Bubble Mom


I’d like to begin this post by acknowledging that I can be a bit of a germophobe.

This acknowledgement is going to be met with great protest from one of my best friends (to protect her privacy we’ll call her “Lamy”) who will tell anyone who listens that I once ate pizza out of a trash can. Ok, it was twice. But as I’ve reminded Lamy time and time again, those pizzas were in a box on the top of a trash can. Yet I digress.

On a scale from 1 to 10 I’d rank myself about a 5, with Bubble Boy a 1 and Oscar the Grouch a 10. I carry hand sanitizer in my purse, I use my shirt tail to open some doors, I put toilet paper down on the seat in public bathrooms (I know what you’re thinking and I’ve TRIED to hover but there’s just something wrong with my plumbing. It goes everywhere and I have to go home and take a shower and burn my pants. Also met with high scrutiny from Lamy). However, with that having been admitted, I believe that even Oscar would be pissed about my impending rant…

Why does everyone I meet succumb to a seemingly insatiable urge to put their slobbery lips and scummy hands all over my baby? It’s like I’m toting around a little baby Blarney Stone. And they’re quick – so quick. I can look into their eyes and know within seconds that they’re going in for the grope but before I can utter a word they are in and out, fast as lightning. Kissing and touching her feet, her hands, her head… oh God it makes me freaking crazy.

But even if I did have time to say something how do you tell a 90-year-old woman, whose days are numbered, who gains her only glimmer of happiness for the week by touching my baby’s hand, to keep her meat hooks to herself? What if the old woman died on the way home and I deprived her of her one last moment of joy?

But then again, what if she has some horrible contagious disease that she passes along to my poor, defenseless daughter? Or what about Nick’s boss – we’re talking about a world-renowned physician - who nuzzled Ellie with her nose in front of everyone at his work party? I stood helpless. The room started spinning and I thought my blood pressure was going to pop my eyes right out of my head. I wanted to grab her by the hair and fling her into the pool. There’s just no way to say it without being branded forever as a nervous Mom who also happens to be a horrible bitch.

After much deliberation and consideration I have come up with a temporary fix that’s been successful on two test runs in the check-out line at Wal-Mart: Random woman glances behind her at Ellie, turns away, contemplates her evil plan, turns back:

Oh, she’s adorable! How old is she?

10 weeks.

Oh! Hello there! Hello cute little one! So cute… (eyes twinkling, fingers twitching)…

Thanks! Say... you don’t know anything about scabies, do you?

Hand jerks back.

Crisis averted.

Listen, people. This little 14-pound bundle of joy cost us a fortune to create, is costing us even more to keep alive and happy, and she happens to be the key element in our very expensive retirement plan. You break her, and it’s going to be your ass coming over when I’m 80 to change my bed pan and keep me company while I watch The Price is Right.

Although the scabies strategy has worked so far, I will continue to spend my free moments Googling "bubble material".



Last week I went in for my 6-week check-up with J.T. (my trusty OB). He told me it looked like I had healed perfectly… one of the best post-op incisions he had seen… green light to resume life as I knew it … blah blah blah.

Disappointed, I drove home knowing when I got there it would be time to face the Reaper. I hate the Reaper. But no more excuses – it’s time to get back in shape. When I got home I went to the closet and my old running shoes, who I affectionately refer to as Somebody Kill Me (left shoe) and What Just Popped (right one), were there waiting for me and begging for action under a pile of dust.

While I’m near my pre-pregnancy weight, it is distributed in a very different way than I recall. For instance, I’m pretty sure that my belly button never looked like it was being poured out of my stomach like honey from a (very lumpy) jar. And I got some serious junk in a previously empty trunk. I mean, SERIOUS junk.

I decided that Monday would be the big day that I would begin to get back in shape – let’s not rush things. The master plan included working out once a day, and eating ice cream only once a week. As a point of reference, I checked our bank statement and we had 18 Dairy Queen transactions in the month of June. As many calories as four African children eat in a year. Stop judging.

Unfortunately and despite my prayers, Monday came. I laced up the shoes and decided a jog would be a good start.

The jiggling began immediately and without apology. It was everywhere... the arms, the thighs, the butt. But the belly had borne the brunt of the pregnancy weight and together with the boobs created a perfect storm of friction, flopping and free flowing skin. My face, immediately purple and swollen, was the finishing touch into my transformation into a female John Goodman jogging through the neighborhood. Ellie clung tightly to the sides of the jogging stroller for dear life, gums chattering, eyes bulging – the bouncing was almost more than she could take.

After mile 1 there was a numbness in my inner thighs which I assumed was either an early symptom of a heart attack or the onset of horrific chafing. Either way it was not good. My lungs were on fire and it was all I could do to keep from vomiting in the street. At least I had Ellie’s burp cloth handy if things got messy. Despite my better judgement I decided to go another lap. I closed my eyes and thought of my upcoming trip to Las Vegas for motivation. Poolside… swimsuit… horrified hotel guests… mass hysteria… public humiliation… disgraced… depressed… ostracized… crawl in a spider hole and wither up and die… it was enough to get me through the last mile. Finally, after what seemed like forever, my run was over.

I peeled Ellie’s hands off of the stroller, thankful I had buckled her in. This is going to be extremely hard, but nobody ever said it was easy becoming a MILF.