Damn You, Gymo-orexics

While my ample thighs and noticeable jiggle might lead one to believe otherwise, I'm typically a gym-goer. I hit the treadmill, lift weights, do a little yoga. I even hop on that escalator machine they call a StepMill, which really deserves a more telling title. Maybe one with some kick-your-ass to it like, The Destroyer or The "You Want Some of This?"
 
But I digress. My point really is that I go to the gym and I do my fair share of sweating and grunting and panting (oh my!). As soon as I step into one of those group classes though, I feel like a "before" contestant on the Biggest Loser. Sure, I get through the warm-up just fine, but fifteen minutes in, I'm thirsty, out-of-breath, doing that little hands-on-hips, walk-in-place, gimme-a-minute kind of move that can only mean one thing, "That bitch is out of shape!" In my mind, I run through a litany of excuses: "Well, clearly I just didn't have enough protein at breakfast" or "I must have a lower sweat threshold" or "Uh-oh, maybe I'm dying." (If you know me, you know it's something I occasionally wonder.)

Of course, you can't interrupt the class to explain why you're so embarrassingly uncoordinated and out-of-breath. So, I'll usually stop to get water since, hello, you have to keep hydrated. Or I'll pretend to be one of those people with an ongoing sports-related injury. You know, I suddenly stop and bend my knee over and over with a "Now, that's curious," look on my face. To make it more authentic, I keep the accompanying internal monologue going in my head, Is that my knee clicking? Oh WHY does that bum joint of mine have to act up now, of all times, in Zumba class?
 
So my own shameful performance is just one reason I hate group classes. The other problem: Those damn Gym-orexics. You know those women--of any age--who are all fit and muscled and clearly don't have day jobs or young kids, so I hate them. They're the ones who always do the "extra challenge" in yoga and say "ohm" like super-loud and longer than anyone. They're the ones who are jogging in place between boxing combinations. They're the ones that the teachers know by name. Bitches. 

There are also the Pre-Cardio Ladies. The ones who come to class already sweaty and worked-out. They did the cardio before the cardio, as though the 45-minute session that busts my butt and leaves me panting in the corner just isn't enough for their 5% body fat frame. Sometimes they've done an hour-long run already. Sometimes, they hit the Booty Boot Camp class just before. Again, bitches. 

That's okay though. It motivates me...sorta. If these women can do two classes in a row, I can at least make it through one, right? Mind over matter? But no, even if I spend the first twenty minutes bouncing and kicking and salsa-dancing like never before, even if I stop for only two sips of water, even if I don't fake an injury, I rarely make it more than thirty minutes. No, just when I start to feel like that lady who swam from Cuba, the Pre-Cardio Ladies start adding in their own extra twist, they start double-timing it, they lift three times their body weight. And suddenly, I feel like a big, blobby mess all over again and my motivation dies.

I go to the gym to feel better about myself. I work out to feel healthier. I don't need to feel like I'm not exercising good enough, especially since the "not good enough" thing haunts every other aspect of my life. So from now on, I'm sticking to my solo exercises, those beautiful machines that allow me to just do me. At least that way, the only person I have to prove anything to is myself.

OMG, Make The Overeager Talk Stop!

(This essay, originally titled "Like OMG! Why Grown WOmen Speak Like Teenagers Online" was originally published on Role/Reboot.)

 I have a problem, an embarrassing problem. I’m ashamed to even admit it, although I have a feeling that my friends and family may already be clued in. I don’t think I’m alone in it either, so maybe by speaking out, I can help other women come clean too.

So, with a deep breath, here’s my confession: When I text, email, and IM, I talk like a freaking preteen.

No, I don’t take selfies, I don’t twerk, and I don’t follow the Biebs, but I use so many acronyms, you’d think I was writing in NSA-level code. My emails are studded with so many exclamation points that the page looks like a paint-splattered Jackson Pollock. I begin many texts with an OMG, even if it’s to say, “OMG, clementines are on sale!” or “OMG, Target’s dollar bins are amaze right now!” I’ve somehow managed to avoid falling into the LOL trap (go me!), but I feel compelled to respond to a clever email with multiple “haha’s” to indicate genuine gut-busting laughter instead of sarcasm. Although not a huge fan of emoticons, I do use Emoji’s on occasion, jokingly, like responding to a “See you soon!” text with two tango dancers and a peace sign.

So why, oh why, have I adopted the enthusiastic e-speak reserved for cheerleaders? Am I trying to keep up with the kids these days? Is it because it’s just so adorable? Or is it because I have some kind of aversion to being taken seriously as a grown-ass woman, one who can spell and speak in full sentences? I’m in my mid-30's, for God’s sake. I have children. I’m a smart, articulate, thoughtful adult who actually writes for a living…with real words. What am I doing?

Sadly, I know exactly what I’m doing. In the fuzzy world of cyber-connection, I’m trying to make sure I come across as pleasant, friendly, happy, easy. Without my voice to indicate tone, I have to rely on my words and when words don’t cut it, I turn to enthusiastic exclamation points and gold-star-sticker language (Awesome! Great! You rock!).

As I write a simple exchange, I think about the other person, and how he or she will interpret what they read. If an email gets too serious, too direct, I sweeten it with rah-rah language. I try to convey that I’m psyched to turn in a piece on a super-tight deadline. And that newborn of yours is especially super-adorable because I told you, “AAAAAAAAH” in all caps and then said I was dying of cuteness overload. And what you just wrote was way funny, so funny that I can’t stop typing “h” and “a” over and over and over until I get carpal tunnel of the thumbs. Your boss was flirting with your husband? Maybe I’ll throw in some all-caps to express my shock and awe, and a question mark/exclamation point combo that really highlights how confounded I am. I might even extend the vowel for that gasp effect. (WHAAAAAT?! REALLY?!)

Am I overthinking it? Um, duh, you think? In my efforts to be engaged, I’ve clearly created my own monster. When I think back, I realize that I may have even started using OMG ironically. Once the overeager cyber-speak began though, I couldn’t just stop. After all of my usual excitement, a simple period might come across as abrupt, rude, cold. Seriously. I’ll admit that sometimes I’ve read emails from friends, family, and editors and assumed annoyance in a simple “sure” response. At some point, they clearly hit me with the “thanks so much!” or “xoxo,” and now I’ve come to expect it. Ah, it’s a vicious cycle, stemming from one very common affliction: a need many of us women have to be nice, almost too nice.

It’s not a problem that men have, at least as far as I can tell. I’ve never once received an abrupt email from a man and wondered, “Is he mad at me?” Even when I’m bugging my husband at work via Gchat, his series of “ok,” “np,” and “ttyl” lines don’t offend me. (Just in case you need me to translate, the latter two are “no problem” and “talk to you later.”) I just assume he’s busy. If I get that kind of short answer from a female friend though, oh, hell no, I’ve got to ask, “Everything OK?” And nine times out of 10, yes, they’re just busy too. Still, I readily accept this kind of shorthand from men, and question it from women, either because of my own e-patois or theirs.

I know that those of us guilty of this have good intentions. We want to keep things pleasant. We want to let someone know we appreciate their kindness or their sense of humor. Sometimes we want to avoid confrontation. And, yes, sometimes we just want to be liked.

Whatever the reason though, I worry that I may be coming across as fluffy, empty, and weak-minded, even in business emails. I am easy-going, I am friendly, I am happy to help. I also think my friends’ stories and quips are really funny and that their children are especially cute, or else I wouldn’t say anything.

My feelings are genuine, but thanks to all of my effusive language, it’s awkwardly expressed. I think I’m doing myself a disservice. The problem is that, as annoying as I’m starting to find my own e-speak, it may be too late to stop now.

I Think My Body Wants Another Baby

(This essay, originally titled "Do I Really Want Another Baby?" was originally published on Role/Reboot.)

My husband and I always knew we wanted two kids—no more, no less, just two kids. Two kids that would always have each other; two kids that we could afford to feed and clothe and educate and take to gym class; two kids that would comfortably fit in the back of a family sedan. When we found out that we were having identical twins, we were, um, excited, but really more like, “Holy crap, we’re screwed! How will we ever survive?” Once the sleep deprivation and mind-numbing craziness of the newborn stage was over though, we fist-pumped and chest-bumped and went, “Phew, thank God that’s over. We never have to go through that again.” We had our two kids and, to quote one of their favorite cartoon characters, that’s all, folks.

Of course, as any parent will tell you, the further away you get from those first few months with a newborn, the foggier the memories get. I forgot about the eight-times-a-day double feedings—both breast and bottle—or the way they used to wake up every half hour starting at 2 AM. I forgot about how hard it was just to get them to burp or to give their slippery little bodies a bath. On the one hand, I assumed it must be some sort of coping mechanism, a mental block so I could move forward without resenting those little suckers. Really though, I knew in my heart that it had to be some kind of evolutionary response for child-bearing types. Biology somehow helps us forget the difficulties of labor and the newborn stage to ensure that we have more kids. So as time went on, I actually started to believe that caring for newborn twins hadn’t been all that tough. In fact, I even told couples expecting twins that it was easy. Easy! I said that. Oh, those poor, poor unsuspecting families-to-be.
 
Still, even though those newborn days got fuzzy, I still didn’t want another child. I love our little family of four (plus doggy) and thought I wouldn’t have it any other way. When I would see pregnant women with their gorgeous glows and big, round bellies, I felt so happy and hopeful for them, nostalgic for my own blissful pregnancy. (Go ahead and hate me—yes, I’m one of those women who loved being pregnant.) Did I want to do it again though? Nah, that’s alright. When I would see tiny babies, I’d think, “Ah, sweet, how wonderful.” Did I want to take those precious peanuts home with me? No, not really. I’d always steal a little cuddle and get my fix of that sweet smell. Then, I’d give him or her back, wipe some spit-up off of my shirt and grab myself a soda.
 
Since my babies have turned two though, something strange has happened. When I hear that someone is pregnant with second or third babies, I get these little pangs of jealousy. It’s that specific. Sure, I’m happy for their growing families, but I have this weird sense of loss for myself. Maybe it’s wistful feelings about that third child I’ll never have. Maybe it’s sadness because my own sons’ baby days are over. Or could it be that on some deep, subconscious, pure-heart level, I want another child?
 
I mean, I’ll admit that I do get weepy thinking about how these sweet toddler times are just flying by. And I have started to wonder what another child of ours might look like or be like and even, well, if that baby would be a girl. I’m even a little more, ahem, amorous than usual. So, feeling a little confused, I came clean to a friend who always allows me to come clean (PS, I highly recommend getting yourself one of these friends.) Her kids are the same age and, like me, she has firmly committed to just two kids. So imagine my surprise when she said the same exact thing is happening to her! Which means that there’s either something in the water around here or, really, very simply, it’s just biology. That’s what my friend theorized at least.
 
It makes sense. How many siblings do you know that are about three years apart? It’s just good logic—your toddler is becoming more independent, you’re getting more sleep, and you’re starting to get a solid handle on this parenting thing. Seems like a good time for #2. I’m thinking though that something else must be working on a hormonal level, some switch that gets flipped right around the time your child turns two that gets you thinking, “How’s about another?” Even though I really know otherwise, it’s like my body hasn’t gotten the memo. My brain says we’re done, but my ovaries are going, “You sure about that?”
 
The irony is that it was a bitch trying to get pregnant the first time. Maybe just like I forgot the newborn struggles, my body forgot that I’m not so good at getting knocked up. Of course, there’s a part of me that wonders if this is my body’s way of telling me that even though I feel like an achy, creaky 36-year-old, my reproductive organs still feel young and healthy and down to procreate. I find something comforting in the primal instinct of it all, that fertile, maternal biological drive to have more children. It’s almost this feeling of pride, like, hey, I still got it.
 
Still, I’m not going to listen to all of the hormonal chatter because I really am happy with just two kids. (I said that already, didn’t I?) As much as I love this adorable age, I wouldn’t have another baby just so I could do it all over again. That’s not a good reason. (I’m not saying that it’s most people’s reason for having a third, but it would probably be mine.) Babies are only little for so long. Ultimately, they go to school, learn new things, spend weekends with friends, more than family. They say things like, “Mom, stop,” and “God, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” They leave the nest, they explore the world, and they start families of their own. Of course, they’ll always be our babies, whether they realize it or not. As for the “what ifs,” I’m going to be alright with that too. Would the next one be a girl or another boy? Would the next baby have my dark features or be fair like his brothers? What would it be like to care for just one baby at a time, rather than double duty? Sure, I have all of those questions, but so what? I’m sure I’d still keep wondering about the next, whether I had three kids or twenty. I guess you can’t help thinking about all of the amazing people you could make or mold. Still, I’m going to tell my ovaries to simmer down, ask my uterus to hush up. I’m so glad they have such faith in us and I’m sure we’d be able to create someone great, but this body is closed for business…………..right?

The Best Work I'll Ever Do

(This essay, titled "What's So Bad About 'Just Being a Mommy'" was originally published on Role/Reboot.) 

“So, what are you doing these days? Are you still working or just, like, being a Mommy?” he asked, lifting his shoulders, almost implying the snuggly adorableness of it all with one little shrug. I know that my old boss—now a best-selling author on a national book tour—meant nothing by it. He wasn’t being condescending or insulting. In fact, I think he was almost giving me an out, so that I didn’t have to explain why my byline wasn’t still all over the major women’s magazines anymore, or why I still hadn’t written that novel I always talked about. Still, despite his benign question and reasonable assumption, I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. I quickly went into how I’ve been freelancing still, when I have my sitter, but not doing as much as I’d like to because, yeah, I’m a Mom to 2-year-old twins. How they’re keeping me busy, sure, but yes, I’m totally still working.

As I later waited in the audience for his book reading, I couldn’t stop thinking about what that meant: “just being a Mommy.” I felt embarrassed. I felt small. Once upon a time, in a concrete jungle far, far away, I had been an ambitious, creative twenty-something who believed I was destined for greatness. I was someone who probably would have written that oft-discussed novel already. Now, as I sat there with clean hair, heeled boots, and my only bag that didn’t have cheese crackers crushed at the bottom, I wondered what had happened to all of that drive and spark and confidence. It couldn't be gone for good, could it?

Truth is, I jumped off the fast-moving career train long before I even got pregnant. As soon as I got married, I started working from home, eager for the freedom and the creativity that would surely flow outside of the office. And it did—I got more done in that first year of freelancing than I did in eight years on staff. I also became, in many ways, a housewife. With my husband working full-time, it became my responsibility to do the grocery shopping, cook dinner, stop by the drugstore, and pick up the dry cleaning. Even though I was busy with my own lucrative writing career, I had a second job as keeper of the home. As I inspected produce or called my husband from the drugstore to find out what kind of razors exactly, I felt my skin crawl.  Many women would have killed to be in my position. So what if I had to do a little housework and run a few errands? Cue the violins and feel free to drop kick me in aisle 9.

If my pre-child days were any indication, being “just a Mommy” was never going to be enough for me. I never wanted to be that frazzled, ragged SAHM with baby puke on her leggings, who would tell me through gritted teeth, “it’s the best job in the world!” Oh reeeaaally, I’d think, taking in the visible bags under her eyes. Well, then you might want to work on your pitch, my friend, because you’re not exactly selling it. Once my babies were born, work inevitably moved to the back burner, although I kept it at a slow simmer. Despite my lack of time and the lack of work out there, I’ve held on by my fingernails to the writing career I spent years cultivating. It’s nowhere near as much as it once was, but I’m still in it. And I love it, I do. I love working and writing and the pride I feel after spinning the perfect sentence. I love having this thing I do, this other thing I do, outside of being a Mommy.           

At the end of the day though, I’m really more of a stay-at-home Mommy than anything else, uniformed in comfy Croc flip-flops and yoga pants stained by that morning’s flying breakfast shrapnel. The majority of my time is spent tending to my toddlers. I take them to gym classes and playdates and preschool. I’m always busy, I’m always tired, and I often feel like I’m just dog-paddling to stay afloat. That’s just how it is. Especially with twins. Sure, I’m writing a few days a week, but it’s from my bed, in my pajamas, while my boys are in another room with the sitter.

These days though, it’s starting to hit me—how fleeting this time is. Since my boys turned two just a few months ago, everything’s been moving at warp speed and I can’t slow it down. My little babies are now “beeeg boy-yas” as they like to tell me. They can “do myself,” and tell me to “stop it, stop it,” when I try to cover them in kisses. The times that once felt so overwhelming and exhausting now just feel short, too short. I don’t want to miss anything—not one new discovery, not one new friend at the park, not one funny observation. I can decipher their toddler speak and non-sequiturs, not only because I’m their Mom, but also because I know that little girl they’re so smitten with at school, and I was there when we saw the “sca-wee baby” décor at the Halloween store. I know that song they’re mumble-singing because I was there when we learned it. When we walk around the neighborhood, I know they like to point out the doggy weather vane and pet the little horse head sculpture. I’ve been there for all of it so far and, right now, nothing is more important to me than being front-seat for the rest. How could I turn back now?

I made a choice to work from home, and I don’t really want to reenter office life yet. It’s that simple. The choice was mine and I’m so lucky it was even an option for us. At this point in my life, no, I don’t have much career ambition. There, I said it. It’s just not in me right now and I’m okay with that (I think). Motherhood is no excuse—it’s me. So why should I feel embarrassed about being a Mommy then? Since when did being a Mommy become a bad thing? And more importantly, if someone thinks that’s a bad thing, why do I care? They either don’t know any better or are simply justifying their own decisions. I don’t judge other’s lifestyles as long as they don’t judge mine.

I have friends with these amazing, mind-boggling careers, all achieved before and since becoming a Mommy. These exceptional women are proof that you can be a devoted parent and a kickass career woman. It’s hard, but they do it well. Still, despite all of their professional success, they all say that their children are the best thing, the most important thing they have done or ever will do. Being a Mommy is their highest achievement, their biggest source of personal pride. For those who choose to be a parent, it’s the best job in the world.

In a few years, I’ll probably reenter the workforce…if they’ll have me. And maybe some day, I’ll even write the great American novel or a book of short stories or a how-to guide on wearing sensible shoes with style. When that time comes though, my kids really will be beeeg boy-yas. Their squooshy toddler days will be long gone and I know I’ll miss it like crazy. Recently, a woman with a grown daughter said to me that she would pay $1 million to have just one day with her toddler again. Just for one day. That time for me is right now. If I’m spending these precious minutes worrying about what I’m doing with my life, then I’m just going to miss out on theirs. Besides, they are my life, aren’t they?

So no matter what happens with my career, I know that my kids will always be my very best work. They’re the coolest little people in the world and I’m so proud of every little thing they do…even if it’s figuring out how to open the child-safety latch to access sharp, dangerous objects. If I’m going to take pride in my children though, doesn’t that also mean that I should take pride in being their Mommy as well? I think it does. So I’m throwing out whatever script I had in my head, the one that told me that the life of a Mommy isn’t much of a life at all. I was wrong, wrong, so wrong. That “Mommy” title is one I’ll wear with honor, along with my yoga pants and frizzy bun and even those damn Crocs. I don’t need an award or a pat on the back or a letter of recognition. Nothing in the world could make me more proud than when my kids grin at me after accomplishing some toddler feat and say, “My did it, Mommy! My did it!” Yes, I tell my sweet boys, I saw the whole thing.