Aftershave & Alternating Nostrils

I’m beginning to think that lack of sleep is not the only thing that turns me into Kim Laden. During the recent visit of my husband’s in-laws, another likely source of my alter ego revealed itself … my parents.

My mother spent her time cooing over the baby and surreptitiously eyeing my lack of domestic skills and making comments such as, “You know, you should really get a bedskirt for the guest bed,” or “This linoleum is really dirty … maybe you should put a wax coat on it,” or better yet, “You probably wouldn’t have such a spider problem if you’d vacuum more.” And of course there’s, “Why don’t you try the Presbyterian church?” “When are you going to take John to Olan Mills to get his picture made? We’ll pay for it.” “Please let me do some of that laundry.”

My dad, on the other hand, occupied his time by playing hours of computer solitaire (or, as he says, “solitary”), eating Baskin Robbins sugar-free candies in an attempt not to chew (and abandoning the wrappers all over the house), AND applying entirely too much Calvin Klein aftershave. The latter of these seemingly mundane actions nearly caused a divorce (an event which is uncommon, having only occurred one other time over a prickly pear cactus).

The aftershave application and the subsequent kissing of the baby led to the baby smelling like the aftershave, me getting a headache, baby getting a rash, and B having “a burning nose” and a desire to “drill a hole” in his own head. I asked my husband to please not say anything to his father-in-law but to allow me to do the honors, since B had already announced that due to my dad’s bad knee, we’d feel more comfortable if he always sat down while holding the baby. I was going to discuss the situation with my father as soon as I finished applying my make-up—an affair which is all-too-rare in these days of stay-at-home motherhood.

But then my husband proceeded to attempt to handle the issue in a quite extraordinary, passive-aggressive display of opening up all the windows and doors. This was apparently an endeavor to rid the house of the offensive aftershave odor. But it was FEBRUARY and cold and rainy.

I was upstairs thinking how great cover cream is for hiding the popped blood vessels that you get on your face when you push out a baby when I heard my dad’s mouse stop clicking. Then he asked, “What are you opening up all the doors and windows for?”

“Oh, just to get some fresh air,” B replied.

That was it. I slammed down the mascara wand and stormed downstairs to confront my dad, who was still playing solitary on the computer. We stepped into the guest bedroom and I told him that the aftershave was causing lots of allergic reactions and asked him to please swab it off (I even proffered a baby wipe for this job). My dad in turn says, “OK, well I think I got some different stuff at home. By the way, darlin’, what can I get your mama for our anniversary?”

Now I knew that their anniversary was coming up, but at this point in my life I can’t even keep up with what day of the week it is, much less recall their anniversary date on the spot, and so I said, “I’ll have to think about it. When is it again?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered.

And thus began my first meal of the day, when I realized that not only am I an HE, but a DE as well. In fact, let’s just call me an ME. I wanted to run screaming from my house yanking at my hair like Medusa. But it was raining—not just raining, pouring with thunder and lightning. I’m not scared of a little rain, but I do feel the need to stay out of the way of lightning as much as possible. This is the 947th time my dad has asked me what he can buy my mom for some gift-giving event, although I have told him repeatedly that playing the role of personal shopper is not one of my daughterly duties.

So I went upstairs, applied the brightest red lipstick that I own, and lay down on the bed to practice alternating nostril breathing while reading some more of the Earth’s Children series. After reading for several minutes, I realized another reason why I like the books so much: the heroine is much like me. She was adopted into a family of lesser-evolved homosapiens and never quite comes to understand their ways. I’m not saying my parents are lower on the biological chain, I’m just saying they’re weird. Really weird. Weird to the point of making you want to move into your closet and play some Reba McEntire tapes (which is what I did in 6th grade).

And then my husband came upstairs and said, “What are we going to do about breakfast?” Yes, all of this happened before breakfast. I’m not sure if he failed to realize the gravity of the situation with my dad or if he was just trying to change the subject, but this was not the right time to discuss pancakes. And this was what my brain was doing:

Left nostril in. Out. Right nostril in. Out. There’s a big crack in our ceiling. The closet door is open. I have no clothes that fit into Oprah’s “keep them” category (fits your image, makes you look good). Oh my goodness I’m forgetting to breathe. Left in, out. Right in, out. Did I turn off the coffeemaker? Where is my child? I wonder if our paint is lead-based? Did he just have the nerve to ask me about breakfast? I have got to stop eating that frozen deer sausage everyday … oops, left, right …

“Kim … hello? What are we going to do about breakfast?”

And that’s when I pounced. But he’s wily, that husband. Apparently part of his training by the National Park Service included a lesson on how to get out of situations involving man-eating terrorist predators. With my physical assault averted, I instead launched into what he calls a Kim Laden attack—this time, a tirade about the annoying nature of all families … his, mine, everybody’s. How they’re all freakin’ nuts and how we should just move to Outer Mongolia in the hopes that they couldn’t visit as much.

The ever-so-calm husband then replied, “No, Kim, that wouldn’t work, because then they’d have to come for longer periods of time. I think what’s happening here is that you’re frustrated with your parents and it’s making you revert back to your childhood tantrum-throwing ways because you don’t know how else to handle the situation. You look so pretty with that red lipstick, why don’t we go out and get breakfast?” Yes, he’s an amateur psychologist as well as a homeland security officer (domestic terrorism department), herpetologist, ornithologist, and just all-around great guy. Let's call him Renaissance Man. He knows that food and/or flattery will get him everywhere.

And so we went out to the Pancake Pantry, and another ME feast was avoided. I opted for blueberry buckwheat pancakes instead. On the way out my dad said, “I hope our waitress got her tip—I saw them Mexican bus boys eyeing it.” He’s lucky I was full.

Kim Laden

My husband has given me a new name: Kim Laden

Don't know how to pronounce it? Hint: it rhymes with Osama's last name. Do you think that means I'm like a terrorist declaring jihad in my own domicile? Boy does that lend new meaning to the term "domestic terrorism." Do you think metaphorical people eating has ever been declared an act of terrorism? Things to ponder.

I have other fun names too ... there's Kimmy Crack Corn (notice the use of Crack) and Kimberlytuna (and no, I did not get this name from eating a lot of tuna -- as everyone knows, tuna contains mercury and pregnant or nursing women should eat it only in moderation).

And then there are the signals, the most famous of which is the letter "B" in sign language placed on the forehead. I imagine that it stands for beautiful or buxom or some other such adjective, but I really think that it might stand for a not-so-nice noun instead.

Well, I'm off like a dirty shirt. A shirt stained with spit-up and sweet potatoes flung from an airplane-shaped spoon.

Reincarnation Goals

Today I am pondering the afterlife,

As I sit here being a goodly housewife.

Which place would I rather be?

In a cave or under the sea?

We just returned from a trip to the Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga. During the two-hour car ride there and back, Brian listened to John Lee Hooker and fantasized about Arizona, John alternately napped and screamed bloody murder, and I read the second in the Earth’s Children series by Jean M. Auel (charming yet cheesy stories about the Ice Age). During this trip I made some very important decisions about the afterlife: My reincarnation goal is to either live in a cave or under the sea.

Let’s address the cave issue first. I was talking to my mommy friend Ashley about my new favorite book series and we were trying to discern why I’m so fascinated with the late Pleistocene Epoch (extending from 35,000 to 25,000 before present), and finally she came to this conclusion: As a mother, the lifestyle of hunter-gatherer women is unbelievably appealing because they raise babies together! None of this isolationist stuff of stay-at-home moms in the modern world where we speak in terms of breakdown ratios (mine is 1:5 days, but Ash, who’s been doing this mommy thing for a little longer is down to 1:9 – you go girl!).

Now communal cave inhabitation may not be what Hillary Clinton was talking about in It Takes a Village, but it’s a step in the right direction. I imagine it as sort of like a permanent La Leche League meeting where men get to participate at times by bringing in large hunks of meat for us to cut up and cook. So if you find a good cave, claim it and send directions. I’m on my way.

Besides contemplating the Ice Age on our vacation, the aquarium itself offered some fodder for the fertile ground of my craving-an-outlet brain … SEAHORSES.

The seahorse dream is very different. It is not a lifestyle change, but a biological one. Male seahorses are an anomaly in nature: they get pregnant! The females deposit eggs in the males’ pouch where they are fertilized. The male grows them for a while and then actually labors and delivers the little salt-water equines. Now I’m all about that. Talk about a goal for modern fertility clinics. If we can replace people’s knees with synthetic materials, then why can’t we create a synthetic male uterus? Fertilization outside the human body has already been accomplished; it’s just the gestational location that needs more work. A male delivery would have to be caesarean, but who cares? Lots of women are scheduling their deliveries anyway and choosing C-sections over vaginal births. This would be no different. Who do we know in graduate school for biology? Who has a contact? Let’s get on this. Start networking girls!

No, no, no. I can’t advocate for wangling with the human reproductive system! I almost forgot—I’m against bio-engineering and other mother-nature finagling. Hmmm, what could I be for instead? Aha! The intermarrying of women and male seahorses! Or, a new market for real estate agents … caves! Well, there you have it, because let’s face it girls: the hunter-gatherer or seahorse lifestyle may leave some things to be desired, but in the end, neither of those groups can tout husband eaters.

Tune in next time when Kimpossible muses on the combination of heavy aftershave and the yogic practice of alternating nostril breathing. Until then, onward, upward, caveward, seaward, and of course ... happy HEing.

Trick-Shooting Penis

by Carrie Weir Spears

I'm now convinced it all begins in infancy with the trick-shooting penis. A male's tendency to CAUSE husband-eating is woven in their genetic make-up from birth. Here's how I know this
. . . my 6 day old infant son has a sharp shooting, trick penis. I'm convinced it has special capabilities. He can somehow manage to tee tee without ONE drop absorbing into the diaper, but soaking ALL that he is wearing. Think about this for a moment . . . hmmmmm . . . . I think a baby girl would inherently know that this causes undue stress and laundry strain on her mother and would therefore never attempt it. However, males (remember they're born with the tendency to CAUSE undue husband eating) will tinkly trickily to their hearts content. I'm currently devising a specific curriculum for my children (both males) to deter any future annoying behaviors to protect their wives. If I succeed, I'll let you know (and sell you a copy for 3 easy installments of $19.95)!

Come Back from the Ledge with Your Wine & Chocolate

by Jennifer Kellum Charbonnet

“Honey… Come in from the ledge. Bring your bottle of wine and your bar of chocolate, and come on. Honey, Baker and I miss you…”

There are many afternoons that I imagine this conversation between my husband and me. Sometimes I vary the fantasy for fun… sometimes it is two bottles of wine, sometimes, it is a bottle of wine and a book – gasp – that is not an educational board book created to stimulate little Baker’s mind. Regardless, there is no question that by the time 5:00 rolls around, there are days when I have just about had it.

The truth is: this stay-at-home-mommy gig is completely and totally, 1 million-percent harder than schlepping to the office everyday. You see, I have experienced both worlds, and until our nanny divorced us with no notice (a very well-paid, over-appreciated nanny, I might add … Oh, I guess that is another blog entirely), I was very happily a member of the paid-for-your-work workforce as opposed to this non-profit work of rearing my 15-month-old daughter, Baker. Even on the hardest days that required travel and lost luggage, or being grilled in presentations, or even being yelled at by irate clients, at least when I wore my old hat as Director of Sales and Marketing for a small software company, I could use the bathroom ALONE.

Ah, yes, the good old days of peeing in peace. Wow – what a concept. Now I have my little charge who likes to be with mommy all the time. I know that there are those of you who are at this moment saying, “Girl, get out of the house!” which I do. In fact, just this week I have finally joined a gym with a nursery, although Baker has only lasted 45 minutes each day due to “separation anxiety.” But you know what, those 45 minutes of seeing my formerly-svelte body jiggle (and this isn’t big-boobs-jiggle or sexy-belly dance-jiggle) to music that is NOT “The Wiggles” are fabulous!

The moment of truth – would I go back to work now? Not in a million years. Am I a masochist? Perhaps. But, I guess having seen how much Baker has blossomed in the last 4 months of my being a stay-at-home mom utilizing the latest child development tricks which I have gleaned from one of the 15 books on my nightstand that I am simultaneously reading, I will never be able to 100% relinquish her upbringing to anyone ever again.

I guess all that is left is for me to appreciate that I have a partner who understands that my 5:00 p.m. glass of wine is not a privilege, it is a necessity (although, he has no clue why), and to appreciate the fact that there is a supportive dialogue for women who have had their lives dramatically changed by child birth. So, if I may, I would like to toast all of the former obsessive-compulsive executives-turned moms and all of the women who have dreamed of this experience their whole lives. “Here’s to us supporting one another, loving our little ones, and ENJOYING our 5:00 cocktail!”

I'm saucy today

Thanks to all for emailing me with your comments about the blog. I do love hearing from you, but the point of a blog is to post your comments so that we can have a “conversation” online by responding to one another. At the end of each of my entries is a link for “comments” where you can post your thoughts. Please use it!

Now, about the nature of those emails …

I’ll be frank: Thanks for your recommendations and guidance, but I do not need advice on how to get my child to sleep through the night or how to get my husband to become more helpful and involved by utilizing a breastpump and stockpiling my milk, nor do I need volunteers to keep the baby while I “get out the house.” Baby J now sleeps through the night, my husband is getting much better—essentially, he’s fantastic—when it comes to dealing with our child, and we’ve got it covered as far as childcare is concerned since he now works only four days a week. Maybe I should clarify a few goals and intentions of my blog.

After reading your emails, I’m thinking that I should’ve given the blog the title “Kimpossible” rather than “HEMs.” I am fully aware that much of my angst is related to a situation I have chosen—being a full-time mom. I also realize that a lot of it is totally unjustified. But can’t a girl just bitch? A full 90% of my time is totally stress-free and enjoyable. It blows even my mind that I actually LIKE staying home (although my husband and I both agree that it won’t last forever and that I should start working at least part-time sooner rather than later just to prevent future breakdowns). So let me have my 10% of dissatisfaction! And anyway, anyone who knows me knows that some of this is just a teensy bit exaggerated. I needed an outlet and thought that perhaps others could contribute. I wasn’t calling out for help, I’m not a desperate housewife, and I don’t feel like I’m wasting my potential staying home with my child for a while. Mostly, I just like to write and wanted to put it out there.

The source of the information presented in this blog is twofold: First, I find that the way gender issues play out in our family is amusing to me, so I write about it. Second, and more importantly, the thoughts that are going through my mind in the middle of the night (which is when much of this is composed) are often not a true picture of reality. Even though we are getting MUCH more sleep now, there are times when I am awake because for nearly half a year my body woke up several times a night and now my sleep cycles are a little disjointed. Then there are the minor issues of me just liking to hear myself talk and the fact that someone (unbeknownst to me) must have forced me to smoke crack at some point in the past. Mostly, though, the gender issues and the whacked out sleep cycles explain it.

So, please do like the instructions say at the top of the page: read, eat, and be merry (and COMMENT if you want)! Whew, I feel better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest. And now … on with the show!

Introduction

Welcome fellow Husband Eaters! Or should we say Man Eaters?

This Blog is for women/moms who are frustrated with their partners and as a result turn into Husband Eating Monsters (heretoafter HEMs). It is a place for venting frustrations, sharing stories, commiserating, or just generally having fun at the expense of the men in our lives.

There is one caveat, however:

It is only for women whose partners are not really idiotic vermin but who at times may seem like it. It is not a place for women whose men need to be taken out back and beat in the penis with a high-heeled shoe. If you fall into this category, then feel free to read and enjoy, but please don't post your stories here. Just call me because I know some people who know some people who can take care of that for you.

My own dear husband provokes me to be a ravenous HEM quite often, but in the end I would marry him all over again. I truly believe we love people not because of who they are, but in spite of it. Otherwise I would have no friends and certainly would not still be married.

So happing HEing to us all!

Cheers,
Kimberly

How it All Began ...

Some dark January night ...

Here's a secret confession: At night, I turn into a Husband Eating Monster. The mere fact that my husband is not biologically programmed to lactate causes me to channel all of my exhaustion (and OK, let's face it, maybe a little uncalled-for bitchiness) toward him. So when Baby J finishes nursing (in our bed) and I'm attempting to stealthily swaddle him without him awakening, I don't take kindly to the melodramatic, half-asleep sigh, roll-over, and "IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO?" (out loud!) routine. Picture Baby waking up, mom barking expletives, dad sighing again and wondering why he married an HEM.

And then there's the getting back in bed scene, wherein said husband's toenails knick my leg and I lose it: HAVE YOU CUT YOUR DAMN TOENAILS IN THIS DECADE? This is all after I have snuck from our bed back into baby's bedroom, carefully eased him down into his crib, wished him sweet and LONG dreams, and then tried to exit the bedroom covertly by tip-toeing around all the squeaky parts of the floor. Usually by then I have to go the bathroom, then I get hungry and stand in the hallway pondering how bad it would be to go downstairs and eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. I know that if I do it will add to my somebody-grabbed-onto-my-ass-with-both-hands-let-go-and-it-stuck look and also wonder if the peanut proteins really do channel themselves into my breastmilk, predisposing J to a peanut allergy.

And did I mention that I could win the Ratty-Woman-of-the-Year award? I have on my Newton-Tigers blue flannel pajamas with dried spit up in my hair and down my back. I have on a LARGE nursing bra with soaked pads ...

And people wonder why I DON'T WANT TO EVER HAVE SEX AGAIN.

HINT: IT'S NOT JUST THE HORMONES PRODUCED BY BREASTFEEDING.

Installment II of the HEM Saga: Kimpossible turns 28 and gets worse

OK, now I do realize that I’m not in the running for wife or mother of the year, but just hear me out on this one.

Last night when J awoke for his usual, oh you name it, 1, 2, 3, and/or 4 a.m. feeding, his father adopted a new method of consoling him: Yelling from our room into his—“It’s OK boo, Mom’s coming.” This line was made even more poignant by the sigh, roll over, and mumble to himself that thank goodness he can finally get a good night’s sleep since up to now he’s awakened every hour on the hour to go and check on the little guy. Does his work ever end?

At this point, you might be wondering to yourself why I do not simply ask my husband to get up and help out during the night. Well, here’s your answer: I suspect that his method of diapering not only causes but inspires leaks. Not the sweet little tee-tee leaks, but the big ugly shoot-poop-up-your-back-and-out-the-sides kind. The kind akin to a Fourth of July fireworks show. And we all know that leaks cause the double L of motherhood (loads of laundry) and loads of laundry cause the triple L (livid lactating laundress).

And now an aside about diaper changing. I always found it fascinating that the lactation consultants and doctors would ask me to keep a record of how many “wet and dirty diapers” the child had during his first few weeks. I understand the dirty part, but is it really possible to enumerate a babies’ wet diapers? First of all, who in their right mind changes a wet diaper? If the diaper contents are not in a semi-solid but still runny and drippy, and horribly smelly state, then what’s the hurry? Second of all, how does one determine whether the wetness is due to one, two, or three urinations? And third of all, since baby pee is practically odorless, invisible, and tasteless (yes, I know from experience), why bother when there is sleep to be had?

But back to my original invective …

You see, J doesn’t need any help from his dad to have leaky diapers and subsequently lots of laundry. In fact, we just heard last week that the Sierra Club is thinking of naming either a landfill or a water treatment plant after him. Don’t worry, they have offered me asylum in either facility once I officially lose my mind and am in need of a resting place.

Seriously though, in all actuality I have so little to complain about in the husband department as I really do believe that B IS in the running for both husband and father of the year. For my birthday he made me a carrot cake (the top was adorned with a huge votive candle that I suspect was found on the side of the bathtub) and put together a scrapbook of our lives since we met in 1999. It’s complete with pictures, knick-knacks, and captions about how I am the woman of his dreams. I know what you’re thinking: How could she talk smack about this man? Well, maybe now you’ll believe that I really am the HEM Kimpossible! But at least I have good taste in which men I choose to marry (and eat).

And now I’ll let you go so you can start praying for my soul.

Why I Moved into the Terrarium, Got Kicked Out, and then Got Even with a Lizard

I’d been thinking about it for a while. It was either there, a closet, or the bathtub. Here’s my thought process: George is an anole. He’s got it good. He eats, sleeps, sheds his wrinkly skin to reveal a beautiful new layer (and then eats it), poops, and hides whenever he’s feeling overwhelmed. It’s that last part that got me. A lot of times I wish I could just crawl under a leaf, eat something the size of my head, and sit for a while letting it digest. Especially when the baby won’t go to sleep and is playing in his crib at four in the morning. And even more especially when I'm feeling cold blooded (which is a lot lately).



Things I like about George. George goes to bed when it’s dark and sleeps all night. I don’t think George can hear the baby down in the terrarium. We feed George exactly what he wants whenever he’s hungry. George can camouflage himself so that no one can see him. He can climb up the glass walls of the terrarium and he can show his money and if you don’t know what that means then get a reptile book.

It was a tight squeeze with me and George but it would’ve worked. The problem was that George also gets fed spiders and there’s one in there that he either can’t catch or doesn’t want to. I told George it was me or the spider. George said he and the spider had a deal. They are both males without spouses. No one to nag them. No one to tell them to clean up their poop off the floor. No one to make babies that get up at four in the morning to play. I got the message loud and clear, but I didn’t take the news well.



George made me mad. I take care of him (and all the other men in this testosterone-ridden household)! I saved him from the yucky small, overcrowded terrariums at the Aquatic Critter store (imagine housing projects for lizards) and feed him free-range, antibiotic-and-hormone-free crickets from our backyard rather than the kind for $0.99/dozen at the store. I clean out his poop and give him fresh water. I even put a heater next to his terrarium to make the temperature more comfortable. And this is the thanks I get?

So I immediately started plotting to get him back. I was not about to let a reptile and his arachnid buddy have the last word about where I wanted to spend time inside my own house. I may still have to lie awake while the baby plays in his crib at four in the morning, but I will not live on a lizard’s terms.

I got into the car and drove down to the Aquatic Critter. I marched in there and said I want as many female anoles as you’ve got. They had seven and I bought them all, along with a few farm-raised, non-vegetarian-fed crickets and the biggest, ugliest female spider in sight. I came straight home and dumped the whole lot of them down into the terrarium. George and the spider exchanged looks. Then they both hid.

Ah the joys of getting even. And even better, now I have a little female companionship in this house full of males. I have girlfriends to talk to and companions to raise babies with. Now Brian knows what it’s like to have more kids without my actually having to give birth again. Now George knows who’s the boss around here.

But most importantly, I am no longer alone in my strange eating habits. Now we have nine Man Eating Monsters. Yippee!