Belts

I have come to realize that I will never own more than two belts- one black and one brown.  If I only have 2 dollars to my name or 200,000, I will only have 2 in my drawer.  I literally never think to buy them.  The sad truth is that I wear a belt almost every day and I will wear them until they are ridiculously falling apart.  I will only ever buy one when the hole for the clasp rips completely and is beyond repair.  Then, I'll consider driving to the nearest store to pick one up...but only if it is extremely convenient.

I have absolutely no idea why I have an issue with belts.  I just never think of them.  They always seem really expensive and I can convince myself that I don't really need one.  I never think of them as an accessory that can add to an outfit....to me, they are completely utilitarian.  I need a belt to hold up my pants..period.

Well- I've lost a bit of weight recently due to this Paleo diet thing we've been doing for the last 6 months.  So now belts are a huge part of my attire.  Still only own 2 though.  I think I may need to reconsider my belt situation and get a 3rd for backup.

Or- I could just start an adult clothing line featuring the adjustable waist pants that are so popular with kids and eliminate the need to ever think about belts again.

Empty/Full

I have to take my son to preschool tomorrow morning and I'm scared.  Really really scared.  When I lived in NYC on 9/11, I was scared and shaken and it changed me.  I cried and watched the news every moment I could for weeks.  It still hits me like a fist to the stomach once in awhile.  But- this is different.  I'm always shaken and scared when an act of random, evil violence invades our society.  But- this is different.  

I have a four year old son who wakes up every day asking me what we are doing, where are we going, who are we going to see, what are we going to eat.....the sheer joy of living is what greets me everyday (albeit a little on the early side sometimes).  My 16 month old daughter already shows off a fiercely delightful sense of humor and cracks herself up all the time.  She wants to do whatever her big brother does and is prone to giving random bear hugs all day long.  So- even though they often wear me out with their 'delight,' I'm surrounded by love and beauty every day.  Every. single. day.

I don't know how to be a good mother.  I don't know how to be a good grown up.  I don't know how to be a strong leader.  I don't know how to stop feeling the sheer pain, terror, panic and sadness that I feel.  I don't know how to teach my son to be strong and brave and opinionated and human when I'm so scared.  I don't know how to deal with the anger I will feel in a few weeks when I've dealt with the initial fear and 'moved on' and then I remember it all again.  

I'm scared that I will walk into my son's preschool tomorrow and demand to see how they are going to better secure the building.  I'm scared I won't be able to leave him there while I go Christmas shopping with my daughter.  I'm scared I won't be able to go into a store.  I'm scared I will sit in the parking lot for 3 hours watching and waiting with Cheerios in hand for my daughter- so my son can have a normal, happy Monday and I can feel like I'm doing something to keep him safe.  

I'm not sure how to move past this.  I'm not sure how to be brave and strong and human.  I'm not sure how to equip my children with all they need to know while allowing them to enjoy being babies and allow me to enjoy the wonder and sheer magic of motherhood.  I know that when I asked my son for a hug every other second last Friday- he didn't hesitate-- he got that something was sad and he could hug me and make it better.  

I'm so sad....and so scared....but I will take my son to school tomorrow.  I won't be able to bear it but I'll do it.  And I'll hug him no less than 30 times and tell him I love him with every ounce of my soul.  

Sirens

An event occurred last night sums up what it is like to leave one life behind and try to embrace a new one.  

As my husband and I were putting the kids to bed, we heard a fire truck siren.  I turned to my husband and said "Ahh, reminds me of home."  I was referring to the fact that just two months ago we were living in Manhattan and heard fire truck sirens, police cars and ambulances on an hourly basis.  They were responding to the stabbing at the corner (seriously) or a suspicious subway gas smell or a pedestrian who got hit by a car.  We got so immune to the siren sounds that we never looked out the window or were curious or concerned....just our way of life.  I only ever noticed them when someone was visiting from out of town and they would get really worried when they heard the noises and we would just shrug.

Last night, the fire truck siren grew louder and louder and was taking a long time to pass our house.  We actually became concerned that something was happening on our block-- maybe the 430 blow up Christmas figures or strings of lights at our next door neighbor's house had caught on fire.  So- we opened the blinds........and what do we see?!!?!!  We see the fire truck slowly coming down the street.....with Santa on top of the truck--- all lit up--- waving to each house as he went by.  A real live Santa saying hello to the kids.  

My son about flipped out.  He lay in bed beaming after that for 10 minutes and was so excited.

My life has really changed.....in the strangest of ways.  

Rash

My daughter has a rash all over her belly and back.  It's not painful, doesn't itch and isn't bothering her in any way-just the end of a virus.  But- I feel so bad for her because I think she might be cursed with my skin.....and my bizarre skin rashes.

Let me explain (and properly disgust all):  I get rashes.  Not every day, not from food, not from weather, not from anything in particular....I just get rashes.  And- I'm extremely pale skinned....I glow in the dark.  So- when I get a rash....it's obvious.  The only thing that I can pinpoint is that I get them when I get outrageously stressed out.

Years ago, I got a full body (and I mean full body) rash when I was moving apartments in NYC.  For some reason, I was a wreck.  I looked like a freak show until the day after the move-- then I woke up with Heidi Klum skin.  So weird.  I'm allergic to something that is used in face products but have never been able to find out what ingredient it is.  Right after giving birth to my daughter, I just wanted to feel pretty.  I bought a little tube of under eye cream at Sephora and lathered it on.  Three hours later, I looked like someone had burned me with a cigarette under both eyes-- my skin became inflamed, puffy and bright red.  So much for feeling beautiful after childbirth.  Nine months later, we took a family trip to Aruba and I was treated to a surprise spa morning.  I got a facial......and promptly had an allergic reaction.  My eyes exploded- they were red and puffy and I looked like a giant mosquito.  I couldn't wear contacts so I was sporting glasses poolside, loaded up with Benadryl and Margaritas-- I'm lucky I didn't get arrested.  I could go on and on with little gems like these.

But-- the one that takes the cake is my honeymoon rash.  Thankfully, by the grace of God, Allah, Buddha, whatever, I didn't get a rash on my wedding day.  I looked fabulous!  The rash descended the day our honeymoon started.  We were in Paris, late May, and they were experiencing a bizarre heat wave.  Our suitcases were packed with sweaters, coats and long pants and it was over 105 every single day we were there.  The first day there, we made a dash for the nearest Gap and bought out the store.  So- I was sightseeing and sweating and rubbing my arms on my sides all day long in the some of the worst heat I've ever dealt with.  By the end of day two, the underside of my arms and sides (most prominently my arm pits) were completely red, swollen and TOTALLY COVERED in painful, hideous bumps....or welts - to be more accurate.  We would get back to our hotel at the end of seeing the Eiffel Tower and Napoleon's tomb and I would lay on the bed while my lovely new husband would cover my arms and sides with ice cold wash cloths.....over and over.  Totally romantic right?!?!  Just writing about this makes me cringe in pain because I still remember the agony of it all.

Somehow- we are still married and it is a bit of a joke now.  At least we know when I'm overwhelmed and need a 'Christina' break.  So- if you see me and I look like I have chicken pox, I suggest you steer clear.....cause I'm about to blow!

Katherine...er....

Many years ago, while aspiring to be an actress/singer in Manhattan, I was really a waitress at Carmines (a semi-famous, past its prime restaurant on the Upper West Side- not even the really famous one in Times Square).  I made really great money even though I was only the second woman they ever hired on the floor (which had its own unique set of problems) and I spent a lot of time wishing that certain waiters would stop doing coke in the bathroom (while secretly wishing that the really lunatic ones would snort a line so they would be appear more normal).  I could write thirty blogs telling stories about the inner workings of a Manhattan restaurant-including the day the basement storage area flooded with backed up sewage from the hotel above, or my soon-to-be good friend who asked me to marry him over and over to get his green card (I toyed with the idea but he only offered $10,000-- I was holding out for more).

But- once in awhile - when I hear the name "Katherine," I get especially nostalgic.  There was an older bartender who was utterly, completely, madly and whole-heartedly convinced that my name was Katherine.  Let me remind you- there were only two women in the whole place....you'd think we'd stand out a bit.  Nope.  I was Katherine.  I spent the better part of a year trying to tell him (without embarrassing him) that my name was Christina.

Christina: printed on every single cocktail order receipt that hit the bar.  Christina- the name everyone else called me in front of him.  I staged interventions: I would stand by the far end of the bar and have another waiter call out for me -- right where he could hear--- they would say my name like ten times......never worked.  Everyone in the restaurant was in on it....and we never told him.  There was even that random time where OUT OF NOWHERE-- he called me Christina!!!  Let the angels sing!!!  The man got it!!  Then........"Katherine" not five minutes later.  Eventually I had to take some personal time to think about what's in a name?  Like frigging Romeo and Juliet.....a name is really just a way to distinguish yourself from the next person...so I knew I was Katherine to him and left it at that.

The best was when my parents came to town and we wanted to take advantage of my staff discount.  We bellied up to the bar and ordered a few drinks from the bartender while we waited on our table.  He chatted with my dad forever and talked me up (so sweet).  We had a great twenty minutes.  When our table was called, my mom got up to grab it and my dad and I stayed behind to pay the bar tab.  As we were hopping up, the bartender called out "Have a great dinner, Katherine!"  My dad completely stopped walking and spun his head towards me-confused.  "Dad, keep walking, just keep walking, I'll explain at the table."  I didn't want my dad to blow my cover.

Months and months later, the bartender (whose name I can't remember) finally got schooled by a busboy from Ecuador when he kept telling him to find Katherine and this frazzled fifteen year old looked like he was going to cry....because he didn't know who the hell this guy was talking about.  Awkward, bizarre and hilarious apology followed minutes later.

I need to go shopping

For the last five plus years, I’ve either been trying to get pregnant, been pregnant or trying to NOT look pregnant.  I feel like I’ve been living in a sandbox- from actually being a sandbox at the park or trying to vacuum up the sand that traveled back to our apartment.  I’ve changed hundreds of diapers on the sticky floor of small NYC bathrooms because the restaurant was too cool to have a pull down changing table.  If I haven’t been wiping someone’s butt, I’ve been cleaning pee from around the toilet at home because my son gets distracted and pees….all over the wall.  My shirts have become an instant tissue for all small noses.  My cooking now consists of grilled cheese, pasta and….pasta with cheese.  I haven’t slept through the night since 2009.  I spend the better part of my day tying shoelaces, putting on helmets, trying to figure out where the poop smell is coming from and somehow trying to stay dry while giving two kids a nightly bath.

So—imagine my delight when my husband and I made the decision that we were done having babies and wanted to focus on the two we have with whatever ounce of sanity we each have left.  True- I’m sad that I’m done experiencing the joy of that new presence in my belly, the beautiful daydreams I had wondering what my children would look like and the ridiculous bliss of holding my newborn babies while they slept in my arms.  But- I’m not going to miss the swollen feet or horrible varicose veins that exploded on my calf (still disgusting to this day), the morning sickness, the pain of child birth and crying/hallucinating on the bathroom floor after the umpteenth night in a row of less than 2 consecutive hours of sleep. 

I haven’t put a lick of time into thinking about my clothing selections in these last five years.  Before I was pregnant, I was thinking about getting pregnant….so I didn’t shop.  Once I was pregnant, I lived in 4 outfits from Target Maternity.  After my first pregnancy, I wore whichever bottoms I could button with whichever shirt masked the mommy belly straining over the top of the pants.  I knew we would try for another baby so I didn’t shop.  Pregnancy number two—start all over.

Now, here I am….done with baby making and I’m starting to pick my head up out of the sand and am checking out the sad situation which is….my closet.  And, lucky me- due to a recent diet change at our household- I’ve lost an extra 6-7 pounds from my pre-baby weight.  I look pretty good (all things considered).  But- nothing fits.  I mean absolutely nothing.  I have jeans that fit just recently and now look like clown pants. My new party trick is that I button my pants, clasp a belt around my waist and still pull my jeans off without undoing anything.  The pants get all bunched so I look like I’m wearing a deflated balloon tucked under the belt.  After years of washing, every shirt I own is stretched and stained in some weird spot because of baby hands on me all day.  We recently went to visit friends’ overnight and I realized in the car on the way there that my shirt had a giant hole in it but since it was black and my bra was black, I could get away with it for the night.  Worse than that, my skirt (which oddly seemed to fit fine that morning) was so loose- I had to hold it up the rest of the evening when I walked....or it would literally fall down.  I’m a disaster.

I’ve felt at war with my body for the last few years because I feel like I donated it to procreation for a bit…but I want it back.  I’m glad I lost weight and feel good but I want to look good again.  I don’t want to look like a woman who got her clothes out of a dumpster….circa 1998.  (I’m still wearing a pair of sweat pants from high school—I mean- I even disgust myself)  I want some pants that fit – that I can wear in a sandbox….and wear later on a date with my man. 

This entire post could have been much shorter—I should have just said:

“I need to go shopping….”

Radio

I need someone to explain to me what is wrong with radio stations.....there has to be a logical explanation that I don't understand.  Why does each station have 30 or so songs they are allowed to play....and that's it?  About 15 current 'hits' and about 15 'hits' from the 90s.  I'm guessing it has something to do with paying for the rights to play certain songs and it's expensive so they only play a few but it's awful.  Just awful.

I've been driving and listening to the radio again these past two months and am just amazed.  I never thought I'd hear Stone Temple Pilots or Rage Against the Machine ever again or played with such vigor.  And sadly- it's only one song from each band that they play.  I actually got excited the other day when I heard the Spin Doctors (which are easily my least favorite band) because it was the first song in an hour that didn't feature Rihanna.  (I don't even mind Rihanna but I don't want to listen to anyone day in and out every five minutes).

And, Everclear (I mean really) sandwiched between Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and Bruno Mars "Locked Out of Heaven" (which I liked the first 457 times....not anymore) on an easy listening station.... I was looking for a Stevie tune, Carly Simon or even John Lennon but instead got my daughter clapping in the backseat to Kurt Cobain.  Not what I was expecting.

I feel like there is so much great music being made nowadays that deserves a bit of attention.  And there is so much older music from the past few decades that would be lovely hear on my way to the grocery store.  I wish one radio station would go back into the business of surprising their listeners..and offering something unique like an enjoyable musical journey.