Men equate the "official" arrival of parenthood with trading in their small, cute, and sporty ride, which most of their friends envy and beg to go cruising in, for a practical and spacious Mom-mobile, aka the Mini-Van, which causes most of their friends to disguise themselves before stepping in for a ride.
Not woman. We'd be OK with a Mini-Van. For us, it's trading in our cute designer handbags for what our co-workers refer to as "the mom bag." With tears in my eyes, I tucked Kate, Andi, and Coach into a safe spot in my closet and broke down and bought A Vera Bradley cross-body cargo sling. This bag is the Mother of all bags. It's has enough room and pockets to pack up all my child paraphernalia, in fact I think I could pack a small child in it too.
I decided to take make bag out for a test drive. I wore it to my son's school fair. I was instantly plagued by Moms green with envy. They were in awe over all the pockets and "the colors," one mom excitedly declared "it goes with everything!" I imagined what followed was similar to to the Man's version of testing the waters with his new ride. You know, when a Dad pulls up with the top of the line mini-van and shows off all the bells and whistles, to other curious Dads who are contemplating taking the plunge, in hopes to gain their approval.
The question and answer session continued for a 20 minutes. "Have you tried to wash it yet?" "What other colors does it come in?" "Can you strap it to your stroller?" "Is it heavy?" "Can I try it on?"
So, yes it is official. I am now the proud owner of a "mom bag." And like most everything else that I've come to acquire through motherhood, I love it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Is Diarrhea of the Mouth Contagious?
My husband seems to think that I have this awful aliment. Things just spew out of my mouth uncontrollably. For example, when I told his mother, over a nice dinner, that her kitchen wall paper was totally out dated. He refers to these thoughtless spells of mine as "diarrhea of the mouth."
If this is in fact what I suffer from, than I think my children have come down with the same affliction. My boys tend to share the most humiliating things at the most inopportune times. Like the time we were shopping at the Gap and my Tank announced to the kind woman behind the counter, "My mommy poopies in the potty." Or the time that my little General's pre-school teacher noted how much Scotty had grown over vacation, and he responded with, "yeah, I'm getting bigger so I can drink beer like my Dad."
Yes, I am beginning to believe that this particular sickness really does exist. Our most recent presentation of the indisposition happened at our neighborhood block party. Again it was the General who was unable to control himself, while he looked at our very kind yet very bald neighbor, he and asked, "Where did all of your hair on your head go? Is it hiding on your back?" I quickly apologized and told my neighbor, who was thankfully humored by the remark, that my children and I suffer from what my husband refers to as "diarrhea of the mouth." He chuckled and assured me that it wasn't just us, his wife and children make him endure the same condition.
If this is in fact what I suffer from, than I think my children have come down with the same affliction. My boys tend to share the most humiliating things at the most inopportune times. Like the time we were shopping at the Gap and my Tank announced to the kind woman behind the counter, "My mommy poopies in the potty." Or the time that my little General's pre-school teacher noted how much Scotty had grown over vacation, and he responded with, "yeah, I'm getting bigger so I can drink beer like my Dad."
Yes, I am beginning to believe that this particular sickness really does exist. Our most recent presentation of the indisposition happened at our neighborhood block party. Again it was the General who was unable to control himself, while he looked at our very kind yet very bald neighbor, he and asked, "Where did all of your hair on your head go? Is it hiding on your back?" I quickly apologized and told my neighbor, who was thankfully humored by the remark, that my children and I suffer from what my husband refers to as "diarrhea of the mouth." He chuckled and assured me that it wasn't just us, his wife and children make him endure the same condition.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Diary Continues
March 14, 2007
Since it’s still too chilly to run outside and when I run inside on the treadmill there are always three tots mingling around my every step, I haven’t gotten much running in over the last month. I’ve tried several times to rise early to sneak in a run before one of the boys finds me. Except I think my husband has installed a secret sensor on the basement door so when it opens it sounds an alarm in my kids’ room, because without fail, before I am even done lacing my shoes, one of them is standing at the top of the stairs demanding breakfast.
My sister in law has now taken to sending me “inspirational” emails to let me know how far she’s been running. She has also set the date of our 5k run, April 29, 2007. She assured me that it will be a lovely run along a river with a “few rolling hills.” Sounds like something I should definitely be looking forward to.
Distance : 1.4 miles
Since it’s still too chilly to run outside and when I run inside on the treadmill there are always three tots mingling around my every step, I haven’t gotten much running in over the last month. I’ve tried several times to rise early to sneak in a run before one of the boys finds me. Except I think my husband has installed a secret sensor on the basement door so when it opens it sounds an alarm in my kids’ room, because without fail, before I am even done lacing my shoes, one of them is standing at the top of the stairs demanding breakfast.
My sister in law has now taken to sending me “inspirational” emails to let me know how far she’s been running. She has also set the date of our 5k run, April 29, 2007. She assured me that it will be a lovely run along a river with a “few rolling hills.” Sounds like something I should definitely be looking forward to.
Distance : 1.4 miles
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Diary of a Wanna Be Runner
"The trouble with jogging is that by the time you realize you are not in shape for it, it is too far to walk back." - Author unknown.
January 1, 2007
I must have drunk too much wine last night. My husband greeted me this morning with a chipper grin on his face and a pair of running shoes in his hands. I couldn’t imagine why he’d have running shoes. He despises running, rates it up there with getting teeth pulled with no Novocain.
Rubbing my eyes, I said to my sweetie, “Wow, I’m impressed. Decide to get in shape for the New Year. Good for you!”
Laughingly my husband handed me the running shoes. I looked at them, size 7.5 staring at me. “Cutie, I don’t think you’ll get very far wearing my sneakers.”
My husband’s charming grin quickly faded into a giddy smirk as he informed me that I had committed to run a 5k with my sister in law. “What?” I said bewildered, “You know I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.“ It’s true. I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions, mostly because I never seem to follow through with them. I’m still trying to shed the 10 lbs that I vowed to loose from the last resolution I made, in 1998.
But I was determined to wipe the snide look off his face; I sat up and said, “5k, no problem. I ran cross country in high school. I can totally run a 5k.”
The expression on my husband’s face quickly washed away. But instead of batting a look of unconditional support or motivation at me, he had the appearance of a school age boy heckling at other kids on the playground. He was laughing so hard that he had tears welling up in his eyes. Through his fit of laughter I was barely able to make out him saying, “Yea, that was 10 years ago! Happy trotting!” And he walked out of the room leaving behind the echoes of his amusement.
I laced up my running shoes and headed out the door settled on the fact that not only did I make an asinine resolution, but now I had something to prove. I thought I’d start out nice and easy and jog a leisurely 1.5 miles. I didn’t want to push it too much my first day.
As I rounded the first bend on my road, the frigid air made it feel like someone had lit a match in my lungs. This wasn’t a positive sign. And I was convinced that my dear supportive husband tampered with my sneakers and lined them with lead. I felt like I had bricks tied to my ankles. My optimism was quickly vaporized. There’s always tomorrow.
Distance: ¼ mile.
February 8, 2007
Ok, so tomorrow came later rather than sooner. I haven’t set out on an official run since my first outing. I needed sufficient time to investigate my sneakers. Unfortunately there were no signs that they were tampered with. That and it took nearly two weeks for my calves to recover from my last excruciating run. But I’ve been chasing after two toddlers and an infant, which should definitely count as a workout.
Again, I didn’t want to over do it, so I set a more realistic goal this time. I thought a mile should suffice just fine. I even had my I Pod set with a play list that was sure to keep me moving. Oh, and this time I thought I’d stick inside the comfort of my warm home. After all it’s winter in New England.
I set up movie for the boys to watch while I hit the treadmill. I can see two heads in font of me fixed on the screen before them. “This should definitely buy me enough time to run a mile,” I thought.
Thirty-three seconds into my run and it started, “Mom, can you fix Darth Vader’s mask? It keeps coming off.”
Distance: 1 mile (with three pit stops to fix Darth Vader’s mask)
January 1, 2007
I must have drunk too much wine last night. My husband greeted me this morning with a chipper grin on his face and a pair of running shoes in his hands. I couldn’t imagine why he’d have running shoes. He despises running, rates it up there with getting teeth pulled with no Novocain.
Rubbing my eyes, I said to my sweetie, “Wow, I’m impressed. Decide to get in shape for the New Year. Good for you!”
Laughingly my husband handed me the running shoes. I looked at them, size 7.5 staring at me. “Cutie, I don’t think you’ll get very far wearing my sneakers.”
My husband’s charming grin quickly faded into a giddy smirk as he informed me that I had committed to run a 5k with my sister in law. “What?” I said bewildered, “You know I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.“ It’s true. I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions, mostly because I never seem to follow through with them. I’m still trying to shed the 10 lbs that I vowed to loose from the last resolution I made, in 1998.
But I was determined to wipe the snide look off his face; I sat up and said, “5k, no problem. I ran cross country in high school. I can totally run a 5k.”
The expression on my husband’s face quickly washed away. But instead of batting a look of unconditional support or motivation at me, he had the appearance of a school age boy heckling at other kids on the playground. He was laughing so hard that he had tears welling up in his eyes. Through his fit of laughter I was barely able to make out him saying, “Yea, that was 10 years ago! Happy trotting!” And he walked out of the room leaving behind the echoes of his amusement.
I laced up my running shoes and headed out the door settled on the fact that not only did I make an asinine resolution, but now I had something to prove. I thought I’d start out nice and easy and jog a leisurely 1.5 miles. I didn’t want to push it too much my first day.
As I rounded the first bend on my road, the frigid air made it feel like someone had lit a match in my lungs. This wasn’t a positive sign. And I was convinced that my dear supportive husband tampered with my sneakers and lined them with lead. I felt like I had bricks tied to my ankles. My optimism was quickly vaporized. There’s always tomorrow.
Distance: ¼ mile.
February 8, 2007
Ok, so tomorrow came later rather than sooner. I haven’t set out on an official run since my first outing. I needed sufficient time to investigate my sneakers. Unfortunately there were no signs that they were tampered with. That and it took nearly two weeks for my calves to recover from my last excruciating run. But I’ve been chasing after two toddlers and an infant, which should definitely count as a workout.
Again, I didn’t want to over do it, so I set a more realistic goal this time. I thought a mile should suffice just fine. I even had my I Pod set with a play list that was sure to keep me moving. Oh, and this time I thought I’d stick inside the comfort of my warm home. After all it’s winter in New England.
I set up movie for the boys to watch while I hit the treadmill. I can see two heads in font of me fixed on the screen before them. “This should definitely buy me enough time to run a mile,” I thought.
Thirty-three seconds into my run and it started, “Mom, can you fix Darth Vader’s mask? It keeps coming off.”
Distance: 1 mile (with three pit stops to fix Darth Vader’s mask)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Name Game
For months , before the arrival of my first son, my husband and I spent hours on end trying to contrive the perfect name for our first born. We wanted something meaningful and special. My husband turned down my suggestion of Jameson, saying that it sounded like I picked it off the shelf of a liquor store. And I quickly vetoed his suggestion of John Deere Putnam. "Are you kidding?" I replied, "I can hear the kids on the playground, "Hey John Deere want to come mow my lawn?"
After much deliberation and great thought we decided on Scott Michael Putnam Jr., after my husband of course. We thought our eldest son would be proud to share his Daddy's name. Yet, he insists that everyone call him Peter.
Everywhere we go he proudly boasts his name is "Peter the Knight!" Last week I dropped my son off for his first swimming lesson at the local YMCA. When I returned to pick him up, the instructor walked my son over to me with a perplexed look on her face and asked, "is this your son?"
"Oh, boy. What did he do now?," was my first thought. "Yes," I replied.
"What is his name?"
"Scott," I said.
"And his last name?" she asked.
"Putnam," I knew where this was heading.
The swimming coach continues, patting my son on the head, "He told us his name was Peter the Knight. So I thought he meant Peter Knight. But I didn't have a Peter Knight on my roster. I thought we had the wrong kid in the class."
With an embarrassed giggle, I said I was sorry and explained that my son has decided to call himself "Peter the Knight" after a character in the movie Narnia.
I'm sure that there are a lot of little boys that prefer to be called by names that they think are way cooler than their own. Like Spiderman, Superman, or Batman, but at least if they tell someone that their name is Superman, one can infer that is not his real name. Although if my husband was ready to name our son after a tractor than I am sure that there are some boys out there with some Super names.
After much deliberation and great thought we decided on Scott Michael Putnam Jr., after my husband of course. We thought our eldest son would be proud to share his Daddy's name. Yet, he insists that everyone call him Peter.
Everywhere we go he proudly boasts his name is "Peter the Knight!" Last week I dropped my son off for his first swimming lesson at the local YMCA. When I returned to pick him up, the instructor walked my son over to me with a perplexed look on her face and asked, "is this your son?"
"Oh, boy. What did he do now?," was my first thought. "Yes," I replied.
"What is his name?"
"Scott," I said.
"And his last name?" she asked.
"Putnam," I knew where this was heading.
The swimming coach continues, patting my son on the head, "He told us his name was Peter the Knight. So I thought he meant Peter Knight. But I didn't have a Peter Knight on my roster. I thought we had the wrong kid in the class."
With an embarrassed giggle, I said I was sorry and explained that my son has decided to call himself "Peter the Knight" after a character in the movie Narnia.
I'm sure that there are a lot of little boys that prefer to be called by names that they think are way cooler than their own. Like Spiderman, Superman, or Batman, but at least if they tell someone that their name is Superman, one can infer that is not his real name. Although if my husband was ready to name our son after a tractor than I am sure that there are some boys out there with some Super names.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Bringing Sexy Back
I too like Justin Timberlake want to bring sexy back. Some time, after baby number three, I lost the whole concept of sexy. Maybe out of fear that it would bring baby number four!
After watching an inspirational OPRAH, , I decided it was time to conquer my fear.
I set out determined to bring my sexy back. My decision easily lead me to these beautiful black patten leather peep-toe heels called Ginger. Even the named screamed sexy. I put them on. Excitement started to bubble inside me! Yes, these could definitely do the trick. I checked out the price. They were on sale, $18, marked down from $70. Sold!
I called my husband and told him that I bought a sexy little number that I would gladly exhibit for him when I got home.
When I walked through the door my husband was eagerly awaiting my big reveal. I told him to close his eyes while I slipped into my new something. A second later I told him to open his eyes.
The look on his face wasn't exactly what I was going for. I was hoping for a "Wow, strut on over here" look. But my husband looked wildly confused.
"Don't you like them?" I asked with disappointment.
"So where's the sexy little number you're going to surprise me with?" he responded with equal disappointment.
"These are my sexy little number!" I replied. "Aren't they beautiful?"
My husband still looked confused. So I explained my new plan about how I wanted to feel sexy and feminine.
Although my dear hubby tried to understand, he just didn't get it. "You're home with the kids all day, where are you ever going to wear those things?"
Visions of Ginger and I vacuuming the house and heading out to the grocery store suddenly popped into my head. Hmmm. I guess I could see his point.
Determined not to part with my new heels, I reasoned all the events coming up that I could wear Ginger to, weddings, showers, even a bachlorette party, which would be my first outing with Ginger.
It was a Saturday night and I was feeling pretty good about the way I looked. I slipped Ginger on and off I went, strutting down the stairs ready to prove to my husband that I would get some use out of my new purchase. Except, I wasn't really strutting, it was more of a slow wobble. I looked like a seven year old girl trying to look cool, walking around in her mother's heels. Definitely not sexy.
What can I say, if at first I don't succeed then I will try, try and try again!
After watching an inspirational OPRAH, , I decided it was time to conquer my fear.
I set out determined to bring my sexy back. My decision easily lead me to these beautiful black patten leather peep-toe heels called Ginger. Even the named screamed sexy. I put them on. Excitement started to bubble inside me! Yes, these could definitely do the trick. I checked out the price. They were on sale, $18, marked down from $70. Sold!
I called my husband and told him that I bought a sexy little number that I would gladly exhibit for him when I got home.
When I walked through the door my husband was eagerly awaiting my big reveal. I told him to close his eyes while I slipped into my new something. A second later I told him to open his eyes.
The look on his face wasn't exactly what I was going for. I was hoping for a "Wow, strut on over here" look. But my husband looked wildly confused.
"Don't you like them?" I asked with disappointment.
"So where's the sexy little number you're going to surprise me with?" he responded with equal disappointment.
"These are my sexy little number!" I replied. "Aren't they beautiful?"
My husband still looked confused. So I explained my new plan about how I wanted to feel sexy and feminine.
Although my dear hubby tried to understand, he just didn't get it. "You're home with the kids all day, where are you ever going to wear those things?"
Visions of Ginger and I vacuuming the house and heading out to the grocery store suddenly popped into my head. Hmmm. I guess I could see his point.
Determined not to part with my new heels, I reasoned all the events coming up that I could wear Ginger to, weddings, showers, even a bachlorette party, which would be my first outing with Ginger.
It was a Saturday night and I was feeling pretty good about the way I looked. I slipped Ginger on and off I went, strutting down the stairs ready to prove to my husband that I would get some use out of my new purchase. Except, I wasn't really strutting, it was more of a slow wobble. I looked like a seven year old girl trying to look cool, walking around in her mother's heels. Definitely not sexy.
What can I say, if at first I don't succeed then I will try, try and try again!
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