Monthly Archives: March 2010

I’m a little sore from my last trip to the gym.

I showed up just in time for a fantastic yoga class, rolled out my mat, and enjoyed a slow introduction. We moved from standing poses to warrior and then to downward facing dog. I was okay for the first sun salutation, but by the second, as I pointed my forehead to the ground, my breasts did the same. Right out of the top of my bra.

Luckily yoga is an introspective class, unlike kickboxing, turbo street dancing and others, yoga folks don’t watch one another. I was able to discreetly pop the girls back into my bra, and continue. Once. The second time it was embarrassing, and the third time was downright humiliating. My breasts and I left yoga early.

Since I still needed a workout, and I’m reading a great book, I went and found a stationery bicycle. I parked my ass down, set it for level 7, and started pedaling and reading. Unfortunately when I looked up from my book, Regis and Kelly were on the monitor in front of me. I’m guessing Kelly has never left yoga class because her tits spilled out the top of her bra. I’m also pretty sure she doesn’t read while she works out.

I left the bicycle in favor of the elliptical, and it took all my self control to not declare, “I”m on this fucking elliptical because Kelly Rippa is a skinny bitch.”

Last week I was directed to the Unassisted Birth Story of Estella Lenore. My children’s birth stories are a little bit different. They go like this.

Mommy checked into the hospital.  Mommy said “ouch” the really nice doctor gave mommy a shot in the back. Ninety minutes later you were born.

No, I’m not kidding. It’s pretty un-dramatic, and if I could’ve had them born without participating at all… well that would have been my dream come true.

Though my hat is off to the women who choose natural childbirth, I’m not envious, I don’t feel like I’ve missed anything and, frankly, I feel a little squeamish just hearing the stories.

Then comes the whole other issue of placenta eating. If you read Estella’s birth story, you’ll see that her mom capped off the day with a placenta smoothie.When Bosley over at Momversation asked me what I wanted to talk about this week, I said, “eating your placenta!”

My friends have eaten, planted and buried their placentas. It never even dawned on me to do anything with it. I’m pretty sure I never looked at it, or if I did I blocked it out.This week on Momversation Rebecca Woolf, Daphne Brogdon, Maggie Mason and I discuss Placenta Dining. Click through for a very fun and funny video.

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Feels pretty much like 39, except I got to walk up to Mulholland this morning without worrying about anyone else’s plans. The kids don’t seem to be fighting, and I haven’t had to pick up after anyone.

So I guess that’s a perfect day.

Lisa Belkin wrote a great article about what it means to be a wife, both at our age, and at our mother’s ages. In the Motherlode Lisa talks about the evolution of our marriages. She notes that “Women still seem to want to be brides… and mothers… but we rarely describe ourselves as wives.”

That made me sad.

Being a bride was pretty awesome. Being a mother is incredible. Being a wife is my joy.

I don’t want to be my husband’s partner. In his lifetime my husband will have a multitude of partners. He’ll have partners at work, he will have partners in projects. My husband will have tennis partners and golf partners. If I do this right, my husband will have one wife.

I chose my words with care, you did not misread.

I assign great value to my role as his wife. I may not work outside the house, but what goes on in this house is work. I know people believe that everything can be farmed out. I understand that there are perfectly content families who eat their meals out most nights, where both parents work, and husbands iron their own shirts. Bless you, but I don’t want your life.

When we married we signed a ketubah. I promised to be a good wife, and he promised to care for me. We’ve followed some very traditional roles, and it’s not because we are adverse to a non traditional setup, it’s because this is what makes us both happy.

When it’s 9:00 on a Thursday night, and I’m finishing the dishes and wondering if I have the energy to give the floor a quick swipe with the mop it’s easy to wish that I was my husband’s partner. I’d love for him to do half the housework. Well… but then I remember that what really tuckered me out what the sadist in charge of the 10am yoga class. We don’t work harder than one another, we just work different hours.

If I were a woman working outside the home, I’d be no less a wife. Every moment you are married, you are wedded not only to your husband, but to the concept of marriage. You work together as a team to make a collective dream come true. I don’t know what your dreams are, but I hope you can achieve them with your spouse.

I’m not my husband’s servant just because I’m a good wife.

Being his wife means that I’m special, that he will take care of me, and I will take care of him. Being a wife means until my last breath I have one allegiance. Being my husband’s wife makes me able to be a better mother, a happier and more fulfilled woman. Being my husband’s wife assures my children that they will have a home, not just a house.

Sometimes being a wife means mopping the floor and putting on a little lipstick.

Since I didn’t marry until I was 27 and my husband didn’t marry until he was 32, I fully expect that both my children will need to know how to sew a button, earn a living, balance a checkbook and to live alone. I also know how to take the trash out, catch and gut a fish, earn a living and scoop the dog poop. I don’t actually do these things though, because I’m a wife.

My job is to provide my husband and our children with a rich and harmonious home. I suspect that if you asked my husband, he would say the same.

I’m a wife. I love being a wife. I suspect many women feel the same way.

I’m uncomfortable with this blog and the tone of the mom  blogging community.

ShePosts.com is a new site, and I think it reads like a hall of shame.

I love sharing common experiences. I love the process of finding great things, and I love the community that has evolved out of tech.

I’ll be at twestival tonight. I hope it helps wash some of the ick off.

I’m not sure what direction I’m taking online, but I know what direction I’m headed offline. I’m finding that every day I care a little less what anyone outside of my family thinks of me. It’s liberating.

I was up at 6.30 this morning to get the kids to school early. Why? Today is generations day. The kids invite someone from another generation (Grandparents, friends… mommy’s tennis partner…) to the school for the morning. What’s really super cool (according to Jane) is that the 5th grade kids get to escort the guests from the entry of the school to the host child’s classroom. When you are eleven this is a big deal.

This is Jane’s last Generations day, as this is her last year of lower school. She’s the big kid. My baby is the big kid.

I’m so excited to have the kids home for two and a half weeks. I love having more time with them. I love the stress of school being over. I love just sitting and relaxing and being with them. Being a part of their day without constantly having to shuttle them along to the next thing.