Anne Nahm

I met up with my somewhat defunct church group last night. One of my friends who is my age is pregnant for the first time. She was all cute and naive, like most pregnant women when they want to talk to their friends about all things baby. Also, she had a super cute baby bump. Also? She is tall and skinny.

I remember being pregnant for the first time, and asking people things about baby birthing and raising, and expecting polite and gentle answers from these women sharing the bonds of motherhood with me. And then sobbing, face down, into my three chins and heaving belly when they told me stories of unimaginable horror and grisliness until I wanted to reach down and cover my vaginal opening so that my poor innocent baby would not have a chance hear of the terrors about to befall us both.

I made a solemn promise not to ever terrorize another first time mother. Not ever.

Over the next four years, I birthed two babies and had to learn how to nurse and care for them. And I learned something. It is nearly impossible to speak about anything birth or infant related without terrorizing a pregnant mother. Even if you read it straight out of a Hallmark card. It’s like Tourette’s or something: Oh, it is a beautiful, life changing exp– Mucus plug! Bloody show!- erience. You’ll be a great mom! 36 hours of labor! Episiotomies! Ack!

Anyway, last night at the meeting of the defunct church group, I bit my lip very hard and said nothing. I made good on my promise, let me tell you.

But now all these horrors stories are floating around in my head. So I must direct you to read this confession right here under this link that is not about unimaginable horror (I don’t think) but that I was dying to impart to Newly Pregnant Girl and resisted, so that I may feel I at least got to tell someone instead of the sweet girl six months pregnant.

Because a Nursing Coach once told me, “the suckling will break down the connective tissue of your nipple area and your flat nipples will eventually poke out to form a correct latch with the baby. It may hurt a little.” And I won’t be able to sleep until I know I’ve infected some other poor soul with this image.

PS:  Perhaps we should all get together, write down our stories, and publish a Sex Ed book that would actually prevent teenage sex.  I know one photo of my stretch marks could convince at least 50 girls out of going all the way prom night.

That title is not a euphemism for sex with an old dude or anything. I did that today. Made a turtle cry.

I took the kids to our podunk zoo this morning, to give my husband some time off. We got to the zoo right when it opened. (Because my two year old wakes up at 6:15 in the morning every day and demands things. Like food and a diaper change. I have been trying to show her how to do these things for herself. So far, no dice.)

At the zoo, on a Sunday, in the first hour that they open the gates? Not too many people there. So me and my two lovely children kept bumping into the same little blue haired ladies who were taking a morning constitutional amongst the animals. It gets awkward, you know? Bumping into the same two people all over the zoo.

I realize it’s not as awkward as back in college, when you discover the guy with whom you drunkenly played tonsil hockey at the Frat party Saturday night is also the T.A. for the Chemistry class you attend Tuesday afternoon or anything. And PS? That T.A. is actually a girl as you notice by the harsh florescent and sober chemistry lab lighting. Hello, Lesbian 101? Meet Alcoholism 202. Thumb wrestle to see who wins this scenario. Either way, the grand prize is an afternoon of thorough toothbrushing and stringent mouthwash.

So Blue Haired ladies not nearly so bad by comparison. But still? Not comfortable.

We stopped in front of the giant tortoise exhibit and one of the Blue Hairs said to me, “Look at that big guy in there. He sure looks like he wants to get out.”

Which, horrifying enough, was also what the T.A. of questionable gender might have said at some point that long ago Saturday evening.

The tortoise was pacing verrryy slowwwwly in front of the fence, his head poked out, eyeballing everyone. And as luck would have it, I have seen that very same turtle dude make an escape attempt before. In fact, I blogged about it here.

Seeing my opening to actually be socially functional, I said, “funny you should mention it, but we’ve seen that guy escape before!” And started to regale the Blue Hairs with the wild tale of that tortoise barreling through the fencing and making its way to the exit.

Blue Hairs One and Two were not impressed, even though I was making it a very short story. I kind of ended lamely with, “He went that away!” and pointed dramatically down the path.

I was looking at two prune faced women, let me tell you.

So Blue Hair Two says all witty, “you mean like your kid just did?” And of course, my kid had completely disappeared. And the two old ladies really guffawed at me. Tee-hee! Stupid mom loses kids! Aha! Ha. Ha.

That made my kid laugh. She was just around the corner.

Anyway, I got schooled by little old ladies at the zoo.

But then, after I had tackled my kid and footballed her under my arm and returned to the scene of the tortoise exhibit? The tortoise was crying. I shit you not. He had this big stream of tears leaking out of his eye and going down his green, bumpy cheek and turning into a little spot of mud at his jaw where he was dusty. Crying! Like that Native American Pollution commercial from the seventies! Shown here for dramatic effect:

I mean, it was probably an eye infection or something. Or maybe a fly zoomed right into his cornea and he was blinking it out. But I felt really, really bad for bringing up the aborted escape memories right in front of him. To get a laugh even. A cheap, blue haired laugh.

So my kids got to watch me have a heart to heart talk with the the big green guy re: How I knew the escape thing was going to happen for him if he just. Kept. At. It. Don’t lose heart! You’ll make it someday! Then he told me the same thing about my blog. So I flipped him off and left.

This week, I am a blistery, bruised, pruned-up nipple. From which everybody I know has come over, sucked out my vital nutrients, and gnawed my skin raw with emotional upheaval.

Children? Needy. Husband? Needy. Mother? Needy. Checker at the grocery store? Needy. Panhandler? Would give me a quarter to listen to him bitch until the light turns green. I would pay him a ten bucks to STFU and let me have a moment to think. I am apparently some sort of human wet bar, where people curl up in my lap and make themselves comfortable to engage me in emotional discussion and leave any old damn time they feel like it. Usually after they have been talking to my collapsed corpse for 20 minutes and I fail to respond, even when they give me a pinch.

So? I am now a giant nipple. It’s true. So true, in fact, that right now, writing this? Makes hunt-n-peck typing even more of a bitch without an icecube. The vestiges of my body are just one limp skin tag hanging over the back of the chair. I feel like I may hit official overdose of emotional content very soon. Signs of OD include: Wanting to punch things, watch football, and hide in the garage, tinkering with metal and wood so as to not have to ever talk to anyone again.

I feel delirious. I am trying to type this while two small children try to talk to me. They demand answers. I may pass out.

Hi. I’m getting a D+ in Anne 301 this quarter. Halp!

I thought I’d put you guys in the driver’s seat and see if you can do any better. Just what you were looking for on a Tuesday! Acing the How to Be a Better Anne Pop Quiz! Pencils ready? Go:

1. You’ve just moved lots of heavy furniture to vacuum the whole downstairs. Halfway through, you start to smell the vacuum cleaner. It smells like burnt tuna. Exits are blocked by all the furniture you just moved. You:

a) Turn off the vacuum, flip it over, and figure out what is going on! Must save precious vacuum! Also, must chase away stray cats who come to investigate smell.

b) Realize these are probably vacuum death throws. And damn, you just moved all the furniture. Vacuum faster, because it may be a while before there’s another working vacuum in the house. Don’t let that smoke distract you!

c) Lean over and whisper to the vacuum that you will never again try and vacuum up scotch tape, but please keep working, mama needs a clean floor for playdate. Pat canister gently. Accidentally vacuum up button while doing so. Consider eye exam.

2. You drive to the gym you’ve been going to for the last 3+ years. Oh Hai. It’s closed. Forever. You peer in through the window, and everything is gone except the hanging foam insulation from the ceiling. It’s just a gym, but it’s where you go and get Anne time twice a week, and damnit, your schedule is all messed up now.

a) You still have ten dollars on your childcare card. Probably if the gym is closed, your ten get-out-of-momming-free bucks are gone. Do you send a letter requesting a refund anyway?

b) Your new choices are Curves and Megalopolis Gym of Spandex & Silicone. Where do you go?

3. After cleaning your house, you call about 7 other mothers for a playdate, 36 hours from the time of phone calls. This is the furthest in time you can expect the house to remain reasonably clean and also air out the vacuum cleaner smell. Also? Like a dumbass, you leave message invitations.

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With seven hours until go time, three people have RSVP’d. One said ‘yes’, one said, ‘maybe’, and one said, ‘I’ll try to swing by after work’. Do you: Cancel? Or risk having a party where one mom comes? If you chose ‘risk’, please explain how many food items you prepare for party.

4. After watching half the second season of Big Love, you realize you are having a little difficulty separating fantasy from reality. Like you start worrying maybe Margene, Barb, and Nicki will do something interesting while you are not there. After your husband repeatedly explains how DVD’s work (with full example of pressing the freeze and stop buttons to your horror (Zomg! Time Has Stopped!) and fascination (I can go pee!)) you conclude maybe it is time to seek help. Make help recommendations in the space provided below.

5. Your husband reads your last post about the weekend with dinosaurs. He smiles wistfully and says, “I wish our lives looked like that.” He was there the whole time. He actually took some of those picture. Is he kidding? Serious? Justify your answer in 500 words or less. Extra credit for any diagrams explaining how the male mind actually works.

Thanks for your help! To show my appreciation, I’m serving Bananarama for dessert:

It is indeed a cruel summer.

Went to the beach yesterday.

Held the whole world briefly in my hand. It smelled of low tide.

Came home and had a picnic under the trees in the backyard.

We watched the neighbor’s dinosaurs graze.

He’s been feeding them surfers. Apparently, the boards are very tasty.

But difficult to pass.