The Machine Has Broken Down

Women were born to be machines. Lovely, talented, and life-giving machines, but in essence, machines no less. Or so it seems sometimes when you are pregnant. Your body, no matter how much you try to deny it, is not always your own.

And woe to the mommy machine that breaks down at any point from illness, exhaustion, or being just plain overwhelmed. And woe to those who don’t have a good pit crew for quick turnaround.

I recently had a cataclysmic mechanic failure in the form of severe bronchitis and two ear infections. Thankfully, I am recovering with the aid of antibiotics and heavy-duty cough syrup. But for days I felt separated, had countless asthma attacks, only 80% oxygen levels, and could barely function let alone leave my bed. The doctor cheerily told me my immune system wasn’t really working, as my body strove to protect and grow the baby. And while I am eternally grateful for the miracle of life, I always thought the baby would want mommy to breath.

I am also eternally grateful for my amazing husband who picked up the slack in all things. He even managed to mostly match Evan’s clothes and ensure Evan ate more than just fruit snacks, chicken legs, and French fries (his ultimate dinner choice).

But poor Evan did not understand. Two is a terrible age when everything revolves around you. He simply couldn’t understand where I was, why I couldn’t read to him, or even talk without going into hysterical coughing fits. My only job is to give kisses, play, and always lavish love. He cried, pouted, and told me I was not nice.

And that hurt worse than any illness or a blow to the kidneys. He’ll rebound and forget, but I’ll always remember the look on his face. Now, I’ll just have to make it up to my two men while thanking the little diva sister for staying strong during it all. I’ll also have to remember to check my fluids and get routine maintenance to avoid any other mechanical failures.

Oh Dear, Mr. Dinosaur. We’re Next.

As the wise Christian Slater said in Heathers, “Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, darling.” So it goes with bathroom beauty dreams in a house that’s built in 1947. It’s been a frenzied situation where everything that could go wrong has. I’m trying to smile despite the dust, muck and frustrated tears. But sometimes I just want to run away until it’s done and have some hunky guy massage away the chaos.

First, I must say thank goodness for my in-laws and husband. They’re saving us major moolah by tackling the work themselves and took the bathroom down to the studs. But the home repair gods have a cruel sense of humor. Cement over chicken wire for the walls instead of drywall. The 3-inch thick, soundproof paper over the cement. Oddly shaped and out-of-date plumbing supplies are necessary.  Oh, and the list does go on.

And for our part, Evan and the dogs are trying to stay out of trouble. I try to not let my cranky pants pregnancy hormones rage too much—and, really, that’s the biggest contribution of all. There’s tools threatening to trip me, drywall and various toxic dusts all over for the dogs to lick and Evan to get into, and the only working toilet is on the second floor.

We lived at my in-laws’ pad for the first few days thanks to the lack of crucial running water and power in some parts of the house. Crazy me, I wasn’t willing to go bare butt in the backyard for all the neighbors to see when I peed the 50 times a day.

Now, it’s still trying to finish up (when not at day jobs) the project that feels like the song that never ends. Sing it with me, “It’s the bathroom that never ends. It just goes on and on, my friends. Some people started the plumbing not knowing the terror it truly was…”

Until then I will try to find my calm, remember how beautiful it will be, and thank my in-laws and husband for all their hard work. I just hope I don’t go the way of the dinosaurs until I can at least take my first shower.

P.S. Photos to come when I can unbury the computer room.

Oh, Crap! I’m the Mom.

Like all women, I had a life before becoming a mom. And truthfully, I still don’t really consider “mom” to be my defining title. I’m simply Bethe; I’m lots of things. Even my first two names spell out Be The All Is (Bethe Allis). That’s why sometimes I forget I’m The Momma.

It often comes when big, life-altering decisions need to be made. Then, it’s the “Oh-crap-I’m-supposed-to-have-all-the-answers” moment of terror. Like when Evan was about 10 months and had Croup. Who knows all the answers right away when your child is gasping for air and coughing nonstop in the middle of the night?

Sometimes the realization also hits with small things like not being able to go drinking with the girls because I promised to watch Thomas the Train for the umpteenth time. Spoiler alert: Something upsets the trains, they learn a lesson, and everyone is super happy with a best friend whistle. Toot, toot! Please kill me now.

I remember those days when the biggest drag was my parents making me clean my room or realizing the guy I crushed over all semester really was gay. Yes, that happened. Just ask my two ex-boyfriends who have been partners for 12 years. (Let’s just say I wasn’t looking for love in all the right places.)

When did I become the one who has to cook, clean and do laundry? The one whose shirts are covered in snot and late nights are now 10 p.m. Even before I got pregnant, my tolerance was diminished from inactivity and about two or three drinks made me hugy and lovey.

Now, what am I going to do when the second one comes? That’s even more answers I’m supposed to have. It’s a frightening and amazing concept at the same time. I love being a mom. My son is the best thing I ever did and I know the second child will be just as wonderful. But I still have those moments when I want to curl up with my mommy and be that naïve little kid again.

Yay! Hit Me, Momma!

I’m the Dancing Queen. I love music, constantly sing and (obviously) love to dance. Evan, thank God, has picked up my rhythm and often joins in on the fun. I didn’t realize how much I danced until we were in the grocery store, and people were staring and laughing. I assume it was because they were so impressed with my joie de vivre.

Evan had joined me and I laughed back because we did look funny. My Pat Benatar impression was kicking and he was rocking the box of cous cous like a maraca. He doesn’t know all the words yet to Hit Me with Your Best Shot, but screamed “Yay! Hit me, Momma!” Okay maybe that didn’t win me mother of the year award.

We often break out into interpretative dances for anything from Enya to house music. It’s about flowing with the music and often ends with us beet red and howling in laughter. I also will often jam in the car after I drop him off. Music blaring, I tend to shake the whole car in my animation.

The Evan and Momma Dance Team take a break to play in the sun.

Evan tells me I’m funny, to do “turn around” and will often direct my musical choices. If he doesn’t like a song he often says, “No, Mamma. Not right; sing dis one (insert song name). That soooooo much better.”   

One of his favorites is You Are (the Sun) by the fabulous Lionel Ritchie. (That’s right, I am a huge Lionel Richie fan and darn proud of it.)

The others are Monkey by Counting Crows and Oom Pah Pah from Oliver. But he still can sing the ABCs and knows all the words to Itsy Bitsy Spider. 

Call me a freak or call me a show off. At least I will never be boring and neither will be my son if I have my way about it.

The Pillow Did Me In

I’m 19 weeks pregnant. I can live with the whole your body is not really your own, but that damn pillow! It’s got some awkward bulk on me. I’m not huge by any means or even some wilting flower. I’m 5’ 4” and the pillow goes from my chin to the middle of my shin.

It started when I couldn’t get comfortable. I upgraded my king size support pillow to a mamma-jamma body pillow. And while this pillow is comfy when you’re lying down, I can’t turn over in bed without feeling like the turtle on its back. I grunt, struggle, and curse my way through the process. It weighs me down and taunts me as it gets caught in the sheets. My wise husband knows not to laugh as I swear up and down it’s the pillow's fault. I wake him up and myself in the process.

I dig in deep and fight the epic pillow battle. But in the end the damn pillow does me in. Sure, I could downsize, but then all the pillows in the house would know I surrendered. They’d mock me with their cushy goodness and I’m so much stronger than that. Plus, my 11-year old couch has been eyeing me sideways, and it already threatens to engulf me every time I sit down.

So until then, I’ll wage the pillow wars every night until I finally get stuck in a tangled mass of sheets, pillow and my own ire. I just wonder if David will stop pretending not to laugh and fetch the Jaws of Life.

Finding the funny in life isn’t hard when you are raising a little comedian. Bias aside, my 2-year old says the most outlandish, insightful things. While they may be inadvertently at my expense sometimes, I’ve learned to laugh first and cry later.

For example, he tells me I’m a penguin. It’s pretty perceptive when you think about the fact that my preggy belly is now making me waddle to compensate when my feet are the size of sausages at the end of the day.

But then I feel much better when he tells my husband just how BIG he is and I am very small in the tiniest mouse voice. Again this makes sense, though. David swings him through the air with the greatest of ease as peals of laughter erupt. Lately, I’m much more cautious with Evan, and to him, that makes me less of a force of nature. I’ll take the tiny comments where I can since I feel ever-expanding in my second pregnancy.

Then there is how his voices for Tub Time Friends Percy, Thomas, and Salty all have a way of sounding similar, but slyly reinforce that the best thing in life are Foo Naks (or fruit snacks, if you will). Granted, I haven’t figured out how molded plastic will ingest the requested fruit snacks, but my sly boy assures me they must have them to take baths so Evan can be super clean.

Whatever the case may be, Evan reminds me daily that life is only as serious as you take it. And for that, it’s my quest to focus on the funny from here on out.