Ramen Noodles in My Veins

I've been known to be frugal at times—OK, downright cheap. During my first job after college, I commuted to Philly from Delaware and parked for free in the middle of Broad Street, about 15 blocks from work. I don't know if it was legal, but I figured if BMWs and Mercedes were taking the risk, then I could wedge my old dented Honda in, too. Mr. Car and I survived just fine, although when it started getting dark at 5 in December, hauling A through the sketchy areas of the city wasn't for me. Plus, brr!

Soon afterward I found another parking steal—Enoch's Garage for $40 a month. It was an odd place run by Father Divine followers. I remember a sign on the wall listing various rules, including, “No excessive talking with people of the opposite sex.” It was good while it lasted, but still a hike to my office, and the garage closed at 11 p.m. One time I arrived just after “curfew” and the doors were locked. Thankfully, someone was there to let me in, but it was too risky for happy hours. Plus, I didn't want my tires slashed if they caught me flirting.

During that job, I remember making peanut shells after taxes—I don't know how I survived. Oh yeah, my cheapness! I'd sneak a brown bag out to restaurants so I could order a side salad and still be social. Or, I'd get a $3 pint (boss gave the nod) and $2.75 cheese fries at The Irish Pub. A fulfilling lunch and kind to the wallet.

You could possibly credit (blame?) college for polishing my penny-pinching skills. Like many resourceful students, I survived just fine on the traditional menu of mac n' cheese, hot dogs, The Beast, an occasional pantry raid from home and, of course, the acclaimed Ramen noodles--getting my lifetime supply of sodium in just five lunches.

But the truth is, I was thrifty long before dorm life and all-nighters. As a tween, my grandma would treat us to a fancy dinner every year when she was up for the holidays. All I could think was, “How about cash instead of this overpriced chicken? I could eat Salisbury steak at home with Gilligan and the Skipper, and score $20 for a new Aigner belt.”

To this day, I still spend as much time ogling menu prices as I do the fare. I don't know how I got this way. Maybe it's so I could save on the little stuff to buy something expensive once in a while.

Since I was laid off in November, I've been embracing my frugality even more. But it's a challenge, especially when you hit the grocery store for muffins and spend $100. Who put all that crap in my cart anyway? Those damn grocery gnomes get you every time!

As much as I try to ignore the allure of catalogs and ads for things I'll never need like designer toilet paper holders, it's tough when you like to shop. It's a conflict I'm working on. In high school, I listed the following quote in the yearbook as my fave: “What's money for if you don't spend it?” Yet, the other day I pored through five cookbooks in search of a muffin recipe so I wouldn't have to fork over $5 at the market. (As you can see from the above, that didn't work out.)

More recently, in efforts to be budget-savvy, I've started wondering if all this scrimping really matters. So what if we croak with less money under the mattress? As long as we don't swim in debt, how about I pay to have the mulch blasted around the yard, rather than lug the wheelbarrow to and fro for hours and hours?

Something in me resists, though. Right now, I'm painting the basement, a few strokes at a time when my mom is up to watch the kids. Yesterday, I stuffed my pockets with coupons for groceries, and earlier this week I bolted straight to the sale rack at the shoe store. Sixty bucks for toddler sneakers? I don't think so.

Meanwhile, I'm fantasizing about wallpaper for the stairwell, new bar stools, a bistro set for the deck, new tile—the list is as long as ... well, the ways that I am cheap.

Me Time, Gourmet Meals and Other Myths of Motherhood

A lot of how I pictured stay-at-home motherhood is spot on. I spend tons of time with the kids, do more chores than a monkey flings dung, and am much less stressed than I have been in years. But even more of how I imagined being Henrietta Homemaker is way off the mark—for better and worse.

Myth 1: I'd have more “me” time. Ha! In my “child-free” years, I remember when a good pal of mine traded in her dress flats for flip-flops after having a baby. I asked her about nap times and she said the baby slept two hours in the morning and one more in the afternoon. “So, three hours of spare time!” I concluded, trying not to purse my lips in envy. “Nice!”

That's right; guffaw goes here. There is no “free time.”

While technically nap times are spent alone (at least for me), it's incredibly hard to grab a book and cozy up on the couch unless you have a live-in maid, on-call handyman, personal chef and and part-time back-scratcher. I've actually been jealous of Caillou's mom for pleasure reading—and she's a CARTOON character! In another episode she lies down because she has a cold—slacker!

Honestly, even the most Type B momma would have trouble soaking in bubbles or painting her toenails during every snooze-fest if she wanted to get anything done—even the most mundane things like fetching the mail, eating a sandwich or using the hopper. Little tasks add up, and the next thing you know the great time-suck machine has swooped down from the sky and vacuumed an hour away with an evil roar. Before you can tighten your ponytail and wipe crumbs off your lips, baby is clamoring for some luvin.

In my case, the kids' nap time (if they have one together) is often spent on still-mundane-but-a-step-above-crapping things like unloading the dishwasher, stuffing laundry in drawers, calling a tree service guy (or other home repairman to haul away money one pillowcase full at a time), paying bills, emptying the trash/cat litter/recycle can and exciting stuff like that. Glamorous, I know. Am I complaining? No. Spoken like a true elf: I love chores. Chores are my favorite!

But, really, let's not be a martyr. I make time for blogging (thank you, television), get exercise in during walks, check e-mails and Facebook when I can, see a friend now and then, and most of all, I'm eternally grateful to have this time with my stinky, adorable, demanding, amazing little honey buns.

And don't hate me for this: I also have an ANGEL of a mom who comes up once a week, driving an hour each way, to watch the boys while I do whatever I want. So yep, I need to shut it.

Myth 2: I'd cook home-made feasts all the time, complete with garnishes and candlelight. (Bahahaha!) But you know what? Mashing Play-doh or hitting the park with the boys is more important to me than candying walnuts and zesting limes for a kick-ass recipe. Once in awhile, yes, but a ball of pizza dough with a few toppings goes a long way. Pasta, too. Also: bag o' salad is king! Add some grape tomatoes, Newman's dressing and it's yum-easy-cheap-nutritious!

Now that the weather is nice, I wouldn't mind eating on the deck a few times a week (month, even), but don't let me get carried away. One fantasy at a time.

Myth 3: Everything would be easier (than it actually is). In my naive little mind, I pictured motherhood like life in Pleasantville before knowledge knocked on the door and colored the town red, black and blue. Everything was peaceful, fun and easy-going, and then BAM! Paint explodes all over the walls, the streets, the cat, my muffins.

With two little ones, it's impossible to avoid tantrums, sudden tears at 2 a.m., and big brother sitting on little brother's head now and then. It's gross getting poop under your nails when checking a diaper. It's hard to haul both kids off to an early doc appointment and arrive on time. It's tough getting enough sleep.

So, easy? No, not really. Frustrating? On occasion. But worth it?

Does the diaper pail stink like rotten eggs and vomit? Is a giggling baby not the best sound on earth? Is an unsolicited toddler hug even better than coffee?

Well, that last one is a tie, but you get where I'm going.

It's the trip of a lifetime.

A Mother's Day Roll in the Grass

The other day, Boss was trying out his new finger paints, which are colorless until smeared on special paper. He dipped his fingers in the containers, then wiped them around into a beautiful (IMHO) pastel blob. As he watched the colors take form, he exclaimed in a Tinkerbell voice: “It's just like magic!”

Any Grinch's heart would have grown three sizes that day—I know mine did.

As I'm writing this blog, Boss is practicing more cuteness. He's at his train table, scooting little engines around in a precious world of make-believe.

“Guys, what're you doin' down dere?” he asks the choo-choos, playing on the once-complicated track reduced to scattered bridges and stations with a sweep of his arm. “Percy and Rosie, go back to work,” he orders, muttering something about an 'an-mal' shelter. “BUST MYYYYYY BUFFERS!”

Next, he's singing the Thomas the Tank Engine song in da's and dum's. Then: “Stop dat Toby, you can't come wif me!” accompanied by a derailment and some good old-fashioned train smashing.

Ahhhh, these are the days, just like that Natalie Merchant song. The sun is bright, a breeze is tickling the wind chimes, birds are chirping, my son is adorable, we had reasonably good grocery store outing--and I'm not even going to say it won't last.

I'm grateful to be a mother on days like these, but who am I kidding? I'm grateful to be a mom any day. After six years of infertility fun to finally hatch Boss in 2008, that's one of many lessons I vowed to remember. Throughout that time, I also remember thinking that if I ever had a baby, I'd never (or seldom) complain about being a mom--that somehow I wasn't even allowed to groan after wanting it so bad for so long. 

Those notions lasted about two hours into delivery. Boss was 2 feet long and nearly 10 lbs.; I could only take so much.

I confess that for a while I was indignant about breeders who complained about their kids. “How DARE they whine about being tired?!” I'd scoff. “They should be KISSING the ground that baby crawls on! FRENCH kissing!”

I remember once shopping at a clothing store in a failed-IVF stupor when a frazzled mom was gathering items near me. She was trying to navigate a double stroller while holding clothes and keeping her kids from fondling a display of sunglasses and jewelry. I don't know who was grumpier—her or me. We both needed a box of kittens or a stiff drink.

A little while later when she was behind me in the check-out line, she ran out of patience, slapped her items on the counter and took off. I was ready for her to screech, “Thanks for letting me go first, jerk! Couldn't you see that my hands were full with these kids, and I was about ready to explode?!”

To which I was ready to shout back, “At least you HAVE kids, so shut your cake hole, and be grateful, you beeeeeeoooooocccchhhhh!”

I'm not proud to say that I had regular conversations like that with myself during the hard years. I even got to muttering under my breath, a dangerous habit. At least I didn't run down any grumps at the grocery store with my cart. Well, OK, I did that once. But only once, and I did apologize for my “accident.” Poor lady, her Kotex pad was probably yanking her pubes. Or, I dunno, maybe she just blew $8,000 on a botched IVF cycle!

Now, several years later, I'm on the breeders' side of the fence and the grass is definitely greener. A beautiful shade of shamrock, actually. Of course, I'll huff at weeds now and then, but that's OK, I've given myself permission.

Speaking of grass, Mother's Day was yesterday and one of the best parts was one of the simplest—rollicking on a blanket in the yard with Hubbo, Stinker and Boss. I learned a lot during my infertility saga, chief of which was to enjoy the moment and life's little things. Blooming azaleas, children laughing, fresh bread, a kiss under the dogwood tree.

And maybe just one big thing: being a mom.