Domesticity

The beginning of the end of my twenties is rapidly approaching.  I turn 29 this Wednesday, a birthday overshadowed, in my mind, by Amelia’s four-month anniversary of life, which was last Saturday.  I can’t decide if I’m upset about moving closer to my thirties.  I don’t want to move chronologically backwards, but I’m feeling my age, or maybe age has nothing to do with it.  Having a baby (and not sleeping because of this baby) has added more gray hairs and furrow lines than any arbitrary date on the calendar.

I distinctly remember my birthday wish last year.  We had moved into this house a few weeks before and I had discovered my pregnancy around the same time.  I made Dave buy me a cake and candles.  I really wanted candles so I could make a wish;  somehow the wish wouldn’t be official without the smell of burning wax.  I wished for two things:  A healthy baby and the ability to keep my birthday cake down.  I got the healthy baby, but the cake came right back up, as did most food for months afterward. Click to continue…

I just spent an hour and a half making homemade veggie burgers and squash fries so that Dave could have a nice lunch before heading into a long work night.  As soon as I put the completed culinary masterpiece on the table I now insist we use, Dave sauntered off into slumberland in our bedroom.  Usually, I would indignantly wake him, but he has to fly late, so I ate alone and realized my masterpiece was actually a disgusting plate of mush (the burgers were okay, but the squash fries were a travesty).

In my head I am a domestic goddess and unflappable mom.  In reality, I make mush and croak out lullaby lyrics from a printout as my darling baby smacks me in the face.  I can’t blame her for the punches.  I am a horrible singer, and she doesn’t have full control over her limbs.

Since my domestic and mothering skills are questionable, these past few weeks I have taken to exercising my vanity instead;  I joined a gym and have read and reread the book Lose Your Mummy Tummy.  Although I am doing my 1000 tuplers a day and have banned destructive sit-ups and Pilates from my life, I think I’ll stay away from bikinis.

Still, the good news is my gym has wall to wall windows, which means I can look at all the passersby as I walk briskly (no runner here) on the treadmill.  I used to belong to a girls only gym in Boston that showed movies on big televisions.  I got a little sick of working out next to sorority girls while watching Legally Blonde on a loop.  Looking out windows at the general public helps temper expectations.  Although I like my local gym, I still miss the community health center where I worked out in Norfolk.  Even if I could only muster a stroll on the treadmills, I outpaced the eighty year olds wearing button down shirts…but only barely.

Kaiya and I both are showing our ages.  My birthday is next month, the beginning of the end of my twenties.  Kaiya has entered the canine middle age, made obvious by her recent trip to Doggie Day Care, the first since Amelia was born.  As I periodically glanced at the doggie cam throughout the day (yes, I’m that person) I saw Kaiya frolic in the morning, stroll in the early afternoon, and lie by the doggie pool the rest of the day.  35 dollars so Kaiya could work on her tan.

Many afternoons, I will fall asleep while feeding Amelia, rouse myself ten minutes later and see Amelia snoozing on my lap, Kaiya snoring at my feet.  I may not be a chef or a singer or an athlete.  I may make squash mush, butcher Hush Little Baby, and give octogenarians a run for their money, but as far as Amelia and Kaiya are concerned, I am a domestic goddess.