Tag Archives: motherhood

Dear Mom,

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Dear Mom, #funny | creativeliar.com

EVIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sleeping has become a thing that doesn’t interest me.  That’s what I keep telling myself.

It’s pretty much the same mantra I repeated while watching the royal wedding except I replaced “sleep” with “Prince William” and instead of saying it quietly in my bed at night, I yelled it down my street in a tear filled rage wearing the wedding gown I had made for myself in sixth grade while tearing at the sky with his royal highness’s dog eared poster that he signed.  And by “he” I mean my mother.

The thing is, I have a child, and apparently children are pretty evil.  You are the reason I was previously unaware of this, and by “you” I mean my mother.

Dear Mom,

Remember that time you decided to have one kid who was all things perfect and routinely entertained you by saying things like “Why are you obsessed with culottes?” and “Are you sure orange is your color?”

Well, guess freaking what.  Apparently not all children are helpful fashion critics because yesterday I dropped my daughter off at school and she didn’t even have the decency to tell me my pants had a hole in the crotch.  And that I had forgotten to put on pants.

Do you know how easy you had it?  Do you??  I’m over here dealing with Shirley McScreams a lot because I forgot to coat dinner in chocolate again while you could have made a side of string freaking beans and I would have eaten it.  As the side to my prime rib.

How was I to know children are terrors that think sleep is the archenemy of the human race?  There I was at twenty-four, reliving all the gorgeous times I allowed you to be seen in public with me, thinking how wonderful it would be to spend precious moments like that with my child when little did I know I was harboring a trained sleep assassin in my uterus.

Really, I blame you and TV and the parts of the Internet that feature unglittered cats and that guy at the Steak and Shake who said I can put the shake in his steak any time (what does that mean, Mom??  What does that even mean???) and hair spray.  For the love of unglittered cats, I just do not understand hair spray.

So this is what we’re going to do.  I’m going to start wearing orange culottes and burning pot roast like it’s my freaking job and you’re going to dress like Princess Kate on Wednesdays and Fridays and regale my neighborhood with your “blue blood ankles.”  And yes, you have to say “blue blood ankles” or they won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

Maybe if we switch places then we’ll see what it’s like to be in each other’s shoes which from where I’m currently sitting, is just lovely.  Your daughter is intensely attractive and I’d make out with her if she weren’t me.  Plus I just tried and hit my head on my night stand.  It hurts.

So have fun wrangling a pint-sized war lord who doesn’t even know how to apply eye liner properly.

This pot roast won’t burn itself.

Yours in this life and in the next as long as the next life consists of talking roosters who compliment me on my posture,

Ericka Wilhelmina Clay

PS – Wilhelmina?  Can you imagine???  Haha, no but seriously, please stop wearing orange.

I just sent it to her.  Let’s just hope this puts us back on good terms.  Now to take a nice nap on that lady selling suede handbags.  No, wait.  That’s just my dog.

I am so tired.

The Real Ericka Clay

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The Real Ericka Clay | creativeliar.comToday I want you to know who I really am.  Here’s the thing: almost nobody knows.  My husband knows, my parents, a few friends.  Okay, just one knows, really.  Sometimes I don’t even know because I’m too busy living inside my head.  It’s warm here.  There are so many books, they curl upward, canvas the ceiling.  There are words, beautifully gritty words that almost hurt to touch.

It’s wonderful.

So here’s a glimpse of me.  Of what it’s like inside my head:

  • When I look at men I see little boys.  I don’t mean that in a derogatory way.  I mean I see their faces before life dug into them, etched away the excess.  When they smile, laugh, I can see them when they were simple and pure.  It’s nice knowing what the “before” was like.
  • I sense things sometimes.  Evil.  I’ve seen a demon before, heard my dead dog barking.  I’ve passed out because of the spectral tension in a haunted hotel.  It was the same hotel where my husband proposed to me.  And I can’t wait to go back.
  • I jumped into the pool at my wedding reception.  It was my main goal for the day.  Besides getting hitched and what not.  I was not arrested and in fact the entire wedding party decided to join me.  They all passed my test.
  • I have an extreme fear of the dark, a phobia actually.  I can’t explain it but if a room goes pitch black I feel utterly devoid of life like I’m slowly being suffocated.  I have to see light, even it’s just a little to revive me.
  • I have depression.  It’s a part of me and on the days it scuttles out the door, I miss it a little.  I feel it feeds me, gives me the root of every word that leaves my fingertips.  I generally stay a little sad for this reason.  Not that I don’t know how lucky I am.  But the superstitious side of me thinks this is why I’m so lucky in the first place.  I don’t take anything for granted.
  • I used to suffer from exercise bulimia (and yes, that’s apparently a thing).  I used to be obsessed with my body.  My past had a way of focusing on the outside and refuting the in.  But I made a decision before I got pregnant that I wouldn’t be this way anymore and with a will stronger than I was used to harboring, I started to eat for health, for life, for her.  I never want her to know the bad side of me, my weaknesses.
  • Everything overwhelms me: writing, wifedom, motherhood, work, life.  But it does so in such a delicious way that I could never deny these things.  They make me peaceful even when there’s chaos right outside my eyelids.
  • I’ve kissed more girls than boys.  College.
  • I don’t tend to trust people who deal in extremes.  There’s always a middle.  That’s usually where you find love.
  • I know my husband on an all encompassing level.  He is the greatest thing I’ve ever accidentally won.  And I won a goldfish at a carnival once that lived four years.
  • My greatest role model is Mother Teresa.
  • I’m Catholic, I guess, but sometimes I don’t really know.
  • I can tell people have a hard time pinning me down.  I wish I could make it easier for them.
  • I am not insane.  I mean not the insanity you generally tend to find on my blog.  Just the insanity that is this post.

All right.  Your turn.

I’m So Tired I’m Starting to Laugh at My Husband’s Jokes

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Well hello there to the shitload of people who started following me this weekend!  Apparently one of my pins went viral on Pinterest and it had nothing to do with baking a ziti while doing crunches and making diaper paste out of a half used tube of toothpaste and a jar of Vaseline.  For all of you newbies who want a taste of Creative Liar go here, here, not here, definitely here, maybe a little bit here and then high five yourself in the face.

Since I’m super busy glittering a cat I bought off Ebay who looks exactly like Alf, I’ve decided to publish an oldie but goodie post from one of my now defunct blogs.  I’m also going to spray paint “Wow.  What a great idea.  Yard gnomes.” on the side of my neighbor’s house.

It’s hard being a girl.

***

My husband’s recently developed this character who has the ability to wear all our grocery bags at once while speaking in a Russian accent.  He can often be heard singing: “I have the food, the food to feed all of the hungry children.”  I’m really proud of Matt and think his attempt at method acting is really going to further his career as an idiot.

But I still laughed when he broke out into his impression of a man I’ve come to call Nikolai.  I’m tired.  So tired that I find everything funny and sad and frustrating and pleasantly perverted.  When they tell you to rest up during your pregnancy because you’ll probably never ever sleep again, they’re way too nice.  They should punch you hard in the teeth and say things like “Quit complaining about swollen ankles bitch because in the next couple of months you’d saw off both feet just to sit down.”  But sadly, they don’t.

I always find it funny (but only because I’m tired) when other people say having a baby is the greatest thing in the world and convince their perfectly happy unbabied friends to have babies because gosh, it’s seriously the bestest most happiest thing that can ever wever happen to you!  You know what I call those people?  Mean.  Because the only reason they want you to have a kid is so they don’t have to be alone in their miserable exhaustion.  Call me cynical but there’s nothing deliriously happy about bite marks, dark circles under your eyes and the impossible feat of having to remember your zip code at a moment’s notice (Did they have to make it five freaking numbers?  As if I don’t have enough to worry about as it is.  Like putting on fresh underwear.  That one’s hard, too).

But I’m lying a little bit.  There is one little thing that’s worth all the sleep deprivation in the world:

Cute child in a high chair at a restaurant.

On second thought, put that uterus to use why don’t ya!  Heh.

And if you happen to hear a Russian man singing in the street do you mind kicking him in the teeth for me?  Thanks.

The One Where I Divulge Too Much

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Picture of a little girl on a swing.

For her.

I wasn’t going to post today.  I know it’s Friday which means I should have just published a story for Red Writing Hood and decorated my office cubicle with pictures of me chatting with various tubs of aspercreme, but I just don’t have it in me today.

I went to the doctor yesterday to check on an enlarged lymph node and she’s sending me to the general surgeon.  I’ll probably end up getting a biopsy and revel in the long pleasurable wait of finding out what, if anything, is wrong with me (besides my blatant disregard for bra wearing and people who refuse to recognize Alf as an important part of American history).  I know it’s not a huge deal considering I’m the healthiest person most people in the tri-state area know (I seriously downed apple cider vinegar straight this morning before high fiving my dog in the face), but I guess it would be sort of fitting.  To not be the kind of person that sucks down Diet Coke in the morning after a refreshing morning smoke and still end up with a chunk of my neck missing and a worry that extends beyond wondering how many times I have to post pictures of Matt half naked in a sombrero on the Internet before he stops stealing my mechanical pencils for his “project.”

I’m being stupid, silly, sad, melodramatic.  I’ve had a lifetime combating all of these traits and will probably spend another doing just the same.  It comes down to my anxiety, that rotten little stone in my stomach, rolling around like a grain of sand in an oyster until it ruins my insides.  I’m just so tired of letting it dictate everything.

I don’t usually share like this, and it’s probably why people are held at arm’s length with me.  You all have your own stories, I get that, and maybe if I opened up a little more things would seem a little less complicated and even hopeless at times.  But for now, I’m just going to wallow a bit, then high five myself hard in the face and move forward for my family.  For Ava.

Don’t worry.  Soon everything will be back to beautifully constructed, ass toning footwear and Dave Coulier who wants me to meet his parents.  Typical Dave.

 

Dear Ava,

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IMG_5750-001When I delivered you and Daddy accompanied you to get checked out in the nursery, there were two things on my mind:

  1. Calling your auntie to tell her I pooped on the table.
  2. Eating my post-birth chicken nuggets.

I know this isn’t the story I’m supposed to tell. I’m supposed to drone on and on about looking into your sweet precious eyes and loving you before you were ever conceived and how I spent the days before your birth decoupaging the walls of your room and freaking out when anyone accidentally touched me with a piece of bleu cheese and wondering if the lysteria somehow seeped straight into my veins and vowing I’d never own a cat because cats kill babies (I mean really it’s their MO. they’re nothing but a bunch of baby killers, amirite?) and quietly tsking my tongue whenever I saw a rowdy toddler in a grocery store knowing in my heart of hearts that YOU would never turn out to be so disrespectful.

But that just ain’t me, man.

You know me. And I know you. But the day they handed you to me, I had my doubts. Here was something so beautiful, so incredibly fragile, needing me to be calm, to be delicate and water a seed I believed I was ready to grow. It wasn’t that I was saddened by you. I was perplexed by you. And I wasn’t sure if I could appreciate you fully. If I could be an “unfuck-up” at the most important job given to (wo)man. And for the life of me I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn chicken.

This is the thing: it takes me awhile to process things. It takes me awhile to warm up my heart. And in the beginning there were moments of self doubt so strong, I wasn’t sure this was the right avenue for me. I have to say, I don’t doubt myself often. Okay, screw that, I do all the time. But I don’t really say it out loud. The whole time I had this gorgeous thing in my arms, smiled my proud smile as if you were a new Coach bag everyone was admiring. In my head I was thinking “Oh yes, 50% and an extra 20% off on top of that!” But in reality I knew I couldn’t own you. Not all of you. Not yet.

I sometimes felt like I was watching someone else’s child. Like your mother would saunter through the door at any second and I’d recount what we had done that day. “Well, miss Ava ate and then she puked. And then she ate some more. Then she pooped. A lot. Okay that will be two hundred even.” And after I’d outstretch my palm I’d skip all the way to the coffee shop or the library or the bar and filter back into society, knowing exactly where I belonged.

It took me three months, Ava, to realize you were mine. At three months you smiled. I mean REALLY smiled. And at that moment I knew a couple of truths:

  • I did the right thing by choosing this life. It is not easy. It will NEVER be easy because it’s much like letting a puppy loose in traffic and saying “okay, be careful! I’ll pick you up at three and then we’ll have snack time and do homework!”
  • You are mine but you are NOT me. I don’t play to this theory that because I had you, you represent me in every way, shape and form. Instead, I think of you as an individual. You are not responsible for me or for my happiness. You are one hundred percent responsible for your life, your happiness. I mentioned this to someone once and she said “Wow, that’s an interesting way of looking at it.” Whatever you say, lady…
  • I am not perfect. Surprising, I know. I try to make the best choices but I have done a number of “bad mommy” things. I’ve accidentally hit your head on the car door, I’ve accidentally pinched you in the car seat, I drink way too much caffeine… but I love you. and everything I intend to do for you, I do with love.
  • Some of my old issues will present themselves in your lifetime like they have this week. I haven’t been your “true mommy.” I haven’t been as happy-go-lucky as I try to be for you but I know it’s because I’m sick and because I’m waiting for a little change. But I vow to do whatever I need to do whether it be meds, therapy, talk to someone, or write in order to clear my head and more importantly, my heart.
  • You are so very beautiful. And the fact that I helped make something like this is a frightening honor.

We have grown together and found our rhythm since that moment you looked at me, widened your lips, showed off your gums. And there are so many things about you that take me by surprise. You are so strong. I mean a real ball buster, figuratively and literally. You are VERY happy but in an instant you can get pissed and read me the riot act. You want me constantly now. And although I chalk it up to wanting your afternoon snack, I know it’s something different because of the way you look at me. You rely on me even though you probably hate admitting that fact. You are independent, walking, talking, playing with the pups and your toys and practically sighing with frustration if I want to join in, too. You are so lovable. I will admit, you’re not a hugger but there are many special times you’ve come up to me just to hug and rest your head on my shoulder. I appreciate that and I appreciate you.

I think of the person you’re going to become, but don’t worry, I don’t think too hard. I want you to own your future and for me to simply be the soft hand guiding you along the way. I kid that you will be anything and everything under the sun, but know whatever you choose I’ll be there cheering and loving you along the way.

Thank you, Ava, for giving me three years. Three years we’ve spent together. More than a thousand days that have forced me to grow up, to strengthen my spine and to learn for the first time what it means to live for something other than myself.

You deserve all the happiness in the world and I will do my best to make sure you have it.

I love you,

Mommy

I wrote this post for an old blog awhile ago but every word in it remains true.  I’ve even revised it a bit because it’s like a constant thought, one that keeps fluctuating, changing but never ceasing to exist.  I’m re-posting it in honor of Movember, a blogging movement to raise awareness for prostate cancer issues and male mental illness orchestrated by the magnificent™ Le Clown.  This post has been republished to destigmatize the concept of depression from a parent’s point of view.  I had a difficult time adjusting to motherhood, not because I didn’t love my daughter but because I thought I didn’t deserve her.  Depression doesn’t always mean you stop loving and feeling.  Sometimes it means you simply feel too much and need the support of everyone around you to trust yourself again.

Thank you to Le Clown and fellow blogging friends for keeping this movement going.