Corn Syrup = Poison

I've noticed that in this new age and time, there seems to be a competition (yes another one) brewing among mothers. It's the my family is more nutritionally wholesome than your family war. I've noticed this most among my playgroup.

On one side you have the moms who do not care what their child is eating, as long as it's not paint chips and as long as they are, in fact, eating. At the other end of the spectrum are the moms who won't let a drop of non-organic milk touch their child's lips. No chicken nuggets for these kids. And soda? Well, that's just unheard of. If it has the word hydrogenated or high fructose in it, it's considered tainted.

Well I agree with the latter -- to a certain extent. But at what point do we let other mothers' over protectiveness spill over into our own lives and in turn, bring on the guilt? There was a time that I felt guilty for letting my son have any baby food that wasn't organic. That canned organic food was good enough for me. Then I met a mom who wouldn't let her daughter have anything that wasn't non organic AND homemade. BRING ON THE GUILT! I must be the laziest mom ever, because I'm not at home with my blender making purees. Not true. I got over that guilt trip pretty quickly. In fact, I am too lazy to make my son's baby food...but I really don't care that I am.

So yesterday, I was faced with another bit of guilt. I was discussing corn syrup with another mom at the mall during our play date. We were on our way to eat lunch. The conversation started out to be harmless enough. We were discussing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Before we could even get into the elevator to head up to the food court for lunch, I was contemplating how to hide the soda I'd brought to drink with my lunch that day.

Knowing full well that the woman I was speaking with was a wholesome living guru, I asked what sort of PB she used. She informed me she used ONLY organic and ONLY natural. There would be NO hydrogenated oils entering her children's bodies. Then she returned the question with the same. I use store brand "less sugar, less sodium"....for my son anyway. I, personally, like the taste of all the hydrogenated sugared up peanut crap. But don't I at least get an E for effort since I do buy the reduced crap version for my son? In my defense, I explained that my husband doesn't let me buy the natural because it's separated and it grosses him out.

"There's a brand that makes no-stir natural PB, ya know," she informed me.

Then the subject of jelly.

"I only buy the natural jelly that is sweetened with fruit juices. No sugar," she said.

Well don't you get the Whole Foods shopper of the year award? Step off the Smucker's, biotch! I grew up eating it and I'm not morbidly obese.

So, showing that I was just as interested in protecting my son from the harms of hydrogenated, I pulled the corn syrup card.

"You know, I bought Sara Lee bread the other day because it was on sale. I'm soooo ticked! I got home with it and found out like the fifth ingredient is corn syrup!"

She just gave this "you're surprised why..." look and nodded vigorously as she explained to me that nearly all bread was like this. That's why she buys Nature's Own brand. I'm not really that upset about the corn syrup, but for the sake of saving face I sure was. My attempt to save face was quickly being lost...she went into a lecture about corn syrup in wheat bread. I felt very dumb. How could I be so unknowing in this area? I must be less of a mom.

In a quick rebuttal, I shot back with what brand of bread I like to buy (but don't generally because it's expensive). I touted that it comes in whole grain varieties with added vitamins.

"You know, when they enrich the bread, they strip it of all of it's nutrients first and then just add the others back in...You're better off just getting the bread with corn syrup."

I couldn't win with this woman. No one can. Can any of us really win with any of us? I don't think so. We all have a point to get across, and of course all of us are correct. We're moms, and we don't want our style to be threatened.

Then we proceeded to get in the elevator and go up to the food court. I unpacked my sack lunch and proudly plunked my can of Coke down beside my sugared up, fully hydrogenated PB&J.

I drank my Coke like it was a badge of honor to less than perfect moms everywhere.

Vacation, what?

As I've said -- I give myself to others. One thing I've given myself to lately is a commitment to help our church out with Vacation Bible School.

When asked if I'd help, I said "SURE!!!" The woman who asked me said "Great! You'll be leading the three and four year olds!" My enthusiasm quickly turned to dread. Three and four year olds? Could I really handle these munchkins? I guess we were about to find out.

The evening started out great! A Church night dinner kicked things off. Then we broke up into groups. I was introduced to the lady who would be co-leading this great group of kiddos with me. Just before we had broken up, a girl came up to me and asked if I would be the leader of this said age group. When I told her yes, she proceeded to tell me that her son has a speach delay and if he wasn't paying attention to me it wasn't because he was misbehaving...it was because he doesn't talk. Okay. That was all I could say...okay. She seemed totally casual about it. But I know full well that in this age group, a delay like this could be very hindering. So I just smiled. Once again, my big mommy smile. I nodded...a lot. I went on about my business.

Then I met the child. When we walked our groups to their first class in a single file line, a woman was walking with him holding his hand. Then she passed his hand to me and said a quick "maybe he won't notice" and quickly darted away. He DID notice. He's not STUPID! He's just got a delay. He quickly pulled his hand away from mine and ran after the lady. I made her come back and lead him to his next class. In the class, I got acquainted with him. He became quite attached to me. I found out he can talk. He told me he got a hair cut that day and that his daddy was at work. He also likes to hula hoop and color. An hour and a half into the 2 hour session of VBS, another teacher comes to the room we were in to let us know that this boy does not ask to go to the potty. You have to ask him. It was also urgent he be taken, because apparently he had on underpants and not a pull up. So we took him. He took care of his business like a champ. 10 minutes later, when we were back in the classroom, he said to me "Have to pee pee. Have to pee pee." We went. He did more business. It really irks me that the mom informed me he doesn't talk at all -- he does. It also irked me that I was informed he doesn't ask to potty...and he does.

He does communicate. Is she not listening? Does she doubt his abilities that he does posses?

I wonder if his mom really thinks he's not capable of expressing his feelings. It makes me sad. He's such a sweet little boy.

I wonder if parents do that to their children in general. Or is it that we either under estimate or over estimate our children's abilities. I hope I'm a happy medium.

Saints.

Yesterday in Sunday school, we began a lesson on saints. It's actually a book about saints that we're exploring as a class.

One half of the couple teaching summed together what he gathered as the definition of "saint" to be. He said that to him, a saint is someone that gives their self to the service of others.

I was astonished at this. I'd never really thought about it that way. Actually -- being that I'm not a Catholic -- I never give much thought to saints at all. But, when he spoke that definition, it dawned on me; by [his] definition, [most] mothers are saints. I use his and most because he isn't Miriam Webster and not all mothers give their self to the service of anyone other than their own self. But I tend to think that I am guilty of this habit. I give myself to the service of others. It's certainly true in the instance of my son. I do not want to get up at 7:30am and I do not want to take him immediately to his high chair, plunk him down, and go about fixing him breakfast. But I do it anyway. I do it because I do not want him to go hungry. I do it because I love him. I would rather, however, lay in bed until I felt compelled enough to get up...then fix a pot of coffee and drink it -- leisurely -- while I watched whatever morning news show I felt like.

This sainthood is also present in the instance of my relationship with my husband (although he may see otherwise). I give myself to him daily. And no, not THAT way. Although I'm quite sure he'd like it if it were that way. I mean, I cook dinner for him. No matter how tired I am, I muster up the energy to be excited when he gets home. I pull together all the strength I have left so that I can stay up as late as he likes just so I can be with him. I give my whole day to him in a way; waiting for 6:30pm to come as soon as he walks out that door in the morning. I even find it in myself to make him a smoothie so he can have liquid breakfast on his way to the office. He hinted at me making him a milk shake last night, and when I hesitated, he wondered why. I told him I just didn't feel like messing with the blender because I was going to have to do it all over again in the morning for his smoothie, and that was enough work, thank you. He seemed surprised. He immediately asked me if I didn't like making his smoothies. No, I do not like to make them. But I do like to make them for him. I like doing things for him.

So, in reality I am no saint. But for a moment, I was defined as one. All of us moms were.

It was grand. Very novel idea.

Let's talk about Sex.

Sexuality. Sexy. Sex.

Main Entry: sex·u·al·i·ty
Pronunciation: "sek-sh&-'wa-l&-tE
Function: noun
: the quality or state of being sexual : a : the condition of having sex b : sexual activity c : expression of sexual receptivity or interest especially when excessive.

expression of sexual receptivity or interest especially when excessive.

I really like that line. Excessive.

I am beginning to wonder if you trade in your sexuality card to the nurse at the hospital when she hands you the baby. It's like this:

Nurse: It's a boy!
New Mom: Alright, here's my sexuality. Take real good care of it.

I mean, really. I used to have that excessiveness that they are talking about. I had that. I'd get all dolled up to go to a concert. I'd get all dolled up for someone. In the end, I got all dolled up for my husband...or rather, my soon-to-be-husband (then). We would go at it like rabbits. In between classes, in between meals, in between breaths; in between the sheets. Multiple times in a day most of the time. Multiple times.

And then, I got pregnant.

Oddly enough, I didn't get pregnant during our multiple phase. I got pregnant when we were supposed to be abstaining from sex for the 90 days leading up to our wedding. The one day we did it made all the difference in the world. What it made was a child. A pooping, crying, vomiting, cutie pie. And there you have it, the exchange with the nurse...my sexuality for my child.

Suddenly, it doesn't feel sexy down there anymore. Breasts are not for fondling, they're for feeding. They ache for Christ's sake. And my vagina? Well, dear husband, forget about it because I just had a writhing 7 pound human emerge from down below.

7 pound human out; no penis in. No safe passage here. There were stitches for cryin' out loud!

That was over a year ago now. Over.

So how do I get this back? How did I get this back? I'm still not sure I have. It goes in spurts, really. I get in the mood long enough to have it pass right before we get down to business. I'm in the mood off and on all day, honey. You're just at work. On the weekends? Forget about it. Those are my off days too! It's sad when feeling sexy becomes work. At the end of the day, the thought of my pillow turns me on more than the thought of hot sex does. I mean, honestly -- hot sex is work.

I so wish I could get those days back. The "dolled up" days. Tight pants. Black belt. Sexy shoes. Tight little shirt. Hair just right...eyeliner thick. My eyelashes batting. Even getting dressed in all this was a turn on. I knew I was hot. Now I just know I'm Mom. And Mom goes a little more like this: Pants that are 3 sizes too big...No belt. Old comfy shoes to chase the toddler in. Shirt that doesn't show too much of my 2 cup sizes bigger cleavage. Hair however...eyeliner - none. Sexy, right? If I could find a way to work my diaper bag like I used to work my fishnets, I'd be golden. I'd really give anything to be that girl again.

By the definition, I do not have any sexuality at all. I suppose that's not true. I am receptive.

I want to go from dirty diapers to dirty talkin'. Take me there. Isn't it in the contract?

Attack of the UberMom

Yesterday was pot luck day for our play group. A mom opened up her abode for us to temporarily come in, take over, mess up the place, and then leave. Generally these are great fun, but this one was just flat out uncomfortable.

First off, I'd like to say, that having "healthy living" as the theme of the pot luck luncheon is insane. It's hard enough to think of a kid friendly recipe that everyone else will enjoy, let alone think of a super healthy one that will get the kids fed and keep the moms happy.

I was very disappointed...to say the least.

Upon arrival I had to wrangle my 13 month old into the house along with my platter of fruit salad, side of yogurt dipping sauce, my diaper bag, my itsy-bitsy Marilyn Monroe purse that holds all of two cards (my debit and my ID), and a bubble gun that my son thinks he HAS TO HAVE. I get all of that into the house to be greeted by the hostess who does not remember my name. I'M AN ORGANIZER FOR FUCKS SAKE! If you'd come to a play date every once in a while, you'd definitely know my name. I set my son down to have him be scooped up by another mom who starts playing with him, all the while his beloved bubble gun is getting snatched away by the hostess' bratty little boy. I could do nothing because I still had a diaper bag draped across my torso and a very breakable platter of fruit salad in my hands.

By this time, the bubble gun was long gone...my son sitting there all bleary eyed while the other mom who was holding him was thinking he was genuinely entertained by her antics.

I set the fruit salad down, got my diaper bag organized...and here comes the hostess.

"Hi," she says in her pot smoker tone of voice. "You're.....What's your name?" I smiled and told her. Anyway, this goes on over and over until finally all of the moms have arrived. The hostess doesn't know anyone. No one knows the hostess. It was all very blind play date-ish.

The pot luck began at 10am, and with me being the third to arrive at around 10:20am, it was about 10:45am by the time everyone was there and accounted for. The children ran around and played (mostly with my son's bubble gun) and then the uber mom who had decided earlier that she was so great at entertaining my son, decided it was story time. You can not, after all, eat lunch at 10:45am.

So she sat down with some books in front of all the children -- who could care less what book was being read -- and proceeded to read a book from the line "Virtue Valley" in her Stepford-like sing-song voice. I wanted to vomit. As if all the unfamiliarity hadn't been uncomfortable enough, my heart skipped a few beats about a page into the story when I heard the word BIBLE.

Separation of Church and play group ought to be a new amendment to the Constitution.

I felt as though the air in the room had turned to something thick and noxious as I worried the atheist mom next to me may have just lost her jaw as it dropped to the floor. I decided to let my son scurry off so I'd have to chase him. I had to leave that situation.

Finally we got on to the eating. I may be biased, but I'm pretty sure my dish was the best. Someone attempted a ratatouille...complete with noodles. It tasted like nursing home food. "Make sure you put the ratatouille WITH the noodles," she touted proudly. (And she wonder why her son won't eat vegetables) There were some tostadas that had once been very tasty (and crispy) but had been reduced to soggy tortilla chips with stale cheese on top. Something with tuna was on the table, but I refused to try it. Someone had thought it would be cutsie to make kid-friendly sushi. It sounds much more exciting than it actually was. It was really just bread with peanut butter and apple bits rolled up...quite the let down from what I envisioned when I'd read her RSVP. There was a pot of black beans. The hostess had made "ham puffs" -- whatever those things are. Someone had brought a bag of Kraft cubed cheese (my son's favorite dish there). And then there was mine -- a small culinary feat featuring what I'd had in my kitchen that morning.

"Did you try the yogurt sauce," I asked the tostada mom.

"Do I HAVE to," she asked while looking a bit annoyed with me.

I don't suppose you have to try it. It would be nice. It GOES together. I reminded myself of the ratatouille mom....("THEY GO TOGETHER.....")

When the eating was done (and I was still hungry), the hostess wanted everyone to pick the favorite dish for a prize. No one did. They all sucked...except for mine of course. No prize was handed out.

Meanwhile, the hostess' male spawn brat was still running around with MY son's bubble gun. I pulled a chewie out of his diaper bag to replace the long lost bubble gun only to have the hostess' female spawn brat take that away from him.

My poor baby. No bubble gun. No chewie.

I got my son and got out of that healthy living hell hole...and all of my fruit salad was gone. Everyone else had to pack up the rest of their uneaten food and take it home.

Next time I ask you to try the yogurt sauce -- trust me.

Simple.

I want the simple life. And NO I do not mean Paris Hilton's Simple Life.

Would it be weird to want to live somewhere that I didn't have to worry about the hustle of city life? I live in a suburb -- a really old suburb. But it's close enough to the city that I still feel pulled in every direction to consume. I loathe consumerism. My husband's corporate job makes him feel compelled to have what his coworkers have. We had a "tiny" conversation about it the other day. It went a little like this:

"I don't want you to get mad, but I think you should go back to work."

"I know."

"My coworkers make almost half as much as me and they have so much more. They don't seem like they have to struggle."

"Your coworkers do not have houses or children and most of them are single."

Shouldn't that have been enough said? Well now I feel amazingly like I do nothing to contribute. I feel like I'm making my husband suffer because I stay at home. I stay at home to be with our son. Yes, I get bored. Yes, I complain. But I really do not want to go back to work. I'd be away from my little cutie entirely too much. Who am I to have a child and then leave him under someone else's care? The thought of going back to work is very scary. It's also a little thrilling. Part of me would like it...for an hour. I would love to have that extra $600 a month for bills. But it's only $600. Would it be worth it? I think not.

So the thought of a simple life is much better. Why do we have to have our mortgage? Why do we live in a city that makes us feel as though we have to have everything that everyone else has? But could I be happy in the country with mediocrity? Would I really be happy as a non-consumer?

I really don't think so. I would be bored and bitter.

There really must be a happy medium. There really must be a simple suburbia.

Something like Laura Ingles meets Real Moms of the O.C.

"Sheila"

We will call her "Sheila."

I was out and about at Target the other day, wasting time before an afternoon play date at the park. I happened to see, in passing, a woman who looked familiar. I thought it was Sheila. It was Sheila. I initially noticed her in the parking lot as I was walking into the store and she was driving around in her huge white gas-guzzling SUV. I thought she was leaving. She was just finding a parking spot.

Sheila is thin. Very thin. She is blond. Her eyes are sort of sunken in, and she honestly looks like she hasn't had sleep in days. But maybe she just hasn't eaten in days. I first met her when I joined my very first playgroup. She has two children -- one boy, one girl. My first impression of her was her weight: very thin, very blond; very I've-been-on-heroine-for-a-month-straight. She seemed like a bitch. An "I'm better than you are" sort of Mom.

I met her during my first play date which was held at a local mall. When I arrived at the mall that day, I was graciously greeted by Jessica, and dubiously snubbed by Sheila...or so I thought. Jessica was great. She has a son that is about my son's age. We had a lot in common...we both disliked Sheila. Keep in mind, this is my first time to actually meet Sheila. Over time -- about a whole month -- Jessica told me that she seemed to think she had the wrong impression of Sheila. She had come to think she was quite wrong, indeed; Sheila was friendly. I wouldn't know. I never saw her again. I was kicked out of my new found play group about a month after joining. There were two play dates I couldn't attend for two very legitimate reasons, and so I got an email saying I was being removed from the member list due to inactivity. Give me a break! Really, my absence had spanned a total of a week and a half. So my five month old and I retreated to our isolation.

Jessica quit emailing me. I never saw Sheila again. Until about a month or two ago...I saw her at a local jump house play place. She was there, her two hyper active children in-tow. I saw her; avoided her. I hoped she wouldn't remember me. It had, after all, been a good 6 months since I was kicked out of the other playgroup. Since then, I'd joined a new one, and that's what brought me to the bounce houses. I saw Sheila, and in horror, frantically looked for the other uber-mommies that had decided I was not devoted enough to be part of their little play date clique. I failed at the avoiding, and before I could duck away, she said hi to me. She even called me by name. I faked a smile and said hello. Then I asked where the other moms were. She was very quick to inform me that she and Jessica had left the other uber-mom clique and started their own. That was what brought them there. We had a nice little chat actually. Jessica was right. We were wrong about Sheila. Sheila is quite nice, indeed.

Our meeting that day was short. I told her to tell Jessica hi for me.

Now fast forward to a few days ago at Target. I saw her again. In passing, I noticed her in the children's clothing department and said "HELLO" with my big Mommy grin. We struck up QUITE the conversation while her children bounced around my cart entertaining my 13 month old.

Sheila looked the same. She still looked as though she hadn't had sleep or food in quite a while. But really, maybe she was just in need of some good concealer. I really should stop judging. After all, maybe people think the same about me. I'm not that thin though...unfortunately. Anyway, Sheila informed me of some very scary news about the other playgroup. She asked if I remembered the organizer. I did -- after all, she was the one who ended my beloved membership with the play date clique. Sheila then went on to inform me that apparently the husband of this woman was a registered sex offender. The other group had frequently held play dates at this woman's home. Sheila said this man was all over the news. What worse? The organizer's best friend (also a member of the group), knew about this man's status...and told no one. Sheila says this woman claims it was a "set up." Don't they all claim that?

Sheila and I really had quite the little gossip session. I'm so glad God allowed me to be removed from that group. Can you imagine if I'd unknowingly gone to that house? What if I'd put my son in harm's way? My mind is still swirling with the awful possibilities.

Sheila really is quite nice, and I've learned something: Mommy groups are a lot like high school. They're full of cliques and stereotypes. I am now an organizer of yet another playgroup. I invited Sheila's group to join in on a Father's Day party we are holding. Sheila invited me to join her group.

I feel very cool.