– or, thank you for not asking me if I’m pregnant 

I went to a barn party last weekend.  Yes, dear friends in California, that is how we entertain ourselves here in New England: cow-tipping, apple picking and barn parties.  Go on, scoff.  It was held in a grand, refurbished barn in Bow that’s cleaner and nicer than some places I’ve rented.  There was a great live band, lots of food and tons of people.  It was a damn good time.

Mostly.

Now, I’d spent a good twenty minutes standing forlornly in my walk-in closet earlier that evening, debating what to wear to this event.  I knew it would be cool outside in October, but it would be hot in the barn with all the dancing bodies.  I decided to go with an empire-waist short-sleeved shirt with a long-sleeved black one underneath, and jeans.  My main concern wasn’t physical comfort, however – it was emotional comfort.  Nothing hanging up promised to alleviate my major hang-up: my post-pregnancy body.  I knew there was no hiding the fact that I do not have six-pack abs.  I have a keg.

A man I’d met at a previous barn gathering – let’s call him Dave, because that’s his name – came up to me and we started chatting.  At some point, he looked at me, and a propos of nothing, asked “201?”  I furrowed my brow, not understanding.  He tried again.  “198?  I bet you’re 198.” My brow unfurrowed fast.  “Um… are you guessing my weight, Dave?”  He grinned.  “I’m right, aren’t I?  Do I know my women, or what?”

Oh, yes, Dave, you know your women.  There’s nothing women like more in a man than his guessing her weight.  And being accurate.  At least guess something in the 140 range!

I mumbled something about needing another Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and hurried off.  I was stunned.  I went outside to find my gorgeous friend Tracy.  She was talking to a young married couple that I did not know.  I walked up and politely waited for a way into the conversation.  The woman, smiling, looked at me and said “Oh!  Are you having a baby, too?” 

I winced – for her.  I’m personally used to being asked that question.  In fact, I have created a long list of answers, depending on the situation.  Some are funny, some are bitchy, some are designed to make the asker feel like a total jerk.  But this sweet girl … well, I just smiled back and said “Yes, I’m having a baby – 22 months ago.”

She was mortified, of course.  I did my best to assure her that she was not the first, nor sadly, would be the last, to ask me The Question.  Tracy tried to leap in and spin it in some way that my flabby spare tire was somehow a protective talisman that my body was keeping to ward off another bout with cancer.  But we all knew the truth.

I spent two and a half mostly blissful years enjoying an experience unique to my previous lifetime: I did not obsess about my weight.  During pregnancy and the 15 months I nursed my baby, I staunchly refused to give a damn.  I ate whatever I wanted, and however much I wanted.  I was creating life!  I was making milk!  I couldn’t be starving myself!  Apparently, not starving myself equaled eating three bowls of Lucky Charms in a sitting, but hey…

But now that I’m back in the workforce, interacting with other adults – some of which are half my age, and half my size – I am back on the self-loathing wagon.  Every day I start again, avoiding carbs and cholesterol, keeping up my water intake, and trying not to give in to my sugar addiction.  But please, folks, I leave you with the sage advice of one of my writing idols, humorist Dave Barry: Unless you actually see a baby coming out of a woman, do not ask her if she’s pregnant.

Especially if that woman is me.

Next time:  Waiting for the Ax to Fall

– or, how ‘staying up all night’ has radically changed definition for me

My baby managed to make it to 18 months relatively illness-free.  She had a couple bouts with a runny nose, but otherwise, perfect health.  You know, except for those pesky head injuries (see “Headbanger’s Bawl”)… But this fall, I signed her up for some enrichment classes to get her out of the house a couple days a week, and to get her some face-time with kids her own age.  And that’s when the mucus really hit the fan.

My toddler, like thousands around the country right now, is in the throes of cold season.  And now with the drug companies voluntarily recalling their children’s cough medicines, parents don’t have a heck of a lot left in our meager arsenals that we can pull out and feel like we’re helping.  We all just have to tough it out.  And that makes for some long nights.

My daughter has had two colds in the last four weeks, and has excreted her weight in mucus (really, is there a funnier word than ‘mucus’?  I think not.).  This doesn’t really seem to bother her too much during the day; her energy level has been great, and her activity hasn’t waned.  She will come to me when she wants her nose wiped, but otherwise, it’s not really slowing her down.  When it bothers her the most is at night, when she can’t breathe out of her nose, and her pacifier is preventing her from breathing out of her mouth.  May I suggest a blowhole?

One night – technically, one morning, as it was around 3 a.m. –  she awoke crying, and I went in to soothe and rock her.  She was burning up.  I checked her temperature; it was elevated, but not to an alarming, seek-medical-help level.  Exhausted myself, I couldn’t face staying in the hard wooden rocking chair and relocated us to the living room, so that I could lay down in the recliner with my legs up.  I placed her hot little body on my chest, and gently rubbed her back as I listened to her labored breathing.  She was soon asleep again, but I stayed awake, on duty.  She soaked through the front of my nightshirt.  As I arranged a light blanket over us anyway, I also tried to envelop her with my love.  I felt so close to her, so maternal, taking care of her and holding her in our cozy little chair-nest while she was sick.  Knowing that my presence was enough to calm her back to sleep was such a wonderful feeling.

I am prepared for those times in the future when I won’t be able to soothe or cure my daughter’s ailments, heartbreaks, and disappointments.  But for now, I am her one-stop shop for soothing banged heads, protection from strangers, and quelling the coughing jag that awakens her in the wee hours.  I am Mommy.  And I’m on duty all night.