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.