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Archives from 2002-2006

Last night I was putting Riley to bed and asked what kind of story we should talk about, and he nonchalantly informed me that he’d really rather I go ahead and leave, since he was waiting for Daddy to do storytime.

“Well,” I said, “I know Daddy normally puts you to bed, but tonight he’s putting Dylan to bed. Why don’t I tell you a story about—”

He held up a small hand. “No,” he told me. “I don’t want any stories from you.” And he turned his back to me, at which point I kissed him goodnight and sadly shuffled from the room, because I didn’t know else what to do.

It’s true we’ve fallen into a routine of me reading books and rocking with Dylan in his bedroom while JB talks with Riley next door. That’s what Riley is used to, and he loves how JB tells stories about Riley and his amazing magical skateboard which is painted with flames (“And BOLCANOES!”). I get it, but man. Ouch.

I sat out in the living room fuming about the sacrifices we make for our kids, and the ingratitude. I started thinking of the actual physical changes I have endured in order to bear these children, and I created a little mental list of Permanent Post-Childbirth Collateral Damage:

• A belly that when seated resembles a Shar-Pei formed entirely out of crepe paper.

• A pelvic floor that constantly proves how the line between “coughing” and “peeing a little squirt of pee right in my own pants” has all but disappeared.

• Thicker and more luxurious hair, especially the ones sprouting from my chin.

• Skin tags: the gift that keeps on giving!

• Afrin-addicted sinuses that haven’t taken a completely congestion-free breath since before I peed on that stick in 2005.

• An indistinguishable expanse of flesh where my ass meets the back of my thigh.

• A rear end that is often unable able to poop anything larger than a Raisinette without enjoying a full 48 hours’ worth of enflamed anal tissue afterwards.

• Breasts that require the sort of penis-wilting undergarment that comes with four hooks and enough wire to trigger a full TSA patdown. Please note these undergarments are available in Beige, White, or Wad of Chewing Gum Placed Under a Desk.

Frankly, I think my son should be presenting me with a goddamn Purple Heart, not Heisman-ing my tender little feelings at bedtime. But kids are selfish, brutally honest, and care not one bit about the ravaged body parts it took to produce them.

And we still love their obnoxious, ungrateful asses. Even when they flat-out tell us we’re not good enough.

Now, if only I could arrange for Daddy—who apparently shits rainbows and unicorns when it comes to bedtime—to enjoy a sparkled-induced hemorrhoid or two, life would feel a lot more fair.

The first mile is always the hardest, it’s like my body isn’t quite sure what’s going on and my muscles are all a little too stiff and my pace feels janky and I feel stupidly self-concious and focused on tugging at my clothes since everything seems to be heading towards an unflattering, uncomfortable location.

Then at some point my core tightens and I sort of lift up and re-arrange myself. My shoulders pull back, my arms move smoothly, my legs feel strong and good. I find a rhythm and work within it. My breath made of steady deep breaths: I leave uniform plumes of cold-air smoke. Music is playing in my ears and I am thinking of nothing and everything. I am in a powerful current that’s moving through me and I am moving through it and the world is flashing by like some great colorful swirl and my heart is straining at my chest with pure joy.

And . . . then there’s a hill or a side cramp or a growing ache in my knees or ankles or I simply for whatever reason fall out of that wonderful pocket and once again become all too aware of my pounding feet, the distance I’ve still got to go, the fact that my stupid waistband won’t stay put and my ponytail’s coming undone.

I think everyone can agree running feels good when you’re done, but I never really believed that it could feel good while you’re doing it. Now I know: it can. Even if it’s only for a short while, between the awkward warmup and the tired ending. Man, I wish I could bottle it and pour you a glass.

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