It's All Going To Shit Today

Good days. Bad days. That's the way it goes. Well, its easy to say that. It's another to mean it. Especially when you are trying to raise a young family. It's Friday. It's the end of the week. We're all exhausted. My three year old has been, and remains, very poorly. My seven year old is already bored senseless by the Summer holidays and the lack of contact with other seven year olds that are obsessed with Zac Ephron and my seven month old is on the verge of becoming a crawling machine. I just saw a commercial on TV for The Olive Garden and I have been struck by how little my family resembles the one enjoying their pasta and breadstick for $6.99.

I'm an intelligent, forward thinking, open minded young(ish) woman. And yet, in my weakest moments I feel ashamed that I haven't created more of those bullshit "family" moments that are continuously sold to us in the media. They are timed perfectly, at the very moment when mommy and daddy will be at their weakest. After 830pm when, after lengthy battles, the kids are finally in bed and we get to flop down on the sofa and grunt at each other with a glass of wine in our hands, and pretend we are enjoying quality time, instead we get ridiculed by these images of the perfect family and they make me feel horrible and inadequate. Which I understand is the whole point. Go to Olive Garden and you too can be a great parent! How can a commercial for The Olive Garden have such an effect on me. I mean, its not even a good restaurant for christ sake!

In TV land a great family tradition is sharing crummy food. In Real Nagler land, a great family tradition is shouting "get your hand out of your diaper!" and "honey, not that cup" and "in a minute, let me deal with the baby" all at the same time while yelling down the phone that I don't want to give any more money to the Obama campaign (every night people!). It wasn't supposed to be this way. I thought I would be swaddling my new baby in soft pink cashmere and she would coo contentedly in my arms, while my next baby tickled her feet and giggled and my eldest child would be cooking gourmet meals and cleaning the house (just kidding). The reality of three children has been quite different to anything we ever imagined. If you think that having one kid reveals how little you knew about anything, try having three. It's beyond crazy!

It's so crazy that today it is going to shit. They all sleep soundly and happily in their beds right now, and I sob silently over a bloody Olive Garden commercial and wonder why I'm not more like the nineteen year old woman dressed like a forty year old mother, with an abundance of patience when 20 liters of fruit juice is strewn across the floor. By the way, while still holding down a very busy full time job. It's just one of those days, and I'm glad its over. I can hit the sack, sleep it off, and try again tomorrow. One of the greatest gifts that we can all enjoy. The chance to start anew.

How am I going to make this work?

Free Brett Favre

I have a new lease on life today. Gone are my tears and overwhelming feelings of hopelessness, betrayal and resentment over Brett's trade to the Jets. I'm British for God's sake. When we were huddling underground in train depots did we give up? When we have to make one sausage last a month, did we give up? When we had to fashion our carpets into clothing for an entire decade, did we give up? NO, WE JOLLY WELL DID NOT!

We joined forces. We borrowed curtains from neighbours (yes, the English spelling) and we made a bloody decent outfit. Even if it was grey. Or gray. Up until now my MO has been to pretend that this just isn't happening, and to set fire to anybody I see wearing a Jets shirt with "Favre" on the back. (It's not a Favre jersey. A Favre jersey is from GREEN BAY). But now that I've seen the press conferences I see it all so clearly. He needs me. He needs US. We must free him from this hell. He wanted to play football for Green Bay. And those treachorous bastards traded him to the New York Jets (the football equivalent of chopping off your head). Hold tight Brett, we'll be right there!

In case you don't quite comprehend the enormity of this trade let me offer you some perspective. This is like having Tom Hanks teach a drama program at Summer camp in the Poconos. This is like having Steve Schwarzman work the counter at Commerce Bank. This is like having Dustin Hoffman dressed as a turkey outside a butchers shop in a mall at Christmas. In essence, this is WRONG. But don't despair my green and gold loving friends. We can overcome.

First of all, pretend it isn't happening. It's the Jets, so really who cares about them? We'll be glued to our Packer games, Aaron Rodgers doing extremely well and not disappointing at all. Before you know it the Packers will be in the playoffs, and then the Superbowl, and then the season will be over, and Brett will be back home (where he should have been all year) and then we won't have to pretend that he's dead to us anymore. We can go back to reminiscing on all the good times we had with our original QB1. We can pretend it never happened. And the Jets and their fans can spend the rest of their lives with their mouths wide open in AWE at the greatness that momentarily touched their lives.

Oh Brett. If only.............

Oh Brett

Throughout my mostly sleepless night I knew exactly how I was going to write this blog. I had so much to say. I did, after all, have two very symbolic (albeit short) dreams. The first involved a large snake, which in dreams according to hippies** everywhere, signifies deception. I feel deceived by this whole sorry affair and the way the Packers organization dumped Brett like a hot potato. The second involved the contents of my wallet being stolen, the wallet being the Green Bay Packers and the contents, “the heart” if you will, being Brett Favre.

I’m surprised by how hard I have taken Brett’s retirement, and how saddened I’ve become by the subsequent fall out of his return. I guess you don’t know how much you really love something until it’s gone. And like a lover who has been replaced by a recovering crack addict with four kids by four different fathers, I feel a bit insulted by the trade to the Jets. I mean, the Jets????? Of course, if you are a Jets fan you are going to be thrilled. You might actually win a game or two this season. But I’m not happy. Brett is a Packer. He’s not a Jet. Well, on paper he’s a Jet. And in September at Meadowlands he’ll be a Jet, but to me at least, he’ll ALWAYS be a Packer.

I’m also surprised by my husband’s lack of emotion to the situation. It was, after all, him that introduced me to the Packers and nurtured my deep love for the game and all things green and gold. Ten years ago I thought an interception was something that only happened in movies like “Top Gun”. He keeps talking about the future of the Packers and how he’s going to wear his Rodgers jersey and how he is 100% behind Rodgers and all that sort of grown up, mature totally objective and together stuff. I realize that if we were to ever break up he would be very “Demi and Bruce” whereas I’m much more “Kim and Alec”.

So that’s it. This is how the story ends. Along with so many Packer fans, who have wondered for so long, the guessing game is over. Like any break up, I ask myself over and over again “how did we get here?” and I know that there are answers to that question, namely Brett’s decision to retire. And the speed with which the organization moved on. But Brett’s moved on too and so must I.

But like any painful break up, I can only remember the good times. And there were many.


** Please don’t comment on how you are not a hippy even though you believe in the interpretation of dreams. That is after all one of the defining characteristics of a real hippy. That and “healing” with pebbles.

Take A Seat

There is a golden rule that must be obeyed at all times. Did I say “golden rule”? Well then I understated it. I meant a rule derived of a metal so precious, platinum would bow in its wake. A rule embellished with Graff diamonds and deep sea pearls. A rule of such enormity and such significance, it makes the US Constitution seem like a cartoon version of US Weekly. And this is the rule of which I speak;

NEVER EVER EVER MAKE ANY REFERENCE WHATSOEVER TO A WOMAN BEING PREGNANT IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM (OFFERING SEAT, ASKING ABOUT CRAVINGS OR SUGGESTING ALTERNATIVE LABOR PAIN MANAGEMENT TIPS) UNLESS YOU CAN ACTUALLY SEE A BABY’S HEAD EMERGING FROM HER VAGINA.

That’s the golden rule. And you’re welcome. Remember it.

When I was quite early on in all my pregnancies, it was fun to witness people bumble their way through some pathetic attempt to spark conversation with me about my pregnancy but be unsure about whether or not they were on the right track. In line with my evil sense of humor I’d say ‘Oh, I’m not pregnant” and watch them cringe with embarrassment and look awkwardly at their feet, until I finally admitted that yes, ha ha ha, I was indeed knocked up.

More interesting times at the end of each my pregnancies, when I was the size of a Honda Civic (the old, bulky ones, not the newer sleek models mind you). This is the time when NOBODY noticed my pregnancy, particularly on busy New York subway trains where the presence of a stomach approximately 50 inches in circumference stuck in your face doesn’t distract you at all from that riveting14 word article in Metro NY.

But bugger me, there is NOTHING fun or interesting about somebody offering you a fucking subway seat 4 months AFTER your baby is born. Nothing. In fact, I’d hazard that it is less painful to shove a garden rake up your ass. Sideways. I have been offered a seat on public transportation no less than 3 times since I returned to work. And I find it utterly soul destroying. I’m in my pre pregnancy trousers for crissakes! I am so depressed about the expectations.

A very large part of the problem for me is that generally we as a society have such a distorted view of motherhood, thanks in large part to the revolting celebrity culture that has overridden our media for the last 10 years. I feel so embarrassed to admit this but yes, there have been times when I have compared my self to a celebrity and its just ludicrous. The cover of one of those magazines is how Halle Berry looks the way she does 4 weeks after having a baby. Erm, clue; tummy tuck, liposuction, dietician, personal trainer, nanny, personal assistant and billions of dollars.

For us mere mortals, getting to the gym is a tiny victory in itself. After about 3 hours sleep (and I’m talking a week here, not a night) the next miracle is having the energy to step onto an elliptical, and after that stay upright long enough to get a decent work out in.

But more than that, it’s the idea that our bodies are ugly, unattractive, that we are a disappointment or a failure if we look basically like women do and should look after having a baby. I think that a lot of women feel shame because of what happens to their bodies during and after pregnancy. And its because instead of congratulating women, supporting women or celebrating women for the incredible and miraculous changes that occur as their child grows within them, our society judges them in a competition that they didn’t even enter with the likes of Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie.

Obviously this is a huge topic, and hugely personal to me, as a mother of 3. I’m very fortunate to have a husband who reminds me often of what I already know deep down. My beauty isn’t in my perfectly flat stomach or my skinny jeans. It’s in the uncontainable joy I express on my face each and every time I watch my children playing, laughing, learning and surviving another day in this crazy world. And I never feel more beautiful than when I am with my girls, being their Mom. Stomach, thighs and all.