Jules Nolan

Jules@JulesNolan.com

It feels like spring today and I’m so relived. I have had a pretty bad case of the itchy, nasty Februaries – and it is threatening to last until June. I’m not sure what brought it on; this has been a mild winter by Minnesota standards. But my pants are tight and I’m mad about it.

You see, my husband and I tried that vile program – South Beach Diet. No sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine. Sounds like prison camp to me. No Sugar??!!?? I LOVE sugar! The only thing that I don’t love about sugar is that there is no fat in it. Well, it worked. My husband lost 17 pounds and I lost my sense of humor and my desire to get out of bed in the morning.

But this experience did get me thinking about expectations. How we expect our bodies to look, how we expect our children to behave, how we expect our lives to turn out. And I decided it was time to speak out against a pox on society so heinous that it threatens to destroy an entire generation of women. I’m talking, of course, about scrap booking.

Now I realize that many of you not only participate in, but love this activity. I know you say you do it for the social outlet. But tell me this. Why do women have to “produce” something during their social time? Men don’t. I have an idea. I’ll “produce” a pitcher of margaritas and you “produce” a story about how your kid spilled an entire 5lb bag of sugar on the couch!

You see, scenarios like this are so much more true to my parenting experience than the shiny, happy baby at bath time surrounded by rubber ducky stickers and grosgrain ribbon.

How about a page dedicated to the day my mother-in-law came over to watch my tiny newborn while I took my 2 year old to the park. There I was in my size 18 maternity pants. My hair was unwashed, and my lower lip was sporting a festive, bright-red, cold sore. I was looking, feeling, and frankly, smelling like the devil’s breakfast. Suddenly I heard a baby cry and my milk let down in great streams which drenched the front of my cotton shirt. Two giant, perfectly circular wet spots, the size of salad plates adorned my breasts. I got up to go to the car for tissue, mortified, head hanging down, and I physically collided with……… (Get ready to choose your theme stickers here) MY HIGHSCHOOL BOYFRIEND!! Now, the last time I’d seen him had been about 10 years earlier. As I recall I’d been wearing a pair of size 6 “Daisy Duke” cutoffs and a tube top. My hair was perfectly feathered, and my lips were shining with Dr. Pepper flavored lip smacker. If only I could have a photo of us at that moment….this young man gazing for the first time at his high-school sweetheart and what had become of her…….the look of horror on his face as he recognized me, then the relief as he must have thought to himself “there but for the grace of God….”

Or, what about the morning my husband left for work in his gorgeous suit and freshly polished shoes – looking and smelling like a male model? Off he was, to his tidy little office, facing a day of adult conversations, coffee breaks, and business lunches. And I was contemplating another day of caring for 3 preschool aged children and 2 giant, hairy dogs. I lunged after him yelling “For God’s Sake Don’t Leave Me Here!” He neatly spun, faked a left, hurtled to the right, and made it through the door unfettered. Furious and frustrated, I stomped off to the basement laundry room and poured the entire contents of my coffee mug onto his favorite shirt. I ground the coffee into the fabric with a desperate, maniacal, Mexican Hat Dance, screaming “I want my life back!” What about a page dedicated to that experience? Or, better still, how about a candid photo of the look on his face days later? Opening his trunk he found a wadded, smelly, ball of fabric. He frowned, and furrowed and recoiled in disgust. Then the hint of shock and confusion as he recognized the shirt and could not figure out what might have happened to it. Do you suppose they make background paper with little smoking guns?

My point is that our daughters will someday be raising their own children, and if they look at these keepsakes they are bound to have unrealistic expectations. My mother – thank God – told me the truth. If I’d have had one of these perfect scrapbooks to compare with my experiences as a young mother, I am afraid I would have contemplated spending the afternoon taking a long toke off the tailpipe of my car.

Child raising is hard and messy and unbelievably frustrating. It is also the richest, most glorious and rewarding thing I have ever done. But the pressure to do it while capturing, recording, and theme-coordinating the events is too much. I know extremely accomplished women who are outstanding mothers and loving companions who have confessed to me their “terrible” secrets. They are afraid to go to scrap booking parties because they are 4 years behind in their picture organizing!

I’m serious here – I think that this activity has the potential to undermine the confidence of not only this generation of women, but generations to come! Or……come to think of it……maybe this really is just an innocent hobby….maybe I just need a cookie or a slice of bread……maybe I need to burn this South Beach Diet book.