VeryUnCarrie

Sexless in the Suburbs. That was just one of the signature lines I considered using in my blog. Although it is a thinly veiled comparison to the wildly interesting life of Sex in the City's Carrie Bradshaw, Sexless in the Suburbs is obviously the antithesis of such a life.  It also incorrectly implies that 1) Yakima is a suburb (which it is not) and 2) Sex does not exist here (and that would be a lie). In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was one of the country's top ten hot beds for breeders. Everybody here is a reproduction specialist. They produce litters. I recently heard that "four" is the "new" two when referring to the number of one's children in terms of family size. Well, this suburban mama is taking my chances on three. This shop is closed.

The bottom line:  Yes, there is sex…drama…and friends in the suburbs – it’s just missing the excitement of the city, stilettos, martinis, and fashion - in any form. When I landed in this small, agricultural town smack dab in the center of Washington nearly five years ago, it really was one of the most tumultuous transitions I had ever experienced. But transition aside, I’ve had quite a journey from small town girl to big city gal, smacked back down to even smaller town girl.

Arriving from Chicago with a fresh “French” bikini wax and my swimsuit in hand, I had this overwhelming feeling that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. My husband loved his new job, we loved our new home – which felt like a 2900 square foot mansion compared to our tiny, first-floor condo in the ghetto – and we were embarking on our new life together. My daughter was just turning one, walking all over the place, and pleased as punch to have so much space to explore.

I am a fairly independent soul, so I don’t really NEED friends, and that is a good thing because I didn’t really have any yet. When you’re not in school and you don’t have a job, finding friends can be a little like shopping for a hidden treasure on the disheveled clothing racks at TJ Maxx. I found that my only communication was with a one year old - ALL DAY LONG. And although it is a lot of fun speaking gibberish and making funny faces, I was more than a little deprived of some adult conversation. I realized that if I didn't get out and make some friends soon, I was going to be doomed to a life of referring to myself in third person.

"Mommy wants to wipe your boogie!"
"Let Mommy change your poopy diaper!"
"Mmmm...Mommy LOVES nannas!"  

Mayday! Mayday! Call 911! Mommy needs a life or a friend fast!

One day, out of the blue, I received a call from a neighbor inviting me to a local MOPS meeting. I was praying to God that this was not some sort of club for freaky floor cleaners and was relieved to find out that it was not. MOPS stands for “Mothers of Preschoolers.” And before I go further, and risk upsetting other MOPS moms, let me preface this with a disclaimer, an apology, and a request for forgiveness:

MOPS is a very, very good organization and I have met some really amazing mothers there. Your experience probably differs from mine. In fact, I am probably blowing everything out of proportion...because that is what I do. I tend to "dramatize" the situation. So, I am very sorry in advance and I beg your forgiveness!

The MOPS meetings were bi-monthly gatherings held in the basement of a large Church downtown with dingy tables and folding chairs spread out as far as the eye can see. At the stroke of 8 a.m., the parking lot would fill with SUVs and frumpy moms dragging in their whiny, snot-nosed kids where they would trade their child for a sticky name tag and a TGIFriday's beeper, and fly down the stairs like a bird fleeing the coup. As you entered the church, the large, expansive room wreaked of Bisquick sausage casserole, glazed donuts and the best Styrofoam coffee you have ever ingested. It was usually the best meal, and only meal, you had time to eat all week.

Growing up Catholic, I hadn’t been to church in years. I was immediately uncomfortable when our table leader asked me what I needed prayer for that day. Now, I know no body's household is perfect, but I seriously struggled to come up with something that I didn’t mind saying out loud to a bunch of women I did not know. So, I came up with something really lame like “pray for my daughter…she is having trouble going to sleep at night.” God must have known I was insincere because that prayer was not answered.

As I looked around my table, I felt like a complete outsider. Not only was I the only one that did not dress in sweat pants, but it seemed like I was the only one who had ever ENJOYED working outside the household. Yes! I’m guilty! I miss working! There, I said it. And I’m pretty sure everyone thought I was a complete freak. I say this because I soon learned that I was guilty of violating some very basic MOPS rules.

Rule 1: C-Sections are Cop outs
Most MOPS moms will avoid C-sections at all cost. At one point, I was even cornered by a group of V-backers who urged me to reconsider my next birthing experience. To date, I have had 3 c-sections, making me the most unpopular and unsuccessful breeder in the entire world.

Rule 2: Le Leche or Le Loser
I have enormous boobs. And I mean enormous. I did not pay for these bad boys, so believe me, it is not by choice, but rather, mother nature who gave me these 32H ers, and let me just say she is one cruel and vindictive bitch.

I really believed that my longtime affliction of big breasts would be rewarded when it came time to rear children. Surely I would be the world's best breast feeder. They would produce cream for my babies. It makes sense, right? Big boobs should produce lots of life-sustaining breast milk. Well, not mine. I tried everything. I would hook both breasts up to a double pump, get "milked" for 30 minutes, and be devastated by the 3 tiny droplets that barely lined the bottom of the bottle. I tried creams, nipple contraptions, drank yeasty beer, and a few other homeopathic remedies. Zilch. Sorry ladies! My boobies were dry! And if giving my baby a bottle makes me a loser, then slap a big "L" on my forehead and call it a day.

Rule 3: We “Complete” Man – Not “Compete” with Man
When I heard this from the super zen "elder" on the stage, I almost lost my casserole. Having just ditched my career, this one really rubbed me the wrong way. Why did I spend all of this time getting an education and climbing the corporate ladder if I existed only to "complete" man? And what does that really mean anyway? I'm still trying to wrap my little brain around that one.

Rule 4: Pray to your husband, not Jesus.
I will admit that I am a little "bible light" at the moment. And, if I'm going to be totally honest, I have yet to read the bible in its entirety. But I have to ask, is that really in there? Again, super zen "elder" explained to us that women should first take their problems and prayers to their husband. If, and only if, our husband is unable to answer those prayers, are we allowed to take them to God. At this point, I'm pretty sure I am going straight to hell.

Four strikes and I was clearly out of there. I attended semi-regularly for a little over a year. Each time, I would leave in tears feeling like a complete loser. I had failed my children by birthing them through an incision, not a vagina; fed them powdered milk from a Chinese manufacturer; competed with men on a daily basis to advance my career and break through the glass ceiling; and finally, I prayed directly to Jesus himself. God dammit! How was I going to get out of this one?

As it stands, I am not a soccer mom - none of my kids play sports yet. I am not a MOPS mom (no need to expand on that one). And in no way, shape, or form, does my life even remotely compare to that of Carrie Bradshaw or Sex in the City. So, instead of labeling myself as the complete antithesis - Sexless in the Suburbs - I will just settle for "VeryUnCarrie." And I am totally okay with that!