Staying Afloat

I was the "Old and Haggard Mom" at the park last week.  Being the old and tired care-giver, who doesn't get a shower on some days, isn't for wimps.

One must be okay with her own ripe, and distinct scent of dried sweat from the work out from earlier in the morning. One must also be okay with the scent of caramelized onions and garlic that permeates skin and hair from the mid day cooking that took place to make spaghetti sauce for dinner that night, cause there's never time to actually MAKE dinner, AT dinner time, with a baby climbing up my leg.

Most days, I  feel self-confident without a shower, even if I smell like dried sweat.  And most days, I even feel okay reeking of garlic and onions.

 But some days, I'm also human.  Which leaves me feeling a little self-conscience.  Which is EXACTLY what happened last week. I meandered down to the park with the youngest 3 kiddos, to provide a happy and outdoor experience during Charlotte's witching hour.  Basically, I was trying to get to bed time, and keep my sanity, without anyone calling CPS on me.

So there I was, pushing my babe in the swing when I noticed a phenomenon.  A cult, if you will, of young moms who DID get a shower, and DID NOT smell like sauteed garlic and onions.  These other cute moms even had applied make up, flat ironed their hair, and were donning the latest trends.  There seemed to be a group of about 6 of these "Elle" moms, who all had kids the same age...16 and 1/2 months.

 I remember when people would inquire, "How old are your twins?"  And I would actually reply, "16 and 1/2 month old, (or some other obscure, but oddly accurate number)."  The best is when folks would ask how far along prego I was, and I would give WAY more info than they probably ever wanted to know. "I'm 23 weeks along, but I'll be 24 completed by next Tuesday at noon."

REALLY?  Is having all of those ages/numbers/gestational dates, REALLY important? I have concluded that these details are important when you're 29 years old, and you still have some of your brain left working to maximum capacity.

If someone asks how old Charlotte is now, I pause, trying to buy some time,  to actually remember.  The fact that I EVEN know how old she is, is a testament to my clarity!

 But even 5 years ago, I would have answered, "Well, she turned one on October 20th, so she's one year and one month.  She's 13 months old."  NO ONE CARES THAT THE BABY IS 13 MONTHS OLD.  It does not matter if they nod their heads politely, and ACT interested...WE ARE NOT.  Did I just include myself in that category?  Oops.

So anyhooo, here I was at the park with all these Victoria Beckham moms.  Not only were each of them looking good, their adorable 16 and 1/2 month olds were clean, cute, and seemed extraordinarily content.  In the back of my mind, I was sort of wondering if these toddlers had been drugged with happy pills.  I was waiting for a tantrum, or a fight over a Bob the Builder sand shovel.  Nothing.  I'm sure their rounded little tummies were full of goldfish, and juice.

Another astute observation was that each and everyone of these moms was sporting an adorable little baby bump, which meant they were about 23, almost 24 weeks along, next Tuesday at noon.

As I sat there, taking it all in, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the conversation.  They talked, and talked, and talked.  Never once did they even LOOK at me.  No way.  I was the old and haggard mom, who obviously didn't get a shower, and certainly was not channeling her inner Victoria Beckam. These moms were not interested in me in the least.

I wanted to yell at them, "10 YEARS AGO, I OWNED THIS PLAYGROUND, LADIES.  When you were planning your High School Graduation trip to Costa Rica that your parents paid for, I OWNED THIS PARK."  But I held back, figuring that my angry pep talk, but fall on deaf, Juicy Couture, ears.

So it didn't help matters, that my doctor ordered an EKG for me last week at Kaiser.  Yes, you read that right.  There I was, trying to "take care of myself" by banging out a Physical, and Pap all in one day.  The nice, but rushed nurse, was taking my blood pressure, and heart rate.

Then she cocked her head sideways, and sort of looked at me funny.  "How are you feeling?"  Was this like a trick question?

 "Um, I feel good," I replied, eyebrows raised.

 She paused, looking me up and down, before saying, "Ohhhh-kay," with a look of suspicious concern on her face.  

I proceeded into the room, where I waited for my doc.  That's when the bomb dropped.

 "Michelle, your heart rate is 40, which is low.  It has always been low, but it's dropped even more since your last visit."

"Ohhhh-kay."  Now I was the one sounding like the nurse.

"You know most doctors would never even worry about this, but I'm going to order an EKG just to rule anything out.  You're not having symptoms are you?  Pain in the chest?  Shortness of breath?  Fatigue?"

"Um, no.  I mean, I'm fatigued, but I don't think it's due to my heart rate, you know?  Those kids will kill ya," I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

As I walked down the hall for the EKG, I had a little pity party.  I thought, "I can't fucking win here.  I work out 5 days a week, I eat well, and something is wrong with my God Damn ticker!!!!  I'm going to eat an entire gallon of Haagen Dazs ice cream right fucking now!"

The nice EKG tech instructed me to take off my shirt, and put the paper gown on.  Next, she put little stickers on different places on my body that had tubes connecting them to the machine.

 I asked, "A heart rate of 40 is okay, right?"

She assured me, "You're active right?  This is probably nothing.  Lance Armstrong has a heart rate of 34."

"Ohhhh-kay," I replied.

 Next thing I knew, I was walking back down the hall to my doc's office with a copy of the EKG clutched in my fist.

The doc looked at it, "This is all good.  This indicates that you have a strong and healthy heart."

I shot her a confident glance and said, "I'm channeling my inner Lance Armstrong."

So what if those young, cute park moms don't want to talk to me? On the days I don't get a shower, it means I took care of myself by getting in a hike in that day.  And on the days I reek of onions and garlic, I'm lucky to have a home to provide my family with a hot, home-cooked meal.

My heart rate may sort of resemble me on the verge of looking like I'm dead...but I'm NOT.  Oh no, Victoria Beckham-Park, Moms.  Watch out.   I got a lot of living left to do.