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10 fears about mothering and pregnancy

While leafing through the family photo albums my Mom so generously left at my house for an undetermined amount of time, I was able to put 10 fears to rest that have been lurking in the back of my mind regarding mothering and pregnancy. I thought I’d share them with you today, so that you can see how I’ve managed to overcome them one by one.

1. I’m too young to have that kind of responsibility

Well, my dad was practically a minor. Just look at him:

OK, he was actually 28 or 29, but seriously folks–does he look a day over 16?

2. My house will become overrun with child paraphenalia

Not necessary! I slept in a cardboard box.

I was bathed in a trash can.

I guess I don’t need a ton of stuff for my future babies–I mean, they don’t even know the difference between their fingers and their toes, much less between a fancy bathing apparatus and a brown trash can. My parents kept their house very free from self-multiplying plastic objects, and I find that inspiring and relieving. Phew!

3. My schedule will be chained to the sleep schedule of my child

My parents simply put us to bed wherever we happened to be. Like at a concert. Hey, they were musicians, and we had to adapt.

There’s my Dad running the mixing board. I think this was in Japan, and I’m looking a little spaced out. Apparently they kept a blanket by the mixing board, and when it was my bedtime simply put me down on the blanket where I peacefully entered dreamland. Children are more adaptable than I would have imagined–and they can adapt to me as much as I can adapt to them.

4. My house will become an uncontrollable mess

Well, if I follow my Mom’s philosophy I will simply put my children to work. I mean, all day long I worked the family’s farm . . .

. . . and then I got home, tied my tresses up in a bandanna, and got ready to give the house a good shake down. My Mom didn’t take any excuses–here she is saying “Alright Jenna, don’t come back until all the curtains are laundered and pressed!”

She didn’t even care that I had just laundered and pressed them, like, two days ago!

While the house was my responsibility, the birth of my sister Erica fulfilled the vacancy for groundskeeper and chauffeur.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah Dad–just take the dang picture and let me finish washing the car.”

I’m so glad to know that I too can simply train my children to do all my work for me, while I sit on the couch issuing orders, drinking coffee and nibbling on scones.

5. I will become frumpy and hideous

This picture of my Mom was taken when I was almost 2 years old.

Yes, my Mom is a classy broad. Here she is again with her two sisters (she’s on the left), around the same time:

That classy lady second from the left is my grandmother:

I have inherited genes that indicate frumpyness may not be in the cards for me. Or if it is, my extended family will whip me into shape so as not to disgrace their name. I have historical evidence for this claim: Aunt Jessie was put on frump alert many years ago, and was immediately forced to the nearest beauty salon to fix the issue.

She tried to resist, but she was no match for her determined mother, the one wielding the cane. It’s nice to know that I have the kind of family who stamps out frumpery and beautifies you even against your own will.

6. If I have daughters, they will steal my shoes and clothes at the earliest opportunity

 

OK, well, that may happen. But nobody seems particularly upset about the arrangement, as I see it.

 

7. It’s so hard to travel with children that we will never go anywhere

Well, here are my parents in San Francisco . . .

. . . and in New York City . . .

. . . and my Mom in Japan, with me in the stroller and Erica on the way.

These are just a few pictures of the many I could have included showing them in places like Florida and Niagara Falls, with small children in tow. Being in a band, travel was part of their life menu. And if they could do it, dang it, so can I!

8. My children will yell and scream

Well, my childhood pictures prove that it’s possible to have a 100% fuss-free kid. I am always smiling, always cheerful, with a surprising maturity for my young years. My good attitude from birth forward created a very peaceful home environment.

Yes, I was a perfect child and I expect no less from my future children. Calm, wise beyond their years, and zero whining.

Hey wait! How did that picture sneak in there!

Someone’s gonna get fired over that slip-up.

9. Once you have them, they’re with you all the time

If I choose to follow my parents’ example, I can simple pack my child up (with packing peanuts for safety–don’t worry) and ship them off to the nearest baby store, Attn: Returns Department.

As long as you print off your certified baby return label, it should be easy as pie. Then, when you feel like having that baby again, you simply go to the pick-up counter and retrieve him or her. Couldn’t be more simple.

10. Baby stress will cause untold marital tension

My Dad once said that having kids has provided them with the funniest moments in their life. They have never laughed together more than over one of us and our ridiculousness. Instead of driving them apart, raising us three girls has brought them closer.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for doing such a great job and providing a solid photographic record that I can return to for inspiration, encouragement, and ideas.

                                                               *************

Now it’s time to talk about the one fear I haven’t been able to shake or disprove. It’s something I’m really having a hard time even thinking about. It may be the source of regret, frustration, and physical discomforts untold:

The fear of not being able to sleep on my stomach.

I mean, I’ve been doing it practically since I was born.

And I don’t think there’s any way of getting around it . . . unless I buy a special mattress with a hole in it. I just have to decide if this final concern is a ‘make it or break it’ moment in our child-bearing plans. Wish me luck as I try to make a wise choice.

The ins and outs of pig wrestling . . . in Egyptian costume

My Mom’s side of the family represents a whole blogging can of worms I have barely even touched yet. I briefly talked about Big Jake and his generous shipments of food over the years, but there is so much more. Stories of a parachuting Santa Claus in Puerto Vallarta, mannequins taking over the living room, my grandmother Mama Kitty wearing lingerie in the snow, playing dress up with Mama Kitty’s hundreds of evening gowns and hats . . . you probably wouldn’t even believe most of it.

And that’s where the photographic evidence comes into play.

Today the topic is pig wrestling. In costume. Was anyone able to guess the event from the picture at the end of my Halloween post? If so, let yourself be known so that I can laud you with glories untold.

Let’s start at the beginning:

My uncle Jeff and aunt Paula live in Wisconsin. They started a yearly festival called “Wild West Days,” which began small but has been growing from year to year into the gigantic affair it is today–there’s actually a Wild West Days committee these days. It takes place in a faux Old-West town with real buildings. There is a rodeo. Local craftspeople and vendors set up shop in various tents . . . tents which my cousins and I have been responsible for setting up and tearing down if we are available. I have personally made sure not to be available for many, many years.

Everyone goes about in costume. Groups of actors do spontaneous reenactments across the town. I was somehow caught up in the midst of one, but please don’t ask any questions. It involved weeping over a man who was playing dead, and it happened during my over-dramatic teenage years.

I have the sneaking suspicion someone may have caught this moment on film, and I can only trust that they have made the wise choice to destroy that footage.

There are kid’s games, like treasure hunts in a sandbox, toss-the-ring, throwing a ball at a china plate, etc. You can pay $20 to get your favorite enemy ‘arrested’ and briefly put into jail. Good money was put down for the incarceration of my high school science teacher. Please don’t ask how or why he came from Spain to America for a summer and ended up with my crazy and wonderful relatives–but he took it all in good stride. He also pig wrestled–photo forthcoming.

The pig wrestling takes place in a giant mud-filled circular thingamaging. The mud is nice and deep. A pig is set loose. Teams of 3 people come into the ring in turns, and try to capture the pig, lift it, and place it in the barrel at the center of the ring. The team with the best time wins.  A new pig is released for each team so that no one pig gets overly tired. Oh, and when cornered, the pigs get scared and pee in the mud, right in front of you–into the very same mud you will shortly be wallowing in as you launch your body at the animal and fail to connect with any part of its pink and slippery hide.

How anyone thought 3 skinny girls could wrestle a hog down, much less lift the dang thing high enough to get it into a barrel, is beyond me.

Each team has a theme, and costumes to go with it. It was the summer of 2000. Our theme was Egyptian gods–we were Porkus, Hogsiris, and Cleopigtra.

Erica is in the middle in the golden headdress. I am on the right. Some poor girl that was conned into being our 3rd team member is on the left. We started by parading around the ring in character.

We wore long gauzy fabric over white WalMart body suits. This was our first mistake. Have you ever tried to run in gauzy fabric that is weighted down in mud? We were about to discover that it is, in fact, physically impossible.

We entered the ring. It was very squishy underfoot.

Someone shouted ‘go’ or maybe shot off a gun. And we started our heinously muddy mission.

At one point, I body-launched myself toward that pig.

I missed.

I don’t remember what the time limit was, but soon it was over. We had failed to even make a decent grab at the pig.

At least the copious mud was proof of our valiant efforts.

My cousins Will, George, and Jacob got the pig into the barrel in about 4 minutes.

They were smart, and were unhampered by their short-skirted costumes.

I think they were the first team to even get that thing in the thing, and ended the competition with an honorable 4th place.

My high school teacher’s pants became so mudlogged that the crotch of the pants was down to his knees.

There he is, on the right, looking . . . very dirty. Many politically incorrect ‘dirty Spaniard’ jokes were made by my fun-loving but uncouth family members.

Seriously, take a good long look at those pants. It’s really quite amazing they didn’t just fall off him.

My cousin Eleanor was also hampered by her team’s choice of costume–black sweatpants.

Thankfully there is high-strength hose nearby to power-spray you and get the worst of the mud off.

My next Wild West Days was in 2003. This time, I chose to spectate and watch others pig wrestle.

Such as my mother (in the middle), who pig wrestled on a team with her two sisters.

There’s my Mom, otherwise known as “Twink the Pink,” almost completely submerged in mud. I see the pig’s snout, but the whereabouts of its body are strangely confusing. It’s a big brown mess in there.

Thankfully they got squeaky clean in this tub as soon as they were done. My family places a high value on cleanliness.

Yup.

It’s been 10 years and 3 months since I last pig wrestled, to be exact. And I have never been so grateful not to be plastered in  mud.