My life has never aligned with traditional expectations that society bestows upon us. I married young, got divorced, got remarried only a few months later, was pregnant immediately and added another in the mix exactly two years later. Traditionally women stayed at home to raise kids. I went happily back to work.
There exists a certain stigma with working moms. The Work Outside the Home Mom (hereafter referred to WOHM) versus Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) debate will forever rage on. And there are days I question WHY I am working. But I don’t question it because I feel the need to be at home with my kids. I question it because after I pay for fulltime daycare, gas to drive 80 plus miles a day, and health insurance, there is very little left to bring home. Does that make me a bad Mom? It’s a matter of opinion.
In the last week it has become inherently apparent who the “Mom” is in our house. There is a role reversal present that has brought doubt to my mind as to whether I am what society would consider a “good” Mom.
Two nights ago I was standing around the corner of the kitchen listening to my husband teach Gavin the words to a song that would make him open his mouth wide so he could brush his teeth. He has taught him what sound almost every letter of the alphabet makes. He does all the laundry, makes dinner, and washes dishes. Every single weekday morning he gets the kids up, gets them dressed, and drops them off at daycare. When he is home at night he puts Gavin to bed. (Whether he stays there is another topic.) He has the patience of a saint and the encouragement of a top motivational speaker.
I love my kids, don’t get me wrong. But it is I who am the career oriented one. I am the one who wants to work 60 hours a week at her job and bring home the big paycheck. Trent would love nothing more than to stay at home and raise, teach and develop our children. But until my paycheck doubles, it isn’t reality. And in my profession I don’t see it happening.
I don’t doubt I am a good Mom, just not the one society expects. I would give my life for my children. But if I had to stay home with them all day, every day, I would have to spend my evenings at AA.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Art of the "O"
Recently, I was packing up some books I was going to donate to the library or some other place books go to be useful once you've read them a dozen times. I came across my copy of Lou Paget's "The Big O." Fearing I may one day need this tidbit of information I decided to keep it.
What is it about the word orgasm that makes women blush and start tapping their foot uncontrollably on a carpeted surface? Why can't we just talk about it like the mature sex maniacs that we are?
Finding the book also happened to coincide with someone asking me what it feels like when I have an orgasm. (My husband shall remain nameless as the asker.)
Webster defines the orgasm as "an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal that is usually accompanied by the ejaculation of semen in the male and by vaginal contractions in the female."
HOW BORING!
I decided to ask around. Most notably, I asked my Dirty Laundry girls. I love these girls and I can always count on them to try to explain the unexplainable.
Dirty Girl (hereafter known as DG) number 1 said, "I guess I would describe it as a pot of water. First it starts out sort of tingly like the little bubbles at the bottom of the pot, then it builds, and builds until its boiling over. Then there are spasms. Well, now don't I feel like an orgasm loser."
DG number 2 said, "I'd say I'd describe it as an electrical surge or something. It build up and feels somewhere between too ticklish or sensitive and awesome and then crosses over into just awesome, then afterward you are the most relaxed you have ever felt.
Great job girls!
But its DG number 3 that really caused me concern. She said, "Well I'm not going to be ANY help. Why? I honestly don't think I've ever had one. Not alone or with anyone. It is very frustrating. Granted I do get enjoyment and I think I get what most call a climax but then it just doesn't haven any type of explosion and defintintely don't feel relaxed afterwards. I think I feel more bothered meaning wanting more as I'm guessing it really never happened."
I remember my first orgasm. I wasn't even having sex at the time. And to this DAY I can remember thinking, "THIS is what I have been missing?!?!" It was wildly intense and I never knew such a feeling existed. And even more surprising was that it had NOTHING to do with the penis! Yet, some 10 years later, I am still trying to figure out just what exactly I need to achieve the holy grail of voluntary seizures.
I figure practice makes perfect. Which is also my advice for DG #3. I also need to send her a copy of the book.
And maybe a plastic penis.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
An InSPArational Experience
After a long night of margaritas, a flat tire in the ghetto, 3 women standing around wondering how to work the jack, one very hot cop, spike strips, Max the drug sniffing dog, two more cops and one very helpful Gengenbacher, I was really looking forward to my day at the spa. The idea of 20 minutes in a hydrotherapy bath, followed by an hour long massage and a pedicure was on par with multiple orgasms.
Going to the spa for the first time is kind of like going to your first gyno appointment. You make sure you have everything shaved, cleaned, and manicured. But, like the gyno, you quickly get over it and after your second or third time there, you are lucky if you put underwear on. I've been to InSPArations a few times and at least remembered to brush my teeth this morning.
I changed into my bikini, put on my robe and headed to the hydrotherapy room. After lowering myself into water I was pretty sure would burn off the leg hairs I decided not to shave, I settled into the crevices of the tub and let Amanda start the jets.
The jets start at the bottom and work their way up in a slow, meticulous motion. Thirty seconds into this I knew this wasn't going to be a grand experience. The jets beat down on the bottoms of my feet first, causing me to jerk them back, giggle uncontrollably and hit my shins on the bar that were suppose to be keeping my legs under water. The jets then moved upward to my calves, my hips, my back and my neck. After about 5 minutes I started getting really hot and was counting down until this was over. Looking back, I am pretty sure the warmth came from the high amounts of tequila being purged from my system.
I lifted my arms out of the tub and reached for my ice water and drank it in one big gulp leaving only ice in the glass. Then a bright idea hit me! I fished out a piece of ice and held it in my hand to cool down my skin and then ran my hands over my face. This worked for about 10 seconds before I just gave up and just ran the ice directly over my face.
PLOP!
There goes my ice straight into the tub. Immediately I was worried I would be thrown out and onto the street for letting such a tragic thing happen. There had to be rules about this kind of thing! Luckily nobody was paying attention and another piece of ice was fished out of the glass. At least now I understand why they don't let you have sliced oranges in your water while in the tub.
I passed the rest of the time thinking about penis'.
Finally, 20 minutes were up and I was allowed out of the boiling pot. I glanced in the mirror and my face was so red I looked like I had just had battery acid thrown on me. A few minutes of cooldown and it was onto the massage table.
I was only on the table for 5 minutes when I realized I was so relaxed, I would have agreed to anything at that point.
CIA: "Mrs. Vogel - tomorrow we will be dropping you in Afghanistan wearing only a paper bikini and carrying only a nail file. You will be responsible for finding and killing Osama Bin Ladin."
Me: "Why didn't we leave yesterday?"
Going to the spa for the first time is kind of like going to your first gyno appointment. You make sure you have everything shaved, cleaned, and manicured. But, like the gyno, you quickly get over it and after your second or third time there, you are lucky if you put underwear on. I've been to InSPArations a few times and at least remembered to brush my teeth this morning.
I changed into my bikini, put on my robe and headed to the hydrotherapy room. After lowering myself into water I was pretty sure would burn off the leg hairs I decided not to shave, I settled into the crevices of the tub and let Amanda start the jets.
The jets start at the bottom and work their way up in a slow, meticulous motion. Thirty seconds into this I knew this wasn't going to be a grand experience. The jets beat down on the bottoms of my feet first, causing me to jerk them back, giggle uncontrollably and hit my shins on the bar that were suppose to be keeping my legs under water. The jets then moved upward to my calves, my hips, my back and my neck. After about 5 minutes I started getting really hot and was counting down until this was over. Looking back, I am pretty sure the warmth came from the high amounts of tequila being purged from my system.
I lifted my arms out of the tub and reached for my ice water and drank it in one big gulp leaving only ice in the glass. Then a bright idea hit me! I fished out a piece of ice and held it in my hand to cool down my skin and then ran my hands over my face. This worked for about 10 seconds before I just gave up and just ran the ice directly over my face.
PLOP!
There goes my ice straight into the tub. Immediately I was worried I would be thrown out and onto the street for letting such a tragic thing happen. There had to be rules about this kind of thing! Luckily nobody was paying attention and another piece of ice was fished out of the glass. At least now I understand why they don't let you have sliced oranges in your water while in the tub.
I passed the rest of the time thinking about penis'.
Finally, 20 minutes were up and I was allowed out of the boiling pot. I glanced in the mirror and my face was so red I looked like I had just had battery acid thrown on me. A few minutes of cooldown and it was onto the massage table.
I was only on the table for 5 minutes when I realized I was so relaxed, I would have agreed to anything at that point.
CIA: "Mrs. Vogel - tomorrow we will be dropping you in Afghanistan wearing only a paper bikini and carrying only a nail file. You will be responsible for finding and killing Osama Bin Ladin."
Me: "Why didn't we leave yesterday?"
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Many Titles of "Mom"
I recently pondered how my life has changed so drastically in the last 4 years. While 4 years can seem like an eternity when you think AHEAD, if you think backwards, it can seem like yesterday.
Four years ago this month I fell in love with my husband. It wasn’t planned…I really just wanted to sleep with him. But he seduced me with the song “Alcohol” by Brad Paisley on repeat and bottles of ice cold Bud Light. (Boy was he slick!) Six months later we married in Vegas and two months after that found out we were expecting our first son (to be named Gavin…not Borak as was Trent’s choice.) Since then we’ve added another penis to our family, pushing Oliver out in October of last year. (I like penises, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t need this many of them at once.)
Instead of leaving work and going home to drink a bottle of wine, eat a bag of tortilla chips and pass out, I now have the pleasure of doing all things associated with being a parent. With this pleasure comes many titles. Some of my favorites:
Photographer – taking pictures of all significant and insignificant events, including but not limited to, first steps, funny faces, toothy grins, major boo-boo’s, stuffy’s first swim, first pee in the potty, weird colored poop (to get opinions on what I may have fed them incorrectly) and just general everyday pictures to prove they are still alive.
Nurse – sponge baths, butt wiping, band aid applications, magic “kiss” medicine (not to be confused with what some nurses may do with other patients,) temperature probing, vomit analysis and cleanup, and minor surgery.
Negotiator – “Yes, you will take a bath. No, screaming at the top of your lungs will not change my mind. Neither will you trying to dive head first out of the tub. Yes, I do promise not to get it in your eyes. No, don’t pee in the tub. Yes, we have to wash your penis.” (Always back to the penis.)
Chef – I can expertly and efficiently nuke a corn dog in less than a minute. I can smear PB&J on a piece of bread with the best of them. I can put green food coloring in macaroni and cheese to help hide the bits of broccoli I sneak in. I should be on Hell’s Kitchen!
As the kids get older, my list of titles will continue to grow. I see Taxi driver, Judge, Analyst, and Bail Bondsman all in my future.
But above all, for the time being, I only want to be called one thing: Mommy.
Four years ago this month I fell in love with my husband. It wasn’t planned…I really just wanted to sleep with him. But he seduced me with the song “Alcohol” by Brad Paisley on repeat and bottles of ice cold Bud Light. (Boy was he slick!) Six months later we married in Vegas and two months after that found out we were expecting our first son (to be named Gavin…not Borak as was Trent’s choice.) Since then we’ve added another penis to our family, pushing Oliver out in October of last year. (I like penises, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t need this many of them at once.)
Instead of leaving work and going home to drink a bottle of wine, eat a bag of tortilla chips and pass out, I now have the pleasure of doing all things associated with being a parent. With this pleasure comes many titles. Some of my favorites:
Photographer – taking pictures of all significant and insignificant events, including but not limited to, first steps, funny faces, toothy grins, major boo-boo’s, stuffy’s first swim, first pee in the potty, weird colored poop (to get opinions on what I may have fed them incorrectly) and just general everyday pictures to prove they are still alive.
Nurse – sponge baths, butt wiping, band aid applications, magic “kiss” medicine (not to be confused with what some nurses may do with other patients,) temperature probing, vomit analysis and cleanup, and minor surgery.
Negotiator – “Yes, you will take a bath. No, screaming at the top of your lungs will not change my mind. Neither will you trying to dive head first out of the tub. Yes, I do promise not to get it in your eyes. No, don’t pee in the tub. Yes, we have to wash your penis.” (Always back to the penis.)
Chef – I can expertly and efficiently nuke a corn dog in less than a minute. I can smear PB&J on a piece of bread with the best of them. I can put green food coloring in macaroni and cheese to help hide the bits of broccoli I sneak in. I should be on Hell’s Kitchen!
As the kids get older, my list of titles will continue to grow. I see Taxi driver, Judge, Analyst, and Bail Bondsman all in my future.
But above all, for the time being, I only want to be called one thing: Mommy.
My formal introduction
A long time ago, in a far away land, I wanted to be a writer. A really good writer. I wanted to have a column in the newspaper that people would clamor to read (think Dear Abby or Dave Barry but more sex.) Alas, I took the road traveled too much (a throwback to the famous footprints poem) and got married, moved to all corners of Illinois, got divorced, got remarried, popped out a couple of kids and settled in a town not quite known for famous journalists. So here I sit, approaching 30, selling tofu and ketchup, and missing that dream I once had. Alas, I jump on the bandwagon of bloggers.
Each article will differ. Some could be newsy, some editorial, and yet some others just everyday observations in the life of raising two boys. I promise not to become to Kathy Lee Giffordish (don’t want to lose my fan base,) but sometimes you just can’t help but find humor in what two kids under three say and do.
Each article will differ. Some could be newsy, some editorial, and yet some others just everyday observations in the life of raising two boys. I promise not to become to Kathy Lee Giffordish (don’t want to lose my fan base,) but sometimes you just can’t help but find humor in what two kids under three say and do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)