Dear Mr. Wright...

Someday, after I get around to having that flap of stretched-out skin (You know, the one that hides my rock-hard abs?) surgically removed, you may wake up and realize that you are the father of an insane number of children, and that I am not as young as I was when we met.

I'll understand if you want to get all Talking Heads on me: This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! You may ask yourself, Well... how did I get here?

However, I want to make it abundantly clear that I will not have a sense of humor about you taking up with my plastic surgeon's 22-year-old daughter, especially one as classy as Jon Gosselin's new, um, mistress. (I can't make myself say "girlfriend." He's still married.)

If your new plaything's friends feed the press photos like this:

...or this (Hmm. What's she holding?):


...or...

...for the entire world - and our children - to see, I will personally see to it that you have a new, eunuch unique respect for your old (but freshly tummy-tucked) wife.

Just so we understand each other.

Forget Gitmo… I’ve Been Bikini Shopping

So… they’re closing Gitmo. Rumor has it United States government agencies have been engaging in some pretty inhumane tactics at Guantanamo Bay Detention Facility in the hope of extracting information from detainees about alleged terrorist activities. Why does a leading world power like the United States waste resources on questionable physical and psychological tactics, which may or may not elicit confessions from detainees?

Wouldn’t it be cheaper and more effective to force prisoners to try on a never-ending collection of bathing suits that just don’t fit right?

Hmmm? What’s that? You say The Gonzo Mama’s finally showing the strain of mothering seven kids? You say she’s finally severed the last tiny thread of sanity she’s been clinging to?

Take my word for it. Choosing to try on bathing suits is the single most masochistic act a woman can engage in. In fact, the psychological torture is so great, we don’t even bring it up when conversations turn to the topic of human rights. It’s simply too shocking for those who have not experienced it themselves.

Imagine the horror of being repeatedly subjected to intense ridicule and evil laughter from dressing room mirrors as you try on, in exhaustive procession, every style of bathing suit offered in every department store in the known universe. Not terrifying enough? Imagine that all the designers of the world conspired each year to make you look fifteen pounds heavier than your actual weight by using the most unflattering cuts possible. Still not scared? Add another five pounds to your image, courtesy of “ulgy-fying” fluorescent lights in the dressing rooms.

Times are tough, though. Our economy is faltering, and our national deficit is unfathomable. I’m willing to break the code of silence for the greater good. Let’s talk about what is allegedly happening at Gitmo, and let’s talk about how we can accomplish the same thing with Lycra® or Spandex® swim attire.
If my program is successful (and it will be), it could be expanded to simplify interrogation processes for kidnappers, AIG officials… Martha Stewart.

Sleep deprivation. I’ve lost many a night’s sleep worrying and dreading an upcoming shopping excursion for the purpose of finding a bathing suit. Just knowing that I will be trying on suit after suit and succeeding only in accentuating my cellulite and stretch marks is more than enough to cause insomnia. Why make it someone’s job to keep a prisoner awake all night? Why not just hang a dozen bikinis over the door, with an attached note reading, “Tomorrow morning you’ll be giving a fashion show!” The payroll savings alone would be staggering.

Isolation. Prisoners at Gitmo are not allowed to have contact with friends and family. I suspect they are also not allowed to attend pool parties or beach barbecues. Ha! I guarantee, if those same prisoners were wearing an unflattering “tankini,” they’d be happy to stay indoors and answer a few questions.

Food deprivation. Seriously, this is a no-brainer. Most women willingly self-starve prior to bathing suit season. Enough said. Next topic.

Look, I’m not saying that things don’t need to change at Gitmo. I’m just asking if closing it down is really necessary. I mean, Guantanamo Bay sounds really pretty. In fact, I’ve heard it’s a great place for waterboarding.

That’s like surfing, right?

So, You Think You Can Belly Dance?

As the new year begins, I am more determined than ever to attend my weekly belly dance classes. I’m not delusional. I know I’m not getting any better. The thing is, I am way more competitive and stubborn than I am devoted, and one of my fellow mamas is preparing to shake her hips for all the world to see. Well, all of the 206 area code, anyway.

Christy Cuellar-Wentz (Mommy-Muse.com) is not only a talented author and counselor, but also a fearless belly dancer. When Christy, Corbin Lewars (RealityMomZine.blogspot.com), Monica LeMoine (ExhaleZine.com) and I founded the literary performance group Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between), Christy offered to belly dance at our January 24th premiere in Seattle, “to keep the energy up.” When she found out I’d been taking classes, she invited me to perform a dance, as well.

I planned to keep my own energy up through the afternoon and evening performances with a series of triple-shot soy lattes from Starbucks, but Christy’s offer left me feeling a little wimpy. I routinely whine and complain my way through my beginners’ belly dance class, and I’m nowhere near ready to go public.

I’ve heard belly dance is a great way for mothers to reclaim their bodies after new motherhood; that it helps women see themselves as sensual, creative creatures; and that it can help improve body image. Sadly, none of those benefits apply to me.

I have no interest in reclaiming this body, with its Mississippi Delta stretch marks and loose skin that will never, ever shrink back to its proper place. It’s a pathetic sight, watching my four-count shimmy last exactly twelve counts by the time everything stops jiggling. As for the Chest Lifts… let’s just say that, absent an extended vacation from gravity, my chest is not going to lift in any meaningful way anytime soon.

Anyone who has actually seen my attempts at belly dance would ever, ever describe the activity as sensual. Admittedly, there is a great deal of creative movement involved on my part the day after class, when basic activities like sitting and walking are elevated to new heights of pain as every muscle in my body throbs.

My husband imagines that my belly dancing looks something like the graceful, fluid art that takes place on the instructional videos I’ve been collecting. He is disappointed that I won’t perform my new “talent” for him. Obviously, this is a man who did not witness my high school cheerleading career. It will be a very sad day for him when he comes home early and sees me trying to emulate Snake Arms while teetering in Egyptian Basic pose, looking like a stroke victim. There is absolutely no grace in the left half of my body.

I’m resolving to continue, though. Even though I have yet to gain an elementary level of coordination, I’m gleaning positive results. For an hour each week, I get to be a woman, alongside other women. In that hour, there is no family to tend to, nothing on the stove, and no crying babies. I can focus on something that is exclusively, indulgently, just for me. The bonus is that I’ve dropped a pants size since starting a few months ago.

As added incentive, I’ve purchased a silver-white gown for an upcoming event. Although at the time of ordering I was unfamiliar with the color “silver-white,” I now understand it to be the color of masochism, as it reflects light off every bump and lump on my tummy and thighs, grotesquely magnifying them to science fiction proportions.

So look out, Christy! Come this time next year, I’ll be ready to take you up on your offer to belly dance in public. As a preventative measure, I’d like to bar any neurologists from attending my performance, lest my art be medically mistaken for seizure.

Mommy Makeover

It will never happen, but sometimes I dream of signing up for one of those cosmetic surgery reality shows, and getting THE WORKS. I look way too old for my age… Motherhood years must be like dog years.

Being a mom is tough on the body, for sure. The stretch marks that cover my butt and go down to my knees don’t exactly imply, “bikini model.” No matter how many crunches or bellydance classes I agonize through, I will always have a layer of wrinkled, loose, jiggly skin over my abs, effectively proclaiming that I don’t exercise at all. Ever.

Motherhood and Gravity are great pals, and clever, too! They’ve deduced that they are much more effective in tandem. Once a woman gives birth, things start sagging at an accelerated rate.

A few years ago, I bought a short, flirty sundress. When I pulled it out last summer, I was astonished… “Honey!” I shouted to my husband. “I’ve grown, like, three inches… Look! My dress barely covers my butt now!” Mr. Wright surveyed the hem of the dress, then offered, “I don’t think you’re taller, Babe. Maybe your butt’s just a bit, um… lower.”

Certainly, genetics play a part. My crooked teeth are a gift from some European ancestor; my fine, limp hair comes from my father’s family; the puffy “perma-bags” under my eyes also grace the faces of most women in my family; my long, pointy nose comes from… Alan Alda? I never knew my mom was such a fan.

Perhaps part of the dissatisfaction with my appearance lies in the undeniable realization that I look nothing like my children. True, I did not give birth to six of the seven, but even my own son looks more like my husband’s brother than anyone in my family.

It’s not only vanity that fuels my fantasies of a makeover. (Although, to be honest, what mama doesn’t secretly desire a little “freshening up?”) The more complex truth is that I wish my outside matched my inside; the heart that knows and loves each of my children as if I had borne them all myself.

I know I’m looking in the wrong place. Scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror will never provide evidence that these children are mine, in spite of who gave birth to them. In truth, I need look no further than the kids, themselves. Princess has a compassionate heart and love for animals like me, and The Dude mirrors my reclusive nature. Pockets has my offbeat sense of humor, and Pepper is fiercely headstrong and outspoken, like her stubborn mama. GirlWonder’s developing writing skills make me proud. Dare I hope she, too, chooses to be a writer? Curlytop, like her quirky mother, sees exciting, obscure details in the mundane; and Snugglebug shares my ability to go from serious to giggling in 4.5 seconds.

I am exactly who I need to be, if I only stop looking so closely. For now, I’ll put my makeover fantasies away, along with my mirror, and be satisfied. Wait a minute – are those… crow’s feet?

Reality television, here I come!

A version of this story appears in Volume 1, Issue 3 of Gonzo Parenting. Order your copy today!