My Emilie : Chicken Nugget Stupor

I have an Emilie. She's my best friend and we rock at life.
Even when one of us makes an incredibly bad decision.
Which, surprise, I did.

The following text is our most recent email conversation, some wording has been changed to protect the innocent.

To: Emilie
From: Tamzilla

Subject: I need you to extract my stomach...

because I'm a fatty that ate 20 effing chicken nuggets for lunch! And they are sooooo not being my friend right now. At the time they were amazing and I was like what the hell ever but uh, now, I'm pretty sure I'm going to explode.
Also, I have no idea if I'll be able to eat whatever we cook tonight because like I said I ate 20 motherfucking chicken nuggets.

God help me.

From: Emilie

To: Tamzilla

Subject : RE: I need you to extract my stomach...

Justin wants to grill burgers which don't really sound appetizing at all to me but easy. And easy sounds better than appetizing at the moment. I literally feel like I could fall over and go to sleep. I have been on hold for oh....6 mins and counting...

From: Tamzilla

To: Emilie

Subject : RE: I need you to extract my stomach...

I give you permission to go to sleep. And if you do, and Larry, Curly or Moe call you out on it, just say Tamara said it was okay and if they're like WTF just be like "she's in a Mcnugget induced stupor and she threatened my life if I didn't and you don't fuck with a girl and her nuggets. FACT."

Also, I'm turning this into a blog right now.

 
I know, I know, 20 freaking nuggets. I don't know what I was thinking other than 'my gawd, these are amazinngg, I must have more.' It's like I was a zombie lusting for brains, a vampire yearning for blood, a sandwich begging for cheese.

But it can't just be me? I'm not the only one that has devoured ridiculous amounts of food only to later discover that your new best friend will be the toilet? Right? RIGHT?

Sweet baby Jesus help us all.
 

Mommyhood : Tears of Joy

I'm sure you've heard the expression, tears of joy, before. It's one of those things that catch you completely unawares and amazed and grateful.

For those of you that really know me, you're well aware that my mother is an amazingly upbeat, incredible woman, despite years of domestic abuse. And when I was 13 she shot and killed her abuser. She was set to go to trial, but chose a lesser plea of manslaughter for fear of never seeing her 3 kids again. She was released when I was 17 and still to this day she cries every time she sees me for the first time. Since she lives out of state it's usually just once a year, if that.

We were gone for two days this past weekend without me seeing my daughter and you can bet your ass I teared up like a pre-teen who just bought a lock of Justin Bieber's hair on eBay when I saw her toofless smile. (I call her toofless, because, well, I like saying toofless instead of toothless. Try it. It's way more fun, I promise.)

I was, in that moment, in complete awe at how much of my heart, my soul, was inhabited by this strawberry blonde wonder and before I knew it, I felt for the first time real tears of joy. Sure, when I watch movies sometimes I'll get all flusterfludged at sentimental moments, but nothing like how I was feeling when I locked eyes with my Lillie.


I never quite understood why Mom always cried. I thought I did at the time. But I really didn't. And even now, it's not quite the same.Because I've never gone a year(s) without seeing my baby, and as an adult now with a child of my own I feel remorse. Remorse for not being more attentive to my mother when she was so alone in the world and all she had were her kids. Remorse for being so selfish. Remorse for not being a better daughter. For not telling her how my day went even though all I did was go to school and come home. For rolling my eyes. For not being more grateful that she gave me life and loved me so openly.

Because besides God, who does that?

But you know what? Mom's do. Dad's do. Grandparent's do. People do. And I hate that it's taken me 25 years and a child to fully realize that. There are people like that. People that love like that.

And the fact that I can love like that is amazing.

Truly, truly fucking amazing.

Mud Nationals 2011, Part I

It's been 4 months and we've never been away from our Lillie Mae for more than 20 hours. Nor has she been further than 30 minutes away from me. Sure, she's had slumber parties with the family so Alfred and I can have some adult time without worrying about what color her soft-serve (read: poop) she'll be impressing us with for the evening. Or whether she's going to let us watch a movie without a sound (read: never). Or if I fed her last at 3pm or 4pm (read: 2pm).

So, despite this possibly making me sound like the worst parent in the world I'm still going to say it. (Because obviously when you become a parent, you're no longer allowed to enjoy things that don't involve your kids.)

I was incredibly excited for this past weekend to come to pass. And I had been for oh, say, the last year. It was this time last year that I had found out I was just barely pregnant (yay!) and yet, we still had plans to head to Mud Nationals; a mud-slamming, 4-wheeler riding, hell of a party event that we've been frequenting for the past few years. I talked with the doctor, he gave me the okay and we went even though mentioning that we were going  and that I was pregnant to anyone pretty much landed me the stank eye from every possible angle. I reveled in it. But I had a great time as I pretended my Dr.Pepper was laced with Parrot Bay and amazingly, my daughter popped outta the ol' kid chute with no problem.

And for 2011, with no bun in the oven, I was bound and determined to make this weekend a beautiful endeavor into some much needed debauchery and boozehounding. And with the help of my amazingly awesome friends, Emilie and Lauren, it was. Oh, it was. 

The guys (there were 6 of us in total) headed out Thursday night to set up camp, because they claimed they wanted a good spot but us women knew they all really just wanted a guys' night. But being the awesome wives we are, we let them believe we believed them. It's how we roll. Not to mention, I wasn't mad at hogging Lillie for one night before heading out Friday morning.

Emilie stayed the night with me, I dropped off Lillie with her awesome cousins for the weekend, Lauren showed up - we shoved Emilie's Impala (I merely mention the make of the car because it comes into play later on in the weekend antics) full of our crap and headed out. We got there by 2:30 with no trouble, a lot of laughs and one helluva playlist I've been working on for weeks that has temporarily broken me. By 2:45 we were hitting up the trails, staring into the wonderful world of rednecks and refilling our coolers with, uh, beverages at a surprisingly low rate. We were all very much on the same page as we want to ride, not get so tore-down that we somehow lose a shoe, our dignity and a chunk of our hair in a 15 minute window.

However, that page was torn out and thrown down the porter-potty around the time dark started to set in. There's a camera full of pictures in my purse that will no doubt make the person manning the photo-booth when I drop them off say "What in the wooorrlll..." Because yes, my friends, there was a dance contest. An amazing one at that and we all came across a.... fanny pack.

For the record, I don't have a problem with fanny packs. I mean, they're relatively useful if you for some reason have too many items that won't fit in your pockets and you also need to hold up your pants. But if like the rest of us you've moved past the 80s, you probably don't see them much anymore.This guy was sporting it like nobody's business and while we were able to sneak in a picture (thanks, Emilie!) we were not however, able to sneak away from our comments.

Yep, he totally caught us talking about it. And while we weren't saying anything particularly bad other than "WTF, a fanny pack?!" And of course, me saying "Dayummm, you know if we bedazzled that we would def be rocking that look and I so wouldn't be mad at it." But he was a sport, offered us a beer or 3 and then later we found out WHY he was so proud of it.

*ahem* Puff, Puff *ahem*

Right about that time, we said sayanara and did a few more trails without any stragglers.

We called it a night (or a morning depending on how literal you want to be), woke up Saturday with very few ill-effects other than Lauren's bum knee from her amazing dance set she pulled out. And some regurgitated pot roast that we'll just pretend we didn't see.

And this my friends, is the end of Part I. Part II will be up and happening in a couple days - hopefully with photos.

Feet Monger

So, I have feet. No, no, no...not just feet, but feeeeet. It's like someone stuck two beanpoles into clown shoes just to have something to point and laugh at. Wearing a size 10 or 11 (okay, fine, an 11, sheesh) I was fairly self-conscious of them growing up. I mean, I would kid and what-not but deep down I would stare at those size 7's with so much envy, my eyes turned the color of the Incredible Hulk. But I've grown to love and embrace them, and the fact that some shoes cute in a size 7 will never, ever, be cute in an 11. It's just the way of life. 

Even when I go shopping people, I don't look at the shoes, I look at the size on the box before I even get my hopes up. With all that said, I am very much a shoe whore. I love heels, the taller the better (because of course it makes my foot look smaller) and because I have no qualms about towering over people since I've been doing it for most of my life (I'm 5'10").

And I know, that while every parent says they'll love their kids no matter what they still all have things that they hope they don't inherit. Unfortunately for Lillie, it looks like she got her mama's feet. But on the bright side, they're amazing tools for picking up dirty laundry and maybe, just maybe, I'll finally have someone I can share shoes with someday.

4 Months Later

Lillie is now 12 lbs 5 oz and 25 inches long and right where she needs to be developmentally. She's been sleeping through the night for the past month and  has the cute, innocent act down to perfection when we're in public.  I have no complaints.Which is why I believe we'll have hell to pay when our next child comes.  

But, 4 months. Sweet baby Jesus, it's been 4 months. It blows my mind. I mean, as I was growing up and I'd hear adults say "Now, sweetie, enjoy it now because the older you get the faster it goes"  I'd nod, smile and roll my eyes (of course, while they weren't looking - I wasn't stupid). But it's true, after hitting 21 it really feels like my life has just flown by. And it's gone even faster with what free time I had before Lillie being occupied by, well, Lillie.

I mean, my 10 year high school reunion is next year for pete's sake.
And I actually look forward to Way Back Wednesday's on the radio.

*sigh*

I can only imagine how fast the rest of my days are going to come. But for now, I'm doing my damdest to enjoy the time I have with the two loves of my life.

Beer and wine...oh, wait, uhh I mean Lillie and Alfred.

Dammit.

Mommyhood : Baby Body

I enjoy looking good. I like the way it makes me feel to know that I'm put-together. I love the way new clothes, shoes and make-up can make me feel. I admit that I'm slightly vain.

And while all this is true, 90% of the I'm still very much a jeans and t-shirt girl. I have no problem rolling up my sleeves to get a little dirty, or walking out of the house in a ponytail with no make-up.(Okay, mascara is my one thing I do make sure I have on, it's critical to my self-esteem. Don't judge me.) So, because of this I didn't think the after effects of what my body was going to look like from having Lillie were going to affect me to the extent that they have.

I gained weight. I gained a lot of weight. The last two months I just gave in to my wants. I was miserable and everything was swollen and I learned how to justify it.

I deserve to eat what I want, I mean, I'm the one carrying this hell child who refuses to go lower than my ribs. Right? Sure. Bring on the oreos, bitches.

Not to mention, you could have bathed a whale with all the water I had stored in me.

And the feeling of euphoria and power - yes, power - I felt that first month after having Lillie was amazing. I was so proud of how I looked. I felt invincible. I pushed a freaking baby out of my vagina, for pete's sake, nothing could stop me. Stretch marks, muffin tops - you name it - I owned that shit.

And then, reality started coming back to me. I have to go back to work in a couple weeks! I'm going to have to go into public! Sweet baby Jesus do I have anything that still fits me! Sure, societal image probably played a role in how I felt; but, regardless, of the reasoning the fact was that I was still ashamed that I wasn't back into my normal jeans. And despite all the great compliments and awesome support from my close friends and family, I still felt disgusting.

"It takes 9 months to put it on, it'll take that long to take it off" - screw you, talk to the 4 other people I know who dropped all their weight in 2 months.

"Your child doesn't care what you look like" - screw you, a lot of people don't care what I look like but I do and how I feel is what's affecting me right now.

I wasn't supposed to be this person, I was supposed to be strong and proud of what my body looks like. I wasn't this girl in my heart, so why was I in my head.

And then, I came across this posting and I cried.

http://starvingartistink.com/the-shape-of-a-mother/

I cried because this woman, this woman was so proud and brave for putting those images out there. And it truly lessened the damage I felt had happened to my own self-worth and for that I think I'll be forever grateful to this complete stranger.

I am, of course, in the midst of transforming myself physically. Working out, eating better and playing with Lillie every chance I get (pushing a stroller looks easy, but tell that to my arms!) - but this post it really helped me emotionally and I felt obligated to share. Because I don't think enough women out there feel comfortable enough with the world, with themselves, to be completely honest when it comes to pregnancy and their kids. And that's something I promised myself I would be when Alfred and I decided to start a family.  And something I try to continually do with this blog.

I hope that if you're reading this and you've ever been down on yourself, on your body, because of pregnancy or because of society's norm that this post helps.

Because you, my friend, are amazing. And we simply don't tell each other that enough.

Addiction: iTunes

I have this problem. And the problem with this problem is that I fully embrace it. I do not want to give it up. I, I, ....love it. I lust for it. I would roll around naked in bed with it if I could. I love the way it makes me feel. I love the way it makes me remember. I love the way it sounds. 

I..I..am an iTunes whore. I buy music like a lonely woman downs a box of chocolates, I start with one and before I know it I'm sitting in a pile of brown paper wrappers licking chocolate-stained fingers and hoping that Alfred doesn't walk through that door to witness my fall. 

I don't go looking for 7 new songs to add to my 1400 + songs I already own when I only really want just one. It's iTunes. I mean, it knows things.

This, my friends, is the conversation that would happen if iTunes could talk.

iTunes: Heyyyyy Tamara! Girl, where you been? I ain't seen you lately, you've been missing out.
Me: Oh, yeah, you know, I've been around. Just chilling, really.

iTunes: I see you just bought Lady Gaga, she's rocking it, ain't she?

Me: Ohhhh yeah, I couldn't resist. We're going to Mud Nationals in a few weeks and I wanted a good playlist.

iTunes: Girl, why didn't you tell me! You should reallllly look at Katy Perry "Firework", based on your recent purchases, I bet you'd enjoy her.

Me: Ohh, I don't know. I shouldn't.

iTunes: Come on, Tam. It's me. It's ME. Why would I lie to you? You're going to love it, and I already have all your information. All you have to do is click purchase, baby. No one will have to know but you, me, and that lovely little iPod you have. 

Me: Yeah...yeah, yeah you're right, it's not a big deal. It's just two songs. Not a big deal. Right?
<*click*>
Me: Okay, done.

iTunes: See, not so bad. Oh, and by the way did you see we now have 69cent songs?

The last thing I hear is maniacal iTunes laughter and frantic clicking of the mouse.

I justify it to myself in the way that, hey, at least it's not crack-cocaine? I mean, it helps me sleep at night that way. 

Do you have any vices that you hate loving so much?