Mama Nuggle

Yesterday, I introduced myself to you by way of a manic, frenetic post about the financial costs associated with having children. You learned I am an OCD mom with an unhealthy Wal-Mart obsession. My hyper ramblings place me squarely between Type-A and ADD. My apologies, but I fear my future posts will not be any more coherent. That’s just who I am. Still with me? OK, good. So here I go…

I am not a woman who feels my sole purpose in life is to reproduce and have children. (I can feel the hate mail being generated already.) I am sure my kids will be loving, well-rounded geniuses nonetheless, but let’s just say it took me a while to warm up to actually having them.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, I was raised in the biggest small town you can imagine. We lived in a sleepy bedroom community, in a small ranch house that my parents built almost 40 years ago. There were very few kids in my neighborhood. I am the youngest, so I was not raised with babies in the house. I didn’t like to babysit. (Why torture myself with screaming kids when I could make more money as a waitress? I was damn good, and it taught invaluable patience that I draw on repeatedly as a mom.)

My hometown is a juxtaposition of geographic features: a mixture of aging boroughs, suburban sprawl, and urban ghetto. Yet, it is surrounded by thousands of acres of rural farmland. (I kid you not - my first “real” boyfriend lived on Fish & Game Road and hunted deer in his backyard. I can still to this day help repair an electric fence and know that trout prefer Velveeta as bait. Thanks, Brian.) As kids, we played in the cornfields and were forever bringing stray animals home. I read books by the dozens. Lazy summer days were spent at day camp at the elementary school down the street or frolicking at the local swimming pool.

My parents were teachers. My father taught art classes in grades K-6, and I - of course - was his star pupil. Together, they have never lived outside this particular city. Consequently, my parents know or have heard of practically everyone in town. Going to the county fair was (and still is) a nightmare, with excited choruses of “Mr. S, Mrs. S!” being chanted by past students down every midway. Even fifteen years later, when we go out to dinner as a family, my parents will know at least one person in the restaurant. Guaranteed.

As a teen, I couldn’t screw up without my parents knowing it almost immediately. My friends’ parents would turn on police scanners and listen while kids got busted for underage drinking / DUI. Gossip spread like wildfire. I was smart enough (read: lucky) that I rarely ever got in trouble (read: I didn’t get caught.) That being said, my sister and I were the apples of our parents’ eyes. (Shout out to my dad - if you’re reading this, I know I’m your favorite. Sorry Lisa!) Their world revolved around ours. We ate dinner as a family every single night in the week.  My parents took us to and from school every day until we graduated. They never missed a sporting event, and we participated in every extra-curricular activity under the sun. My two obsessions were boys and getting kick-ass grades so that I could earn a college scholarship. (A perfectionist and overachiever from the start, I was a straight-A student who graduated valedictorian and breezed through college in 3 ½ years. I was stupidly anxious to get on with the rest of my life.)

Why am I telling you all this? Well, so you have an idea of what my childhood was like, and how it shaped my decision to become a mom. To sum it up, my parents lived and breathed for us. A pretty tough act to follow.

Fast forward a few years: I met Jeremy (at work.) An older, married colleague begrudgingly hired Jeremy into our company. I say “begrudgingly” because A) Jeremy was overqualified, and B) that colleague was afraid Jeremy and I would meet, fall in love, get married, and quit our jobs. Which is precisely what happened. Well, maybe not in that order.

After Jeremy and I got married, I got some great practice as a “pinch hitter” (read: step-mom) to Chani. Despite living several hours away, we have never, in almost ten years, missed a planned monthly visit or failed to spend a major holiday with Chani. We were kind of like the US Postal Service ….”Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” when it came to spending much needed time with Chani.

In our early stages as a couple, Jeremy and I chose to have fun, travel, and focus on our careers. That, combined with my fervent belief that babies should be born in the summer, meant waiting a few years before having kids together. (I mean, who the hell wants maternity leave during a brutally cold Mid-Atlantic winter? ) Each year, the “window of opportunity” to have a summer baby would open. We’d negotiate. And renegotiate. Then we’d agree to keep the status quo. Perhaps next year would be the year to literally “pull the trigger”? The years rolled by… one year turned into seven. I finally realized the clock was ticking. Not necessarily a biological one, but more of a mental one. We would have always found some reason why “now is not the right time.” So we threw caution to the wind, and decided to “Git ‘er done.”

Turns out, our timing was perfect.  In May 2006 we welcomed our amazing son Ty. Right from the start, this tiny little boy gripped my heart in ways I never thought possible. I have his smell indelibly stamped into my memory. I can hear his cry in a crowded place, and know instantly that he needs me. His smile melts my heart. I live for (s)nuggling with Ty before bedtime. As my maternity leave drew to a close, I dreaded the thought of leaving the house. I adamantly refused to let anyone outside the family watch him (I still do.) I bawled uncontrollably my first day back to work.  I can remember vividly the first time I thought, “This is the absolute best thing I have ever done with my life (right after snagging Ty’s daddy!) Why the heck did we wait so long to do this in the first place?”

Looking back now, the only answer I can come up is this:

I realize our decision to postpone having children was because deep down, we knew that being a parent means sacrifice and selflessness. At that time in our lives,  I don’t think we were fully committed to doing either. I almost hesitate to use the word sacrifice, because that essentially implies giving something up. Let me be perfectly clear here - being a mom fills my “emotional bucket” in ways nothing else can. Here’s a breakthrough confession for you: as a perfectionist,  I worried that I would fail at trying to “do it all.” I agonized about failing as a wife, as a mom, and as a professional, and that I would screw up the best things that ever happened to me. Finally, I was scared shitless that I wouldn’t measure up to the idyllic standards that my own parents set. To be quite honest with you, I still am (scared shitless, that is.)

At some point, I realized that I think we are never truly prepared for the challenges and rewards that being a parent brings. Although Jeremy had been a dad for many years before we welcomed Ty and now Caitlin, I think we would both agree that being a non-custodial parent is nothing like being the one in charge day in and day out. Though the emotional love is the same, the grueling exhaustion and daily rewards of being a full-time parent is totally different than being a “pinch hitter”.

The role of mom seems to come before every other title that I have, namely because I am now responsible for someone else that either NEEDS or WANTS me virtually every minute of every day. Of course, some day they won’t, and I will lament that time too. Sadly, I seem to forget that Jeremy (being a self-sufficient adult who can verbally communicate his wants) needs me too.  I need to do a better job of prioritizing my “wife” role. Nevertheless, I do my best to give everyone my all every day. I know that some days I hit it right out of the park, and other days I don’t even get off the bench. The only thing I know for sure is that I wouldn’t trade being a wife or parent for anything in the world. I hope and pray that someday, in the very far off future, my kids will feel the same.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone! It is day two here at Mama Nuggle headquarters, and I just wanted to say a big thank you to all of you who have stopped by!

Although everyone will probably busy BBQ’ing, hangin out, watching fireworks, and just plain celebrating, I wanted to use some time today to update my site. If you’d like to join my blogroll, drop me a comment or send me an e-mail to lori@mamanuggle.com.

Enjoy your day today!

Perhaps it’s odd that my first conversation with you discusses the financial costs associated with having children. Note: I did not say raising children… referring to the lifetime commitment of providing for their well being and fulfilling their needs. That is a post for a different day. Nope, I meant the sheer act of welcoming kids into your home.

I had a moment yesterday in which I realized that – duh, here’s a newsflash for ya –
Kids are expensive.

My moment of clarity occurred just after spending $249 at Super Wal-Mart.

I am a Wal-Mart addict. There, I’ve said it.

The conversation with myself went something like this, “How the hell did I spend $249 - in less than an hour? After just having spent $106 at Costco? And $52 at the grocery store? What did I freaking BUY???? Oh yes, I remember now… this is what happens you buy 3 kinds of diapers for two kids … and formula… and coffee to get through the wee morning hours… and conditioner guaranteed to make hair grow to “beautiful lengths”… and that special UVB-blocking, anti-aging sunscreen (because who wants a wrinkled toddler?)…and milk… and food for a cookout with my in-laws this weekend… and two gift cards for wedding anniversaries… and bottled water to make the formula because we have never – in four years – replaced the water filter on the fridge and I couldn’t possibly feed my precious baby girl tap water, could I? And the list goes on.

Let me back up just a bit and introduce myself properly. I am a full time working mother (currently on maternity leave) to a toddler boy and an infant girl. I am also a step-mom to a teenage girl. My husband and I have been married for nine years. When we first met, all Jeremy had in his fridge was a six pack of Diet Coke, a box of wine, and a bag of animal crackers on the counter. His stove only had one working burner. The oven didn’t work at all. Bats lived in his attic. That should have told me that food and entertaining were not high on his priority list.

And this summer, our house has been, to put it nicely, Grand Central Freaking Station. Jeremy and I are… ahem… homebodies. We like people, we really do. We just don’t enjoy entertaining that much… because, quite frankly, having “company” is expensive, and a lot of work. Really, we love our friends and family. Have I convinced you yet that I am not an anti-social bitch? The truth of the matter is that Jeremy and I are just a little OCD about cleanliness and order…

OK, we are very OCD.
Yes, I said it.
Out loud, and in print.
Kind of like that guy Jeff on Flipping Out. But not that bad. Just kinda.

And well, the only way to maintain cleanliness and order in a house with three minors is to just have people – (*gasp!*) – stay home.

Cue the music from Jaws.

I have come to realize that the chaos that is our house right now has absolutely NOTHING to do with Jeremy and I, and everything to do with the kids. We were NEVER this popular before having kids. (There comes a point when every adult realizes your parents created you just so that you could produce grandchildren. In that shocking moment of clarity, you suddenly realize that no one gives a flying fig Newton about you. It’s all about the kids / grandkids. Do I sound bitter to you? Nah, I’m just being snarky – and realistic.) Anyway, we have burned through copious amounts of money in the past 6 months. All because of the kids. Well, mostly anyway.

For starters, in anticipation of the new baby, we redecorated all of the kids’ rooms. Meanwhile, Jeremy and I live with my childhood furniture (But honey, it’s an antique now!) Then, we (and by “we” I mean “I”) purchased excessive amounts of clothes for baby-Caitlin-on-the-way because, seriously, I couldn’t expect her to wear those hand-me-down “future quarterback” onsies, now could I? The kid now has a wardrobe to rival Paris Hilton and a shoe collection to make Imelda Marcos envious. I mean, hello, Eva Longoria’s stylist called, and asked if she could borrow Caitlin’s gold, sparkly, three inch stiletto Jimmy Choo’s “just this once?” (Ok, maybe Caitlin doesn’t have Jimmy Choo’s. They are really Christian Loboutain’s. Just kidding. Sorta.)

My shopping sprees included several to the Mecca of consumer excess (AKA ToysRUs) so we could celebrate Ty’s second birthday with about 20 friends and family members. My entire family stayed for the weekend. We ran out of beds. Someone got the couch. My mom. Happy Mother’s Day. Ouch! This over-the-top Disney production was then followed by a rock-star worthy surprise baby shower at the house, for me.

It was a very cool shower, and it came none too soon, for the next weekend we unexpectedly welcomed baby Caitlin. Six weeks early(!) Caitlin then spent 23 days in the NICU. (A really long story for another day. I shudder to think what the bill for that adventure will be.)

Meanwhile, to help us with Ty, our moms came and stayed while we made hundreds of trips to the hospital to see baby girl. For two people who suck at making regular meals a priority (What do you mean Diet Pepsi and Doritos snarfed down while driving to work are not a well balanced breakfast?!?! I beg to differ) we actually had to plan and provide meals. At normal times, like real adults do. And not on TV trays. (What do you mean 11 PM isn’t dinner time? It is ‘round here, yo.) And yes, that meant shopping for food. I could hear the cash register cha-ching-ing each time I buckled up my seatbelt for another trip to Super Wal-Mart to find provisions for the troops.

Oh, did I mention that Jeremy and I had a wedding anniversary in there? And Jeremy’s 36th birthday? And a new preemie at home? And we booked Chani on one… two… three… count ‘em… FOUR flights this summer to spend time with us and other far-flung family members? And it was her 14th birthday the day she arrived here? And she got a party, along with a PSP, a new haircut, and an entire new wardrobe (because, seriously, she like, NEEDED clothes, or so she tells us.)

It was at this point that VISA called, to inquire about “excessive and suspicious activity, of a potentially fraudulent nature.” I wanted to say “Hell no, it wasn’t us. Go catch the bastards running up my bill!” But then I had a vision of Jeremy being surrounded by sheriff’s deputies with weapons drawn as he tried to fill up his Dodge 1500 Ram truck with gas costing $4 a gallon. (I won’t even go there on current gas prices.) And realized I could get arrested and go to jail for making a false report. And then who would go to Wal-Mart for the family?

Why didn’t I realize how flippin’ expensive kids were before we had them? Well,
A. I am a moron.
B. I wouldn’t have listened anyway.
C. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. They just won’t get an inheritance.

By the way, did I mention that (post-Caitlin) I have decided to get an IUD to prevent further overspending? Is it just me, or has any one else ever found themselves having these “stop the insanity” moments? Please, help a sista out here…. let me know that I am not alone on this one!
Drop me a note, if you get a chance. I’ll respond as soon as I get back… from Wal-Mart.

Next up: the emotional cost of having kids.