New Jersey Moms Blog

I Went To Parenthood And All I Got Was This Flabby Stomach

OK, OK, I got more than a blob of a belly from this parenthood thing; I got two adorable kids. Whom I fully blame for the state of my belly.

I never had a completely flat stomach to start with. They don't run in my family. Also, I like to eat. Also, I like cookies. Then I had my son, and I got a c-section. Stomach tendons: severed. Time to work out: nada. Willpower to workout: negative nada. When I had my little girl I got another c-section, completely destroying whatever semblance of stomach firmness I had left. 

My son is 7, my baby girl is 5, and I am vaguely tempted to get pregnant again just so I have an excuse to have a big belly. 

Did I just say that?

I stand in awe of women who've given birth and who have retained their flat stomachs; I gape at them at our town pool from the safety of my Slimsuit and wonder what planet they hail from. Recently, I was at a zoo with the kids, and noticed that the mama chimp seemingly had a flatter belly than I did (though at least she wasn't wearing a bikini and flaunting it). 

The suspect serial killer (and other tales of life in the 'burbs)

Before I moved to the suburbs, I imagined life there to be full of tree-lined streets, happy kids playing outdoors, friendly neighbors who'd bring us a welcome cake and drop by for summer BBQ's.

We got the trees and the blissed-out kids. The chummy 'hood? A mixed bag. It was partly our fault; we were barely around. Like others, I was working full-time. Weekends were spent running around doing errands, visiting friends and fixing up our 1910 colonial. 

Elizabeth down the street was the neighborhood nosy body. A peppy blond with a motor mouth, she loved talking gardening and gossip. It didn't matter much to her that half the time I had no idea who she was talking about.

The people who lived directly to the right of us had 15 kids, several of whom still lived at home (though we were never sure who). We'd see Mr. W sitting on his porch at night, watching TV. It took me five years to have a sighting of Mrs. W, whose only sign of existence was the laundry hanging on line in their backyard. My husband and I weren't sure Mrs. W was still in one piece from bringing up all those kids. Then she drove by one day, and it was like we'd seen the Pope or something, so shrouded in mystique was she.

The division of labor in our family: Can you relate?

It's Thursday as I type this. The weekend is coming up. We do not have a single plan. This is because I have not made a single plan. If I do not make plans for weekends, then that's it. No. Plans. No playdates for kids, no activities to take them to, no Saturday night out with my husband, nada. 

And you know what? I do not mind.

My husband's plan-free personality used to bother me before we had kids, when I was always the one to coordinate activities. The mere words "Honey, what are we doing this weekend?" would make me growl.

Then we had kids. And from day one, my husband has been the most hands-on dad I'd ever seen. He diapers. He feeds. He bathes. He drives the kids to activities. He takes them for haircuts. He watches them as they play on our street. And I don't even have to nag remind him. He just does it. 

Besides being our weekend cruise director, I also handle any home repairs (neither of us are very handy and I am a master at tracking down good repair people, thanks to our local community bulletin board); all of the kids' school stuff; keeping the house clean (or hiring someone to do it). And maybe a gazillion other things having to do with running a family.

I [Heart] Our Driveway

When people ask what I most love about our house, I have a ready answer: “Our driveway!” I’ll respond enthusiastically, an answer that makes people think I'm a suburban mom on crack. I live in a 1910 colonial with original parquet wood floors, stained-glass windows and golf-course views. Our driveway is your usual black tar number. 
Two years ago we moved here from Hoboken, a.k.a. The City With No Parking Spots. Many was the morning when I’d arrive late to work because it was an alternate-side-of-the-street parking day and I couldn’t find a spot. I’d get so frantic that I’d reverse down entire streets if I happened to glance a puff of exhaust fume in my rearview mirror. On one particularly bad-parking-karma morning, I screeched to a stop in front of an elderly neighbor, jumped out, and begged him to park my car for me. He agreed, and I bought him a lottery ticket in return.