was in grammar school, a certain teacher made a joke to explain a point. I can’t for the life of me (what a strange expression) remember what word he was trying to illustrate, but it must have been something like “awed”.

So, Mr. Teacher says, “Imagine that Danny is standing in a room and then all of a sudden the door opens and Sheila walks in wearing black lingerie.” All of our little minds were trying to compute what this meant. I remember feeling awkward, yet somehow pleased to be plucked out of all my other classmates to be described as causing this interesting effect. Not that any of us kids knew what he was talking about at the time.

The story gets stranger. When I first came on stage one shift at The Oasis, (now a Starbucks coffee house) I spun around to come face to face with the aforementioned teacher. Here I was, dressed in black lingerie, facing down the man who had envisioned just such a scenario.

Suffice it to say, he did look “awed”.

After I spun back around, all I saw was an empty barstool amidst a sea of smarmy faces.

Could it be that somehow or other that one comment expressed when I was a child burrowed its way inside my soul and took root? Did my whole life divert itself to fulfill a teacher’s word definition? I set out to awe the world just to recapture that brief moment of feeling special?

Fever

Fevers go up and fevers come down. At its peak, Gen’s temperature was 103.1.

Welcome to my day.

Genny’s little forehead has been kissed many times. Crankiness was an unfortunate side effect—for both her and me.

Even with Genny feeling as crappity as she did, we still managed to get a lot done today: three loads of laundry, a trip to the grocery store, and a walk with friends to the playground.

And now here I sit, with my mail piled on my unbuttoned jeans lap, my belly poofing comfortably out. My unwashed hair pulled back in my usual ponytail. An enormous pimple on my chin. I feel like the opposite of glamour. I can’t even remember what it feels like to feel pretty.

I’d love a facial. And a manicure and pedicure. And a massage. And a clothes shopping spree. And a new purse and pair of shoes. And—this is me being needy and greedy. To go from a single independent woman who bought lots of fun stuff to an overworked and underpaid mom can really suck. Not that I’d wish to trade it. I’m just being silly. And tired.

Will I ever not be tired again?

Must-be-dones

It’s been a bustling day for me. I had an interview for an Executive Assistant placement agency. I don’t know why I do things like that sometimes, but with Nick laid off, we are both trying to find more work. I do have a new yoga client on Thursday, which I’m hoping will work out on a permanent basis. And I’ve been tacking up yoga fliers all around my neighborhood.

I picked Genny up from her babysitter’s and learned that she had a fever. I thought she was doing better, but the poor thing was as hot as a baked clam. Well, no, she was only 101.6.

I put her to bed early and she dropped right off to sleep. I haven’t heard a peep from her since. My motherly instincts tell me I should go in there and feel her forehead.

And no sooner do I speak of her, but I hear a little, cough cough.

As coughs go, this one is pretty gosh-darn cute.

My own throat feels a rather tightening sensation. A scratchy, lava-bubbling rawness. Please do not let me get sick right now. There are too many must-be-dones dangling about me.

Goodnight

Children can be so mean. This weekend at the playground two older girls said they didn’t want to play with Genny who kept crawling up to them and tapping them. I suppose when you’re six years old, an about to be one-year-old baby doesn’t interest you much.

I’m reminded of how difficult it is to be a child on the playground—hoping the other kids will like you and that you don’t do anything stupid. I always felt so awkward and shy around other kids. I’m hoping that by introducing Genny early to lots of playmates she’ll be easy-going and make friends easily.

I’ve found it a lot easier to make new friends since Genny was born. She has helped me to feel less shy—I now have a point of reference to chat about.

I feel like I’m just talking in a circle tonight. Nothing seems genuine or important. Maybe it’s just the tired catching up on me. I think I’ll say goodnight now.

Moo Cow

Genevieve fell in love with a blue and purple stuffed cow today. We were in Daffy’s picking out a dress for her for the wedding. As we passed by a bin of stuffed animals, her little hand reached out and grabbed up her new love.

The Cow winds up and twinkles out a lilting lullabye as his head gently rolls side to side. Within moments, his white fluffy snout was snot and drool drenched. Gen hugged him into her cheek as I said, “Do you like Mr. Cow?”

Of course, I don’t know if it really is a male or female cow; I took the liberty of assigning him his gender role. It’s interesting to me that I always call her poops—Mr. Poopsies. Why are poops male? I don’t want her to associate men with excrement. Perhaps I should be fair and once in a while say, “Oh, you made a Ms. Poopie!”

I’m probably aware of all this he/she stuff because I’m reading a memoir, Dress Codes, by Noelle Howey, which is about the author’s transvestite father. I always had trouble reading things that went anything like this, “My father said she was going to...” It felt stilted and strange before reading this book. Now, it makes sense and rolls off my mind no problem.

Which reminds me, there is this one old lady at the playground in the late afternoons who points at Genny and says, “Oh, he’s adorable.” I’ve stopped correcting her. Even though I can’t understand the gender confusion—I really think Genny looks like a girl—I refuse to tack fluffy bows to the side of her head just so she can be called she rather than he. And besides, Genny doesn’t seem to mind. She’ll wave to you no matter what you call her.

Breathe

Genevieve’s stuffy nose caused her to wake up crying around eight o’clock tonight. I did something I haven’t in months; I cradled her against my body, sang Rock-a-Bye-Baby and swayed. After a few minutes of gasping and nose snuffing, she rested her head against my chest and brought her two favorite sucking fingers to her mouth.

Genny’s warm heavy head pressed against my left breast. Her lashes flickered on my arm. I closed my eyes and gently stepped around her small room. I felt like all was fine in the world. I asked myself to remember that peaceful moment of inhaling Genny’s soft hair. There was nowhere else I was needed at that moment and so the anxiety that usually tugs at my heart dropped away.

I close my eyes now and breathe deeply—my own nose snuffing slightly. The anxiety drops away again. So simple, to just remember to breathe.

Guaranteed On Time

Baby boogers will be dripping through my nightmares tonight. Genny woke up with a raging cold and she’s been oozing snot all day long. She soaked through three onesies and at least as many bibs, baby wipes and washcloths.

She only took one short nap this morning. She cried and screamed. And she so badly wanted to eat, but as soon as she would try to chew she had to reopen her mouth to breathe resulting in food just falling back out upon her bib.

Then there was the rubbing of the nose, mouth and eyes that spread goobers from left ear to right.

With all the dealing with sick baby I totally missed my florist appointment. I’m a tad bit afraid of Lou the florist, too. He made a big deal about me not missing the appointment and then I go and flake.

This is so not like me. I’m the type of person who shows up a half-an-hour early for all appointments. This is why I always ended up being first dancer of the day at strip clubs. No wonder bar owners loved me so much. Who’d ever heard of a habitually punctual stripper before?

Steps

First steps. It doesn’t get more momentous than that.

Genevieve was holding onto the back of her plastic pink car. She teetered and balanced as she has for over a month now. Her toes curled under as if they were digging for stability. Then, left leg locked, Genny stepped forward.

Her face flushed with an open smile. Then her right leg scuffed its way forward. She made it halfway across the living room rug with me just assisting her legs from behind.

All the planning in her head. All the watching and studying. I can just imagine her dreams tonight—her pink feet scurrying across the playground floor, crawling up the plastic curly slide and standing upright triumphantly on the top before she plops down and slides down with the wind rushing through her crooked bangs.

I’m reminded of my own first stripper steps. I had assumed I would be able to study the other dancers before I had to perform, but I was the first dancer to arrive and thus the first dancer to strip. I had not prepared at all for my first day except for the buying of costumes and the shaving of legs and bikini area.

I stepped onto the long runway stage at The Hideaway after slipping sweaty dollar bills into the jukebox. I don’t remember my first song choice, but I do remember that it was a fast song, something that I could just move to without stopping. Before the song began I wobbled downstage to the brass pole and reached out with my right hand and clung to its coolness.

The music rumbled from far corners and I felt the eyes from all around me land on my flesh. I swallowed hard and pushed one foot forward in front of the next. I shimmied down to the end of the stage, thrust my hip out and swung my hair over my shoulder. I spun around and began to dance. My legs pushed forward by the sheer strength of my will and the fear of what would happen if I stopped moving.

Once I flopped into bed that first night my legs ached and my knees trembled. My dreams were mixed with banging music, flashing lights and quivering stripper steps.

Feeding Techniques

Genevieve’s appetite for adult food is insatiable. Tonight she stuffed handfuls of brown rice, chunks of chicken and bits of veggies into her overflowing mouth. As long as Nick and I are eating it, she wants it.

Nick asked, “Do you think anyone else feeds their kids this way?”

“This way” includes pre-biting her food, licking off any sauces for her and then dropping the prepared bites onto her highchair tray.

I’m sure there are other parents out there using our methods. And I’m sure there are other moms and dads who would be mortified to know that I suck spices off of my child’s food before giving it to her.

I will even admit to following the 30-second rule regarding toys and crunchy foods that fall onto the floor. And sometimes when her toys fall on the street from her stroller I will pick them up, brush them off and hand them back to her when no one else is looking. I’ve even been known to use tap water instead of filtered water for mixing her breakfast cereal.

In spite of it all though, Genny keeps purring and choo-chooing. She doesn’t seem to mind our parenting techniques yet, although I imagine there will come a point when she’ll rather receive her food unsucked.

Crawling

I’m feeling under the weather today. There’s that fish-swimming-in-my-head feeling and that itchy eyes and ears sensation. My throat tickles and aches. Oh, and my nose is running.

It came on all of a sudden. I woke up this morning and moaned, “Ugh, I’m sick.”

It’s not like there’s any new stress in my life right now. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, Nick lost his job last week. There’s nothing a new family needs more than an unemployed head-of-the-household.

Not that I’m worried or anything. Nick’s always able to get freelance work. I’m thinking it’s time for me to start working more, too—add on some more yoga clients and maybe start a class out here in Jackson Heights. What a perfect time to get sick.

I still managed to take Genevieve to Travers Park. She tried crawling up a slide at the playground. She tried eating a pistachio shell she found stuck in a crack in the padded blacktop. And she tried crawling through a barred fence to get to a dirty balloon.

Now I’m noticing that my body is aching so much that I can barely lift my arms. I think I’ll go crawl into bed myself.

Rites of Passage

I had a revelation about my memoir today. My current draft is written in a pretty straightforward chronological order. I have struggled with feeling like there is something missing, something wrong.

After finishing “Slow Motion” I really see how important it is to have a clear vision of from where and why I am writing my memoir. There needs to be more than just, “I have a great story to tell.” Why is the story important today? What will readers experience from reading it? What did I learn about life beyond what the physical story tells?

I am working in my head now on where my story begins in time. I am narrowing events down. Sifting through the rites of passage I experienced to uncover what other women will relate to. I am deciphering what my deepest message is.

The deepest message of the day is that Genny loves to eat rice. We visited my mom in Connecticut today and ate at a Chinese restaurant. Gen shoveled fistfuls of white and brown rice into her mouth. She made scrunchy faces at Mom and my step dad, Marc.

We also visited my dad and step mom, Pat, who bought Genny her new convertible car seat. In only one short month she will be eligible to ride forward facing. I imagine this directional shift will be a great rite of passage for her. Perhaps installing each successive car seat in the backseat of the minivan will be a rite of passage for Nick.

I’m experiencing my own rite of passage now as Genny is being weaned. Well, that’s obviously another momentous time for her as well. So many changes. So little time.

We’re all growing up.