Is There Any Mommy Out There?

A Good Day

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 06:45:00 +0000

Cutest thing that happened today: Cue kept putting his nanny blanket over his head this morning and yelling, "I'm a nanny dose!" "I'm a nanny dose!" He's a nanny ghost. In case you don't speak toddler who is having his hearing checked next month because he doesn't make most - any? - sounds correctly.

Worst moment today: Triple temper tantrum coming home from the park. Let's see. Ess was cold, which involved fifteen consecutive minutes of sniveling, "momma, I'm cold." Gee wanted the red blanket. Cue also wanted the red blanket. I wanted to park the triple stroller and walk away, but no one cares what I want.

Saddest thing today: I sorted clothes all afternoon. That always makes me feel unsettled and nostalgic and a little panicky. I put away a big box labeled "newborn." Unpacked all the six to twelve month clothes for Nater. Packed away all the eighteen month clothes that Cue has outgrown. Realized that next November I'll be unpacking them again. I have favorites in every size and they always make me catch my breath when they come out of the box. They store memories in their folds and stripes and adorable embroidered critters.

Most annoying thing today: I wasted my afternoon with a sitter sorting clothes and cleaning closets. Had to be done.

Best moments today: Drinking chai with Elise at the playground while our six collective kids actually played nicely together. Matt walking in the door. The big kids playing race cars around the couch before bed. Nate, just five minutes ago, fell asleep in my arms.

They are all good days.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.

E&E Tally: 3685 words (Slow and steady)
Blog posts: 7/30 (whoo-hoo!!)

Sh*ts and Giggles

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 06:04:00 +0000

Babynater is four months old and his giggle is like a tall flute of Veuve Clicquot sipped while wearing my most flattering dress, standing before a mirror in dim lighting. The kind of lighting that lets me see the outline of myself without the harsh reality, the new gray hairs, the lines around my eyes that I know weren't there when Gee was born, when Ess came home. Were they there when Cue arrived? Did I believe they were permanent or did I think it was just sleep deprivation and dehydration?

He gave me his first bleating baby belly laugh on September 30. He thinks it's hilarious when I laugh, when his oldest brother laughs and any time my hair touches him. I would stand on my head, waggle my pony tail, make a complete ass of myself in any number of ways to hear his little pah of a chuckle. He kills me. I love how he waits for me to perform, his mouth open, his eyes sparkling, his tongue slightly rolled and clucked to the roof of his toothless mouth.

I dance and wiggle and make an all around fool of myself for him. When I stop and make eye contact there is a pause while he waits, slightly expectant, chin raised, mouth still open in a smile. Wait, is that it, oh you're done. Eheh. Eh. Heh. PAH!

And then he stares. Do it again. You know you want to. Sucker. Who isn't a sucker for a baby's laugh? If I turn away, pretend to ignore him, his little face crumples and he whimpers his displeasure.

Matt ignores us, reading his "how to fix a really old truck" book across the room. "Do you hear him, doesn't he have the cutest laugh ever?"
"It's cute," he humors me, without looking up.
"I don't think Gee or Cue giggled like this," I insist.
"You said the same thing about Cue."

No. Did I? I didn't. Cue didn't giggle like this. I flipped through my 2007 calendar this morning. There it was, written neatly in the white square reserved for November 6, 2007 - "Cue has the cutest giggle. He loves my hair."

If I could put time in a bottle with baby giggles. I think I might need a video camera.

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.

E&E Tally: 3127 words (Haven't missed a day!)
Blog posts: 6/30

Just Rewards

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 03:23:00 +0000

Ess and I have this swing thing.

I could write a novella trying to explain it. About how children who experience sensory deprivation or inadequate stimulation in the first year of their life often crave extreme sensations like dizziness or stomach flips that a swing provides. About the massive tantrums over and over no matter how many times we went to the park or how long I let her swing. Whether I pushed her for an hour or for five minutes or refused to let her swing at all. About leaving every playground, every time, in misery and sometimes carrying anger that stretched into the evening, coloring the rest of the day with my children, making me impatient and sharp. About my dread of outings that never failed to end in tears and screaming and consequences.

What it boils down to is this, I am the weird, mean parent on the playground. I have rigid rules about swinging that I enforce with maniacal consistently. I have been judged by the Dad who agreed to push my winsome, sweet-talking daughter on the swing. No, she's not allowed to swing, thanks. I don't mind pushing her. I appreciate it, but she's lost her swinging privileges. I've stood there, my face beet red, my heart pounding as she writhed and screamed on the ground because I won't make Gee leave the playground to avoid enforcing my edicts in public.

I have endured well intentioned help from friends and family who said in her earshot, I'll push her as long as she wants, no biggie, it's a park. I've smiled and nodded and cringed inside because tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that for as long as it takes, I will be alone with four children and my beautiful, smart, incredibly persistent, high-structure craving little girl will test me and test me and test me again because that one day with grandma was different.

I have fought the urge to yell and lost. I have fought the urge to hit and barely won. I have fought tears all the way home. I have lost that last battle many, many times.

I've developed a straightforward rule that, after two years of consistent enforcement, works about 50% of the time. The rest of the time she's lost her swinging privileges and we can avoid the issue.

You may not swing until I give the five minute warning. If you scream about getting off of the swings when our last five minutes are over, you will not swing for a week.

Yesterday, we walked to the park with friends later in the evening than usual. This new early-retiring winter sun was setting and the wind blustered and puffed. I told Ess that she could swing for the last five minutes, that I would push her twenty times and that when she slowed down, it was time to go. I reminded her that fits would mean no swinging for a week and then I stood there and felt tired and cold.

It had been a weird day. We toured a bakery with the preschool class that morning and she threw a mild tantrum about leaving and lost her cookie. Another minor meltdown occurred over leaving a friend's house, which built into a major tantrum over my request that she use the bathroom before quiet time. She had a time out and then we discussed the appropriate response when I give an instruction. The appropriate tone of voice. We practiced.

I pushed her twenty times and watched her swing with a heavy heart. "She's really learning to pump," my friend noticed.

"Yes," I sighed, "it's going to be a battle because I told her when the swing slowed down we were going home." I admit it, I had a negative outlook. I know my daughter and I can see a showdown over loose parameters a mile away.

The sky darkened further and I called the boys, started loading the stroller. "Ess," I yelled into the wind a bit hopelessly, "we're all done." She stopped pumping her feet and shifted her body off the seat to hang from the chains and drag a toe on the ground. She got it slowed and jumped off herself and then turned to me.

"Yes, momma," she said, slowly, deliberately, somewhat thoughtfully. Her face broke into a huge smile and she catapulted herself at my legs for a hug, so proud of her accomplishment.

Hugging her tight, I thought of the thankless conundrum that is parenting. There was no one there to see. The Dad that I refused to let push her, the friends that tried to help, the hundreds of parents that have seen us leave that playground in grand dramatic form. Not my mom. Not my mother-in-law. No one. So many witnesses to my humiliations, my floundering, my failures and not one person to witness our small, every day triumph. Everyone notices a white mom hauling her screaming black daughter off of the swings. Who notices a family happily leaving the playground?

Just my proud, beautiful daughter hugging me in joy for controlling her emotions. "Doesn't that feel good?" I asked her."Doesn't it feel great to stop swinging and get a hug and leave the playground happy and know that you can swing next time?"

"Can I swing next time?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, quietly, "yes, you absolutely can."

"Are you happy, momma?"

Beyond words, baby girl. And once again I fought tears all the way home.

See, Jessica, I need validation as much as the next person. Sorry my comment responses suck this month. I read them all, sometimes many times.

E&E Tally: 2572 words (still keeping my head above water)
Blog posts: 5/30

I Don't Cook Dinner

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 16:55:00 +0000

And that is okay (because I'm smart enough and I'm pretty enough and gosh darnit, (some) people like me).

Balance is a big topic for parents. There was a well-attended session at BlogHer about balancing work, especially writing, and children, that I was really excited to attend. I didn't like it. Like so many discussions about balance, it wasn't about balance, it was about doing it all. I'm sorry, I don't do this often, but f*ck that noise. I don't like doing it all. I don't want to do it all. And I have to say, I disagree that you can do it all and do it well and not end up in a straight jacket.

Don't get your back hairs up and your knickers in a knot. I am absolutely not saying that working parents are neglecting their children or parents who don't work outside the home are boring, bonbon-eating slobs. I am saying that something has to give. If you work full time and have two kids, you might not be on the preschool board. If you're like me and you're so sick of being with your four small kids that you will do ANYTHING including attending the epic mop v. swiffer preschool board debate to get the hell out of the house because you never know, you just might meet another mom who drinks wine and will go out with you afterward and that is worth it even if she is a mop person because mops are just nasty.

Maybe if you work from home and have to balance your kids and your writing, you aren't the mom at preschool with three kids in gorgeous homemade Halloween costumes. Although, that example kind of makes me look like shit because I don't work outside the home at all and I bought my kids' costumes. If I did work outside the home the only thing that would change is that I could maybe buy them from Cha.sing Fir.eflies instead of Tar-jey.

People are always exclaiming to me "I don't know how you do it." They don't really mean it. They probably mean something more like, I can not understand for the life of me why you would want to do it. Better you than me, sister. It's a social nicety, I know. Sort of like, "how many weeks are you" or "do you know if it's a boy or a girl" or "your two-year-old who is currently biting the ear off of my 10-month-old is SO darn cute, even with that blood dripping out of his vampire-like mouth." (I'm kidding. I don't think two-year-olds are cute. Except for yours, your two-year-old seriously is cute.)

The truth is I'm really happy doing it 96% of the time and I think one of the reasons is that I define my "it" pretty narrowly. Some might say that I set my bar for "it" low and yeah, they're right too. (We only hate them a little.)

For example, my "it" doesn't include dinner. I don't like to cook. I don't like to think of what to make. I don't like to shop for ingredients for the dinners that I didn't like thinking of. A typical week of dinners in my house goes like this:

Wednesday: Chicken nuggets and mac & cheese (from the box) with peas mixed into the mac and cheese because my kids shovel the mac & cheese down so fast that they actually consume the peas without noticing them.
Thursday: Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Tomato soup is totally a vegetable. Possibly a fruit. Whatever. It is good for you.
Friday: Take and bake pizza. $8.99 with the coupon, baby.
Saturday: Yogurt and fruit or maybe P&J and veggies with ranch dressing.
Sunday: Real food made by Matt (He works four ten-hour shifts, so he's off three days a week.)
Monday: Real food made by Matt
Tuesday: Real food made by Matt

This is completely self-serving. I could make real dinners, but in addition to not liking it particularly, I want that time. I let my kids watch TV from 4:30 to 5:30 every single evening and it takes me 5 minutes to unpackage dinner. That's good math. 55 minutes to myself. Do I shower? Maintain basic hygiene? Fold the laundry? Prepare a fun craft activity for after dinner? Aha. You know me better than that, right? I check my email, draft a blog post, read blogs, read my book club book.

The key is that I don't feel guilty. I own my "it." I don't judge other people's its either. To each their own it. My it includes a portion of each day present with my kids. My it includes clean clothes for them each morning and a snuggly bedtime routine each night. My it includes significant volunteering at their preschool. My it includes time for me to read, write and go out with my friends. My it includes date nights with my husband. My it does not include cooking. It does not include unpurchased bake goods of any sort. My it does not include homemade crafts/costumes/organic gardens. My it does not include scrapbooking or memory keeping of any variety.

That's how I do "it." I know you do "it" too. You probably define your "it" differently than I do, but you do "it" every day. The most important thing for all of us parents to remember is that no one is doing more of "it" than you are. No one is better at "it" than you are. We all just have very different "its." And in the immortal words of Big Bird, wouldn't "it" be boring if all of our "its" were the same?

I inspired someone. I know, you wouldn't think it was possible based on this post, but I did. Jessica of Bernthis, who regularly cracks me up, decided to post every day in November with me. Then, she accused me of having a strong sense of self because of my closed comments. But, don't worry. Marinka brought me back to earth. She accused me of monopolizing the conversation by selfishly preventing anyone else from talking. Now I'm feeling insecure and mean. Talk to me. What's your "it"?

E&E Tally: 2077 words (Raise the roof. Only 48K to go.)
Blog posts: 4/30 (So far, so good.)

Teething

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 01:22:00 +0000

Dear Nate,

If you clamp down with your freakishly strong, little gums one more time on my unsuspecting nipple, I swear to God I am going to smother you by pushing you into my boob until you let go like the baby book suggests. That is not a rubber teething toy for your amusement. It is wired to my brain via nerves that scream their unhappiness when you gnaw on it. The other option is weaning, little man, and that means no more 2:00 a.m. numnums snuggling in bed with momma. I don't do middle of the night bottles. If I pull the bewbie, I'm going to go all Ferber on your ass.

Don't make me go there. It's cold and lonely in the nursery.

Love, Momma

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.

E&E Tally: 1032 words (Hmmmmm. Less than 49K to go.)
Blog posts: 3/30 (Better.)

If You Give a Man a Truck

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 06:44:00 +0000

If you give a man a truck for his birthday, he'll probably want a dog to go with it. When you tell him he can't have a dog, he'll be sad and grumpy and he'll notice all of the rust holes in the side of the truck.

You'll probably tell him to suck it up because you only paid $550 for the truck and his parents and your parents still had to help you. But, if he notices the rust holes in the side of the truck, he'll probably want a welder so that he can learn to fix truck rust holes. If he wants a welder, chances are he'll want a 220 volt outlet installed in the garage to plug it into. You'll probably end up thinking, well, shit, I could have just bought a more expensive truck. And did I just give my husband ANOTHER project while my mudroom lacks shelves and shoe bins?

If you tell him he can't have a welder and a 220 volt outlet because you just bought him a truck, he'll probably mock you for buying a truck without having the slightest clue about trucks whatsoever. He might call his friend and make fun of your truck purchasing capabilities. His mocking might cause you to remember that the truck is at the mechanic being checked over. When you call the mechanic, he might tell you that you got a really good deal on the truck. He might even tell you that the engine is in GREAT shape and that if your husband doesn't want the truck he will buy it from you. The mechanic's praise will make your head so big that you might not be able to fit into the truck. You'll probably gloat and you might remind your husband over and over that you ROCK at buying trucks and he should bow down to your truck picking prowess.

This kind of gloating tends to make a man sad. He might decide he still needs a dog to make him feel better. And, chances are, if he starts thinking about a dog, he'll be glad he has his truck to go with it.

(Credit to Laura Numeroff, author of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie and to another blogger in my reader who had this idea. I can't find the post now. Write to me and I'll link you!)

I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.

E&E Tally: 331 words (Gulp. This is really hard. At this rate, I'll hit 50K on 11/30/2020.)
Blog posts: 2/30

The River

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 06:21:00 +0000

November. 2009 is almost gone. A year ago, I had just gotten a positive pregnancy test. A mountain of suitcases stood in our living room ready for our imminent departure for Saipan. I was still on the uphill to forty, now I've tipped over the peak and started gaining momentum for the downward slide.

I read once that time is like a river. At first it seems to flow slowly, all is new, the banks drift by and you have time to stare at them in wide-eyed wonder. As you travel downstream, it gains momentum, the current quickens, the landscape flashes by faster and faster and you barely have time to glance up. You are focused on navigation. Like anything, I think it's all about perspective. When you are four and a year is one-fourth of your entire existence, it's a really long time. But, every year it shortens. A sixteenth. A twenty-fifth. By the time a year is one thirty-sixth point five of your life, it doesn't seem like a long time at all.

November is National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I have things I want to do in my life that I keep putting off. I mention that I want to write a silly, sexy romance novel, but I don't. I delay. I procrastinate. I make excuses. I make dinner. We make babies. I go to preschool board meetings. I wallow in my busy, happy days. The only thing I don't make is progress on this dream. So, here I go. The goal of National Novel Writing Month is to write 50,000 words before midnight on November 30 without self flagellation, without doubt, without deleting or reworking. In other words, it can be as crappy as...it ends up being. The goal of National Blog Posting Month is to post every day for thirty days.

I'm going to try to meet both goals. In fact, I hope I've woven them together so tightly, here and in my mind, that I'll be too embarrassed, too shamed and too public to quit.

Garth Brooks says that a dream is like a river.

Don't you sit upon the shoreline and say you're satisfied
Choose to chance the rapids, dare to dance the tide.

Wish me luck, I'm a terrible sailor. I get sea sick on Ferris wheels.

Uh huh, I like cheesy country music. No. Rephrase. I LOVE cheesy country music. Mock me quickly, I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November because, for the love of God, I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. Just visit maybe? Think about me once in a while? My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.

I may post my word count. Maybe every day. Maybe once a week. I don't know. We'll see whether there are any words to count first and how badly the count sucks.

The heroine is Emily. Her hero is Eddie. Send them travelers' mercies, they are in for a rough ride.

E&E Tally: One completed outline
Blog posts: 1/30

(I freaked out ten minutes after I posted this post and went to pull it, but Heather had already commented because she's awesome. It stays up, but I'm not sure about the posting every day in November thing. I might end up posting once a week, which is business as usual. I'm telling you that 50% of this post is most likely a lie. Don't trust me, I'm fickle.)

10/31/09

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 04:48:00 +0000

[*Updated: Wait. Stop the presses. I actually took decent photos. See bottom of post.]

Yes, this seriously is the best picture I've been able to take so far. Out of hundreds, I shit you not.

The baby doesn't have a costume. I know, what am I a fourth time mom or something? We survived this morning's party on our own. I'm contemplating a five hour quiet time in order to gear up for trick or treating. (For me, they are ready to go.)

Since I'm already a self-declared huge slacker, it won't surprise you that I was the ONLY parent who bought a game for our co-op preschool Halloween party this morning. A pathetic, dinky little pumpkin bean bag game. You would not believe how creative the homemade, adorable games were. Next year, I will remember that I am fooling no one and sign up to bring napkins, because I can shop the dollar store like a crazy fool.

Have a safe and happy All Hallow's Eve. I hope you are able to sneak the good candy before anyone else gets to it.

(I'm very on-line scrapbook lately, aren't I? Sorry. I'm working on some real posts, I'm just tired by eleven when babynater finally deigns to close his eyes and go to sleep. And, it's nice and all, Higher Power, that he snoozes blissfully until nine or ten in the morning, but COME ON. A fourth child who sleeps in? That's just cruel.)

*************************Success************************

(Not my fault, Matt scared the baby.)

As a matter of fact he absolutely does live in that chair. Why do you ask? Is it because he is sitting in it in every single photo or because at four months old he is already skilled at bouncing it by pumping his feet?

Clowning Around

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 15:42:00 +0000

Who could not love them, insomnia, pea-sized bladders, annoying whines, dirty diapers, brain melting sobs and all. I mean, look at how thrilled they are to be entertaining their mother.

It takes the baby about five seconds after attaching the clown nose before he remembers that he can also breathe through his mouth. He looks at me like, holy shit you pitiful excuse for a mother are you laughing whilst I cannot breathe? His hypothalamus or whatever that automatic brain thing is takes over and he draws a humongous breath while glaring accusingly in my direction. Before his wee brain is all duh, hey babycakes, breathe through the other hole in your face, he shakes his head back and forth kind of like when you put peanut butter in a dog's mouth, or boots on a Labrador, or shoes on Cue after he's gone barefoot in the tropics all winter. All of the above crack my ass up. A cruel streak a mile wide runs through my sense of humor.

I'm glad you find it so funny that I cannot breathe.

Whew! Thank god, my mother tried to kill me with a clown nose, but I have this other hole in my face that saved my life.

He's fine, he's so happy to be out of that pumpkin.

I called my mom and told her the clown nose/baby breathing story (choked it out actually around my helpless laughter) and she was horrified. "Stacey," she gasped, "please do not tell the blog people that you think it's funny when your baby can not breathe."

"Mom! I don't think it's funny when he can't breathe, I would be horrified if he couldn't breathe. I think it's funny that he can breathe and doesn't know it." Hello, important distinction. Besides, the blog people (cue spooky music) are fun, nonjudgy parents with a sense of humor. Right? I'll show you...anyone want to share the funniest ever so slightly cruel thing you've ever done to your child?

(Help me out, blog people, my mom is quick with the I told you sos.)

Heart for Haiti

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 21:40:00 +0000

Have you heard of the World Challenge? It's a joint project of BBC World News and Newsweek, in association with Shell. It's described as "a global competition aimed at finding projects or small businesses from around the world that have shown enterprise and innovation at a grass roots level." The goal is to champion and reward projects and business which really make a difference.

Twelve finalist have already been chosen for the 2009 competition and public voting is open until November 13th. The winner of the World Challenge 2009 will receive a grant of $20,000.

Love 'N Haiti, a project that focuses on employing people, reducing trash and providing a fuel resource that Haitians deperately need, is one of the twelve finalists. I know how many worthy causes there are in the world. I know we all have hearts for different things for different reasons. My daughter is Haitian-American, her birth family lives in Haiti, I've seen the poverty there first hand, so of course, the severe problems in Haiti are a focus of my interest.

There are twelve worthwhile finalists, but I truly believe in the Love 'N Haiti project for three reasons: 1) they take trash, a huge issue in a Haiti; 2) employ people that desperately need work; and 3) create fuel, a huge need in Haiti. It just doesn't get any more beautiful than that.

All you have to do is vote...for Love 'N Haiti.

Voting is open until November 13th. It's not very often that we can help a project like this without offering our own funds, so here's a unique opportunity to help with your on-line time.

Thank you! XO. (Comments are closed; don't waste time talking to me ;-)

Do You Want Sprinkles With That?

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 04:38:00 +0000

You all seem like tolerant people. Many of you said you would absolutely stuff your baby in a pumpkin. Booshy said she planned to stuff her baby in a pumpkin and it's not even born yet. In fact, it's not conceived yet. Awesome.

Confession time. Don't judge me because I really like cream cheese. A cream cheese bagel is my favorite thing for lunch. I look forward to it all morning. Today, I had an asiago cheese bagel in the bread drawer. I kept thinking about it during our morning walk. It motivated me to push the triple stroller up the hill home. (Starbucks chai motivates me to push it away from home.) It was like a beacon of quiet time happiness. Asiago cheese bagel with cream cheese.

I got the terror of toddlers out of their sweaters and hats and managed to unhook all the buckles on the baby carrier without help. Intent on getting the kids fed and out of the way the better to enjoy my treat, I popped some cinnamon raisin bagels in the toaster and opened the cupboard to retrieve the peanut butter.

Oh, what's that, don't the kids like cream cheese? No. No. They do. They adore it actually. But, there was only about a fourth of a cream cheese sleeve left. I checked before I told them they were having peanut butter. I like a lot of cream cheese on my bagel. The hole has to be completely filled in. I want a thick spread.

I open the cupboard and...gasp! Quel horror. NO peanut butter. A tragedy on so many levels. The options were few. Abandoning the bagels meant making something else. I shuddered as I faced my only other course of action. Share the cream cheese. I grudgingly pulled it out of the fridge and then I rationed it like the selfish, greedy cream cheese hog that I am. If you had seen the paltry, thin layer of cheese I applied to my children's bagels, you might have called me out, or called youth services. Let's just say if we are ever starving and it's me or the kids, the kids might be in trouble.

There was barely enough white smear for Cue to scrape off of the top of his bagel with his index finger. I knew he would demand more cheese. My cheese.

In deperation, I surveyed the kitchen and spotted the rainbow sprinkles. Toddlers are gluttonous, but not that clever, they can be distracted by colorful, sweet things. I told them I had magic rainbow sprinkles and sprinkled a few on the top of their bagels. The sprinkles might mostly have rolled onto their plates due to the appalling lack of cheese. Whatever. They were so happy. I was so happy. Eating all the cream cheese. Myself.

I've also eaten Or.eo cakesters in the bathroom with the door locked. Last year, I might have finished Gee's birthday cake hiding in the kitchen while they ate cheerios and bananas for breakfast and then bought him off with a lollipop. I don't like lollipops.

That's it.

Okay, okay. There was that time that the check out lady at Saf.eway gave Cue a HUGE sugar cookie with m&ms baked into it because he was helping me with the groceries so nicely. I told him that he could have it after lunch, but I totally ate the whole thing while he was eating grapes. Then, I had to load him and Nate back in the car and go back to Saf.eway and get him another damn cookie.

That. is. it.

That cookie thing might have been this past Thursday.

Done.

Arrrggggh. Fine. At their preschool Halloween party tonight I told them that they could each pick one treat from this table filled with awesome baked goods. It was seriously the most tempting table of baked treats that I have ever seen. It was hard. They deliberated for like thirty minutes before they chose. At the end of the party, I sent Matt home with all the kids. I told him I'd help clean up and he didn't have to stay. I played it up like it was some huge sacrifice because I knew I'd have access to the table of baked goods wonderfulness all by myself. I ate three cookies and a cupcake. I might have tried the cheese cake.

The end.

Never Say Never

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 06:05:00 +0000

No, the baby is not still in the pumpkin despite my dismal lack of updates. But, don't worry. Not to disappoint. I torture him again for my own sadistic amusement in the next post.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy, Babe

We drove to Seattle last weekend to meet Matt's parents and take the kids to the zoo. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa and visiting the zoo were the highlights. Spending the night with my entire family in a single hotel room was the low point. Possibly of my entire life.

I believe around 3:00 a.m. I hissed to Matt, who was, at that time, serving as a buffer between Ess and Gee so that no one's toes would touch anyone else on any part of anyone's body because SO HELP ME GOD if one more small, whiney person whined/commented or otherwise mentioned the position of another small, whiney person's toes, I was going to internally combust or sob uncontrollably. As I was ranting, I might have hissed the words NEVER AGAIN in such a low, evil, inhuman tone that Matt sat up to check that I hadn't been possessed by something demonic and that my head had not actually swiveled all the way around.

We've stayed in a single hotel room before, but never with four children. Three was our previous record and always with at least one pack-and-play.

Yes, we did. We attempted the rarely seen four-children-under-four, no pack-and-play hotel night trick. If only it had been an illusion and in actuality we had a suite, or at the very least metal cages for our little darlings.

Because we are idiots, there was no fancy sleight of hand, just two miserable adults and four very awake children. In theory, Ess and Gee were to sleep in one bed, which we have successfully accomplished in the past. Babynater would sleep in his car seat, a feat he regularly performs at home. Cue would sleep between Matt and I in the other bed.

In reality? After three hours, from eight until eleven, of unremitting whining and bellyaching about touching each other, Matt gave up and laid between Ess and Gee. Without access to each other, they did finally sleep, but only after Gee whined so persistently and annoyingly for a drink that I may have fantasized about making him sleep in the bathtub with the faucet dripping so that he could get a freaking drink whenever he wanted one by simply sticking his obnoxious, non-sleeping tongue under the drip and lapping it up.

The slightly stuffy, miserable baby, who normally is an excellent sleeper, slept on my chest. Even the suggestion that he perhaps might please sleep elsewhere evoked piteous squalling that immediately caused commentary from all other occupants of the room.

Baby nate is crying.
Momma, your baby is crying.
Baby cwying, momma, baby cwying.

Thank you. I had no idea. Their helpfulness knew no bounds.

Cue slept at ninety degree angles to me with some sharp horrid part of his little body piercing me at all times. No matter how many times I moved him to the correct bed and body orientation, he flipped it around and jammed something into my side. The only time all night that he slept parallel to me was when I side-nursed Nater and he managed to jam himself so close up against my back that I was wedged on my side between my newborn and my two-year-old.

Good times.

My arm slept, soundly, with accompanying numbness and excruciating pain. That was the only part of me that found any relief all night.

My minivan does seventy-five, I lost my mind and now I can't drive.

The kids adored the zoo. They had so much fun that I almost forgot my near suicidal moments from the previous night. Until the four hour drive home took over six hours. I can't even tell you what happened. I might have blacked out. It definitely involved losing count of bathroom stops and Cue inconveniently filling his diaper not ten minutes after we stopped for Ess and Gee to use the facilities at least three times.

It ended with the baby wailing inconsolably because he had absolutely had it with his car seat. Are you people insane? I have been in this torture device for like twenty four hours now. I tried nursing him briefly as a fake out and then sticking him back in his seat, but he was having none of it. He cooed and smiled and played and was clearly not the slightest bit hungry and then howled in anguish when I tried to buckle him back into the seat.

Matt finally refused to stop again. I helpfully hyperventilated while hanging from the ceiling by my fingernails in the front seat of the van because my tiny baby's hopeless, choking sobs were driving me over-the-edge, certifiably insane. I think I would have stopped and just given up and slept in the car on the side of the highway if Matt hadn't been there to speak non-crazy person and remind me that we were only thirty miles from home. He let me turn on the dome light and read Twilight because otherwise I might have had a stroke or unbuckled Nate and nursed him right there in the front seat for God and any passing highway patrol officers to see.

So yeah. Night in a hotel room with four small kids, thumbs down. Driving across the state with same, thumbs down. Zoo with Grandma and Grandpa, two enthusiastic thumbs up. The sacrifices.

Wanna Bet?

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 00:27:00 +0000

Winter has arrived. No more fall, though the leaves have barely changed and school has barely started and my second child is barely four. This is not apple pie, hold a hot drink, wear a sweater, slanting sunlight, feeling frisky and crisp fall. This is full-on, butt-cold, my hands are cracking and will soon bleed, nose pinching, bitch and moan, slate gray, bitter cold winter.

Yeah, I'm bitter. I hate winter.

You have no idea how long it takes to get them this bundled and tucked. Or maybe you do, and in that case, I'm so sorry.

There is one thing that had me looking forward to October with a certain amount of glee. I think it's pretty clear that my family has an odd sense of humor? When Nate was born, my sister sent me this card.

Hilarious. Inside was a sweet message about our new little pumpkin, but also this note.

I mean really. Who would do that to their precious little baby? For a dare? To force their sister to pay up? No one would stuff their little angel into a pumpkin and let his socks get all slimy for a silly little bet.

What? OH HELL YES, I did. Matt and I spent a precious date night at our local wholesale grocers looking for just the right gargantuan pumpkin.

Come on, you knew I would.

Where is my agent, could somebody call my agent?

No seriously. WTF?

Yeah, haha, I know, funny stuff, baby in a pumpkin.

Watch your back, lady, I sleep in your bed and you put your nipples in my mouth.

I call this one, "The family that tortures the baby together, stays together."

Stick with me, I'm giving up the secrets to family harmony right here. May you all enjoy snuggly warm, footy pajamas, hot apple cider, crimson leaves, crackling fire, rosy cheeks with no accompanying snotty noses fall. From my little pumpkins to yours.

(Don't let the paltry sunshine fool you. Butt-miserable cold. Don't even get me started about our preschool field trip to the pumpkin farm. Me alone with all the kids. Freezing. Half-eaten whole apples dropped in the dirt. Screaming. Frozen hands. Screaming. Wearing the baby. Who was screaming. I told you not to get me started.)

(Dear Aunt H: You owe me two hundred dollah. I want payment in chais when you visit ;-)

The World According to Matt

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 05:13:00 +0000

Matt's world is so much simpler than mine.*

Matt on why he can not manage to clean up the kitchen when he feeds the kids dinner. What? It is clean.

Matt on breastfeeding. Breasts are bigger, that's a positive. Breasts are for baby only, huge negative. Huge.

Matt on co-sleeping. Fourteen pound cock blocker. Also, why does he get all the boobies?

Matt on whether the kids watch too much TV. It's not TV, it's college football.

Matt on whether the kids watch too much football. No. They watch it on too small of a TV. It's hurting their eyes. Our TV is too SMALL.

Matt on whether he wants to take Cue to toddler class or Gee to his four year well baby check. Toddler class sounds skippable.

Matt on why the kids call our new (finally finished!) mudroom, the "dog house." Because it is the dog house.

Matt on how it can possibly be the "dog house" if we don't have a dog. But, we will.

Matt on whether we eat too much processed food. What? Like hot dogs?

Matt on hateful, anonymous internet comments. Why do we care what internet people think?

Matt on internet comment people hurting my feelings. Turn it off.

Matt on my intense internet outrage. It's in the corner.

Matt on the fact that I'm still talking about judgy internet people. The red box. With the little "x" on it.

(Not comments here. I was surfing; I shouldn't surf.)

Matt on whether I should be freaking out that my three-month-old insists on sleeping on his stomach. Can he do it in his crib?

Matt on Cue's worsening attachment to his nanny blanket. He's so quiet when he holds it.

Matt on whether I should insist that he leave nanny in his crib. He's so loud and screamy when he's not holding it.

Matt on discipline. Do I need to leave you with your mother? (Sadly, this works, because he doesn't notice how dirty they get and he let's them play with his tools and push the shopping cart.)

Matt on whether the baby spends too much time in his swing. He's so quiet when he's swinging.

Matt on taking the baby out of the swing. He's so loud and screamy when he's not swinging.

Matt on increased mercury in swine flu vaccines. We were both vaccinated with mercury preservative vaccines.

Matt on the fact that I'm still stressing about the swine flu vaccine decision. It's the flu or the vaccine. You're going to stress either way, aren't you? If I take a position one way or the other will your stress be resolved sooner? Which way could I lean to expedite that process?

Matt on mercury preservative. There are certainly worse chemicals that we don't know about.

Matt on my new stress about unknown, harmful chemicals. Could you stop talking? Better idea. Could you stop thinking?

Matt on whether it's wrong to get water at Starbucks every day. Why?

The cup. I get water every day with my chai and it's a whole extra cup. It's so much trash. I recycle it, but still. I should reuse the cup, but I always forget and I'm so thirsty if I don't get a water.

Matt on cup stress. You are worried about the water? The water is free, woman. It's wrong to get the goddamned chai every day. We could send a kid to college on those chais.

Matt on why he wants to deny me my one guilty daily pleasure. You are making my brain hurt. If it makes you happy, drink the chai.

Matt on why I'm still not sleeping. Are you seriously lying there worrying about that cup?

Maybe. And also why I couldn't get hulu.com to work so that I could watch Grey's.

Matt on what's wrong with this crazy world. You. You are the crazy in this world.

Goodnight. Goodnight, I love you.

Matt on why I came to bed and left the hall light on. I'm already in bed, you were last to bed, you have to turn it off.

Matt on the fact that I haven't moved yet. You seriously aren't going to turn it off?

You know I'm afraid of the dark. I'd rather sleep with it on than walk to bed in the dark. We've discussed this many times.

Matt on how I can possibly be that afraid of the dark. I don't believe you.

Matt on my fear that he will turn into something scary and supernatural during my walk from the light switch to our bed in the dark. I'm a little afraid of you right now.

*Matt's an awesome Dad, he just doesn't stress about things the way I do at times. He totally turns the hall light off for me every single night without turning into anything scary or supernatural. That's why I love him.

Then You Really Might Know What It's Like

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 00:13:00 +0000

God forbid, you ever had to walk a mile in her shoes
'Cause then you really might know what it's like to have to choose.*

Adoption disruption hit the mainstream media last week. If you missed it, public attention soared when Matt Lauer interviewed An.ita T., a woman who wrote about the termination of her family's adoption of a little boy and the child's placement with a second family.

At first, I was outraged by the sound-bitiness of it all. "Woman adopted a child...(duh, dun, dun)...and gave him up." The interview was surfacy and clipped and frustrating. I gnashed my teeth and whined and whinged: It's so much more complicated than this. This is about families, real people, the child's needs and the parents' abilities, deep emotions, heart-breaking decisions, attachment and bonding, psychological damage. The hyped, sensationalized, mass media marketing, get-as-many-hits-on-the-today-show-site-as-they-can approach killed me.

I took a deep breath and read the blog post by Natalie Morales. Her first sentence comforted and impressed me: "As horrible as that headline sounds, you realize how just complicated the situation was and how agonizing the decision to give up little “D” was when you read Anita's own account. It’s a piece that will bring you to tears." The tenor of the entire post was balanced. The comments predictably reflected both compassion and outrage - sometimes vicious outrage - and though the negative comments hurt, because I've received them too, I can't call them unjustified.

Anita's original New York Times blogpost describing the disruption is moving. I identified with her struggle and her pain. I also saw (through the perfect lens of hindsight) many of the mistakes and naive assumptions that Matt and I made reflected in her mistakes.

I found myself not liking the facts of An.ita's story, trying to distinguish our situation, our family, our disruption, from Ani.ta's and I had to stop and force myself to take a good long look in the computer. We are fundamentally the same. We both adopted a child with our hearts in the right place, fully intending to make that child a part of our family forever, we both found ourselves in a place, as a parent and a person, that we couldn't handle, facing behaviors with which we couldn't cope and emotions that we knew weren't right and we both chose to find a family that better met our child's needs. We both disrupted adoptions. Same-same.

Why did it hurt so much to feel "like her." Because some people were nasty about her character, her choices and her behavior? I've written publicly about our disruption and received similar caustic criticisms. Because I'm embarrassed that I get to hide behind my relative anonymity? Because people felt it was wrong of her to write about this issue - they felt she sought only sympathy and possibly monetary gain? That made me cringe. After consideration, I strongly disagree. This is a discussion that the adoption community needs to have. I have felt for a long time that it is important to talk about the possible attachment difficulties in after-infancy adoption and all types of outcomes. I thought my motives were education, shedding some light on a difficult, painful and often hidden adoption issue. Were they? Would they be seen that way?

I guess I (mostly, okay, usually) don't care. I don't care because I receive emails from mothers living the hell of a difficult attachment and I receive emails from mothers living the hell of guilt and shame and loss after disruption and I receive emails from mothers who made it through and just appreciate communicating with someone who knows how bleak it can be in the middle. I'll leave my story "up" for them.

Reading all of the comments on Ani.ta's essay, whether uplifting, understanding, compassionate, confused, vicious, incredulous, or painfully, pointedly accusatory, was a difficult journey for me. I gratefully, but necessarily, dismissed the top 25% "good" comments that called her brave and selfless. While I understand and appreciate that sentiment and the compassion from which it springs, it isn't brave or selfless to find your family in a crisis situation of your own making and to do your best to find a solution that meets everyone's needs. It's life. I dismissed the bottom 25% "bad" comments that called her horrible names.

In the middle was an intelligent, fairly compassionate discussion of the fact that adoption doesn't always go perfectly, parenting doesn't always go perfectly, life seldom goes perfectly and what we do, how we cope, how we move forward when we find ourselves in a situation that we simply can not handle. For whatever reason. No matter how many mistakes we made or how much naivety we showed or how many stupid choices we chose on our way to that place.

After some tears, some anger, some soul-searching, I'm left feeling secure, but sad. Sad and at a loss because, as with any difficult, painful issue, either people will listen with an open heart and try to understand the complexities of the situation, or people will judge with a closed mind. Listening with an open heart doesn't mean agreeing with a person's choices, it only means recognizing the humanity in their actions and in their decisions.

I'm also left with thoughts and responses to some of the comments, some heartfelt and thoughtful, some knee-jerk and bitter, swirling and plaguing and clogging and sifting and battering at my brain. I'm putting them here, for me, so that I can lay them down and sleep better, but also for those mothers, those parents, who write to me, and finally for Ani.ta.

"How could you do this? Children aren't puppies, they aren't exchangeable!" Of course they aren't. That's cute and all and it makes you look very justifiably outraged. It's a nice sound bite. It's clever PR. But that's all it is. Of course they aren't. No one thinks they are. Not the parents who adopt and disrupt, not the second family, not the professionals involved...NO ONE thinks they are. Of all the unhelpful, asinine comments this one plagues me the most. Whatever you think of me, or An.ita, or any other family facing the horrible reality that their family is floundering and they aren't bonding with an adopted child, you can rest assured that no one thinks this. No family adopts a child thinking that they can take them back to a store, or turn them in on a shinier model. A family hits crisis mode, they talk to counselors, they agonize and cry and berate themselves and try again and hit crisis mode again and talk to professionals again and then they go through a long, well thought out, professional placement process. I would venture to guess that children caught up in bitter, difficult divorces are tossed from place to place far more casually and with far less scrutiny than a family disrupting an unattached adoption. (That statement is in no way meant to be judgmental of anyone dealing with the reality of divorce, it's only meant to make the point that there are other catastrophic family circumstances that aren't ideal for children and perhaps holding adoptive parents to a standard of perfection is unrealistic.)

You would never give away a biological child that "wasn't bonding." This misses the whole point. It isn't about biological children versus adoptive children. It is about unattached families and children versus attached families and children. You are right, no one would consider placing their child, biological or adopted, with another family if a strong parental-child attachment has formed. Whether people want to understand it or not, whether people want to admit it or not, whether we talk about it or not, whether it hurts or not, in many cases attachment (at least with a child past infancy) is difficult. It isn't always the case that a one-year-old or a five-year-old with history and trauma and ingrained behaviors walks into your home and you fall down on your knees and feel an immediate, incredible unbreakable bond to the child. Attachment takes time. It takes work. It goes both ways. The parent must attach to the child and the child must attach to the parent. When there are significant barriers it is even harder. Many children who have spent time in institutions or have experienced early neglect or trauma have psychological barriers to attachment. In addition, some families and children have dynamics that create barriers. For instance, in our case, my focus on protecting smaller children in my home from negative attachment related jealousy and acting out prevented me from bonding with our older child.

Unattached children are not happy children. Families that aren't bonding are families in crisis. There are ways of healing - therapy, hard work. But sometimes, it's not enough. And when it's not enough it can be in the best interest of the child to find a family where some of the barriers are removed. It can be in the best interest of the child.

All adopted children fear is abandonment and now you've abandoned them a second time. It's a painful fact. Adopted children have been abandoned once. There is no getting around it. I disagree that abandonment is all they fear or even that it is their greatest fear, especially older adopted children. They fear attaching to another person who might hurt them or abandon them. That resistance to attachment can be brutal, emotionally grueling, physically dangerous. Some families, for different reasons, can't cope. They can't break through. It is better in some cases for a child that is not attaching to be removed and placed in a family with more resources, emotional or otherwise, than to grow up unattached.

You are selfish. Maybe. We tried not to be. We tried hard to understand how to balance everyone's needs. But yes, our family wasn't functioning and we found a way to make things better that we hoped met all needs, including our son and our other children and ourselves.

How dare you quit when things got hard, did you think everything would be perfect? No. We didn't. We thought it would be really hard. We read about attachment and attachment disorders. We failed. We failed our son because we failed to understand how it would feel to have to deal with attachment related behaviors and parent younger children. We were naive and foolish and we fucked up. We should not have adopted out of birth order and we should certainly not have adopted an older, traumatized boy. But, we did. And we owned it and we talked to everyone we could and we read everything we could and we made a decision that we felt, therapists felt and his second family felt was the best for him, under the circumstances. We put him in those circumstances, no question. And there are legitimate questions about whether that was good or bad for him. Life in Haiti after 16 years in an orphanage is no picnic. I won't say it was unequivocally good for him, but I won't say it was the worst thing that could have possibly happened to him either.

What will you tell your other children? How will your daughter ever trust you? I will tell all of my children, and especially my daughter, the truth. The same thing I would have told her if we had adopted her alone. Love is rarely instant. It takes time. I thought her picture was beautiful. We wanted her so much. We love her so much, so equally, so fully, it takes my breath and makes me feel endlessly lucky. I'm honored to be her mother. But, we had to attach, us to her and her to us and it was a process. I wondered if she would ever stop going to other adults for comfort. I wondered if I would ever stop doubting my heart. I have and she has. We are a forever family.

I will tell her never to imagine that love is easy. I'm sorry she lost that first and more effortless (but not always instant) bond, the one that starts in the womb. That is a loss, a loss to grieve. I'm sorry we had to find our way to love a different way, over months, through rocking and eye contact and rules about others holding her. I won't make excuses for it. It was. We did the work. We're there. Things stood between our older son and I and prevented it from happening. I'm sorry for that too. He found a mommy that didn't have other babies to make him jealous to do the work with him.

Will you tell your children that there is no limit to the amount of pain and anguish a family member can cause others? Will you encourage them to stay in relationships that are emotionally or physically damaging to them? I hope when the time comes to talk to my daughter fully about our history, that she will understand that our goal was to find a solution that let everyone grow up in a safe and emotionally healthy home, without fear and with unconditional love.

I know Anita and her family made some missteps. I know with 20/20 hindsight, it seems obvious she was getting in over her head. I know our story looks the same. My heart is with Anita as she bears the brunt of public opinion, especially uninformed public opinion. I often felt like a monster while I tried to parent our son. I felt like my anger in response to his behavior was monstrous. I felt like my inability to put him before my other children was monstrous. I felt like my rage in the face of his rage was monstrous. My inability to love no matter what was monstrous. I know people thought it when we disrupted our adoption and placed our son with another family. Monsters. Who does that?

We did and we aren't monsters. Monsters feel rage towards a child and lash out, they don't sit on the front porch and cry. Monsters realize they aren't meeting a child's needs and do nothing, out of shame, or embarrassment or stubbornness. Monsters blame the child, make him a scapegoat. We did none of those things. We sought help, we learned, we found a safe and loving solution and we changed a situation that was not working. We are parents. Parents are human.

*With thanks to Everlast.

Tread Kindly

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 05:43:00 +0000

[*I only have sappy posts in my drafts. What can I say? I'm twelve weeks post partum, I'm a big ball of sap. Maybe if I clear some of them out, my brain will get over itself.]

And so. They are going to preschool. My big kids. My four-year-old daughter and almost-four year-old son.

For four years, I have been the center, the savior, the boss, the fairy godmother, the teacher, the boo boo kisser, the source of affection, praise and discipline and now I'm not the center. I'm not even a satellite. I'm not even sure I'm a planet. I might be Pluto, the demoted, not-a-planet planet, but only if I pack good snacks and bagels instead of sandwiches.

They skip off with delight each morning and return reluctantly just after lunch. In between? I don't know. I've known everything for four years, every single moment, every tiny thing and now for three hours a day I don't know. I learn some. What they tell me, what I can glean in the car. What I can pry out of them if I ask the right questions. Did you sing a song? Did you paint? Did the Spanish teacher visit? What are your friends' names? If I ask enough, I hit something that sparks their interest and elicits some cryptic comment on which I can elaborate and tease out another tidbit of information.

They love it. Truth is, I love it. And I fear it. And I know that it's only the beginning, which makes me sad and excited and terrified and elated.

I have so much to say. I have so much to tell them. I stand, instead, awestruck and tongue-tied, watching these little people navigate their new world like they were born to do it. Their planks are holding. Their compasses are true. The wheel is steady in their hands. I know, it's shocking. For age-appropriate pre-school, my four-year-olds don't need me. Nice job, mom. (Wipes tear from eye under sunglasses.)

Sometimes, when I ask them about the day, I get a glimpse of the social crags and pitfalls that I know are ahead. They said FIRE! UNDERWEAR! and I didn't like that. Was it teasing? Yes. Did you tell them no thank you? I did, but they didn't stop. He goes, willingly, so I know it's not severe. That climbing thing is only for girls, they said no boys allowed. You can tell them that hurts your feelings and everyone gets to play. We ran from our new friend and said she was scary. That's not very nice. That probably made her sad. Did she cry? No, she chased us. Was it a game? Yes, a game, a chase game. Did she like it? Yes.

I close my eyes and hope it's a game, not cruelty, not yet.

I haven't been able to write all that's in my heart as my "twins" turn four. I watch them with the sun in my eyes (or maybe it's their bright light in my eyes) and I keep returning to one pressing thought this fall. My babies, my innocent, sweet, loving babies, Be kind. How do I teach you to include and not exclude, when exclusion is the very first taste of power? How do I teach you sympathy, not mockery, when the need not to be mocked is so strong? You have each other and there is so much strength in that. How do I instill in you a desire to use your bond, your mutual strength, to build others up, not knock them down?

I know the answer seems simple. I model. I talk. I hope. But, will it be enough?

Does it sound like I'm asking you to be weak? I'm not. It takes enormous strength to reach out when others shun. To understand when others judge. To sympathize when others laugh. It takes a centered, happy person to offer love when others offer anger or fear. Does this sound too grand? Are you running away, laughing, mom, I'm only four? How much space is there really between a shunned four-year-old on the playground and a shunned alcoholic on the street?

Hypocrite, I hear you say. You're right. I haven't always been kind, inclusive, fair, aware of pain. I am not always now. I love sarcastic humor, quick wit, good snark. I teach you this sharp way of viewing the world every day when I interact with you. I mock you. I tease you. Remember babies, try to remember and I promise that I'll try to remember too. I love you. The line is fine between humor and cruelty. Sometimes, it's as fine as whether you're holding the mocked person's hand or standing across the table from them. Hold hands and laugh, never point and laugh. It's called self-deprecation and the world needs more of it. What the world doesn't need is another person who finds it funny to mock others without a healthy sense of their own ridiculousness.

I don't regret a lot of things in my life, but I regret, sharply and bitterly, certain moments when I had the opportunity to be kind and I was not.

Does it sound like turn the other cheek? No, you never need to stand for ridicule. That's not the point. I strive, every day, to give you a sense of your immeasurable self-worth. To build an unshakeable confidence in your own value. Ridicule means little to those who know how precious they are. I mean, when it's up to you, when the ball is in your court, when all the other kids are saying she can't play, he's weird, nerd, dummy, fire!underwear!, you'll say, then I won't play either, because that's not kind.

That's what I want for you, my accomplished self-dressers, my independent bike riders, my gorgeous picture painters, baby-kissers, monster hug givers, little brother tormentors, imaginary giraffe lovers: That you have the kind of confidence that springs from an internal well of love for yourself so full that there is no need to bring someone else down to raise yourself up. The kind of confidence that knows that because a choice is right for you, doesn't mean that all other choices are wrong. Today it's favorite colors, but tomorrow it will be music, colleges, careers, politics, religion.

You won't understand all of this now. Today's simple lessons will, I hope, translate into principles that guide you through all of life's complications. Use your nice words, don't use your hands, gentle with our friends, with their bodies, but also with their hearts. Tread confidently and boldly, but kindly, through this world. It needs more kindness.

It's the New Twenty

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 19:30:00 +0000

Some days are ordinary and some days are awesome. Today, Renee, better known around here as But Why Mommy, turns, well twenty. Again. Because Sarah Jessica tells us that forty is the new twenty and dammit, with only four years to go myself, I believe her. Renee is truly lovely, I've had the pleasure of spending a weekend hanging out with her in Chicago. She's insightful, she's charming, and her little bunny is going to rule the world some day. That little girl is scary smart.

So, don't hang around here reading fairy tales about laundry, of all things, click over and wish Renee a very happy fortieth birthday! I know I do.

xoxoxoxo, Happy Birthday, But Why Mommy!

Converted

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 17:57:00 +0000

Once upon a time there was a girl. Like most girls, she was brazen and a little obnoxious and more beautiful than she imagined. You might not have liked her all the time. She was very sure. She was sure that most of the world was ordinary and boring. She was sure that traveling and seeing the world was interesting and staying close to home and getting married and having a family was not. She was sure that living in a big capitol city was sophisticated and living in the Midwest was not.

This girl and her boyfriend went to a wedding in their hometown. At their table were three other couples who had gotten married right after college. Two of the couples had small children. The other women had a whole conversation about laundry. The girl mocked inside her head. She rolled her internal eyes. She knew it. This is what happens to you if you stay put and get married and have a family. You talk about laundry. (I warned you that you might not like her all the time.)

The other women were very, very nice. They asked this girl how she did her laundry. This girl looked at them blankly. She honestly didn't know what they meant. She put her weekend jeans and t-shirts in the washing machine and turned it on. She took her working suits to the dry cleaners and paid the bill.

"But what about stains," they queried? "Don't you pre-treat? Don't you bleach."

She looked at them suspiciously. No. Bleach? No bleach. "Bleach isn't good for jeans?" she ventured.

"Don't you separate?" She cocked her head. She'd heard this word from her exasperated mother. No. No separating. Just washing.

"Don't the stains set?" they asked her. She didn't understand the problem. She didn't get many stains and if something did stain, then they became pajamas. Or work out clothes. It was the natural progression of clothes. Weekend wear became only-in-the-house-wear became pajamas. Stains on real clothes were the dry cleaner's problem. The end.

Time passed. This girl matured. She learned more tolerance. She still loved adventure, but she learned the value of all choices. She still hated laundry. She stalwartly refused to learn the rules of washing. Then one day, a little prince joined this girl's kingdom and this baby pooped orange and yellow goop on its clothes. The girl gasped. Stains. For which she was responsible. The horror. She ran to the trash and threw the clothes away.

It kept happening. All clothes could not be pitched. The stains multiplied. She bought bleach, but she still refused to separate. Fortunately, the laundry people made products for laundry illiterates like color safe bleach. A year passed. Two years. A princess. Another prince. Another. The girl was obsessed with bibs. Bibs kept the clothes fairly clean. Poopy clothes, she threw away. The stains grew and grew.

A magic fairy god-friend appeared named Emma. Emma told the girl about a magical product called Oxy.clean. She refused to listen. No. She might be home, she might be boring, she might be a mom, but she would not learn the secrets of laundry.

One day, the girl and her fairy god-friend Emma went out to breakfast with the three princes and one princess. Prince Cue wore a sweater that had been bought five years ago in Ireland when the girl was glowy and fresh and the girl's mother hoped she might have babies one day. The sweater was darling, a cable knit fisherman's sweater with a teddy bear on the front. When breakfast arrived and the girl went into her bag for her bibs, she discovered she had forgotten them. Sadness.

Prince Cue gobbled blueberries in blueberry sauce like he was preparing for the role of head oompa loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The girl sighed as she surveyed the ruined sweater, stained blue and purple. The girl shook her head. Oh well, the price of forgotten bibs.

Emma took control. "Give me the sweater," she told the girl, "I will show you the power of Oxy.clean." The girl did not believe, but she gave Emma the sweater and Emma performed her magic soaking in her magical liquid. The sweater emerged Clean.

And the girl saw that it was good. She went to Cost.co. She purchased Oxy.clean. She washed Prince Cue's poopy sheets (don't ask) and Prince Nate's poopy sleepers and they came clean. She still refuses to separate, but she is considering braving the world of pre-treating.

To atone for her lifetime of laundry mocking, this girl wrote a blog post. About laundry. And Oxy.clean. She knows that brash, beautiful, twenty-something girls will mock her. They will call her boring. Housewife. Domestic. They will roll their eyes at her nearly-forty mommy self.

It's okay. She'll just smile. She was just like them once. She remembers how it felt to be brash and interesting and sure.

She knows the secret now. They are not wrong and she is not wrong. She is different from them in a way she didn't understand then and they don't understand now. She loves a two-year-old who loves blueberries.

Newborn No More

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 05:00:00 +0000

I'm putting things away every day, sprinkled liberally with little slivers of my heart.

Newborn onsies don't fit Nate anymore. Newborn sleepers pull at his three-month-old shoulders, stretched too tight over his three-month-old toes. I am folding tiny clothes for storage in the nursery closet. I am folding memories of tiny newborns for storage here. But, first. First. I want to shake them out. Gaze at them, run my hand over them one more time.

The way they curl into your shoulder, harvest squash bottoms a perfect handful in your palm.

The way they root blindly for your nipple, mouths working, heads turned too far or not far enough.

The way they stretch back over your hand when their nickel-sized stomachs are full, arms behind their heads in a parody of a sated little old man, milk dribbling down their chins.

The rhythmic gulp when they find their stride and guzzle milk greedily.

Their deep, sudden sleep, head cranked back, mouth open, milk-drunk, lost in a comfort induced haze.

He's beyond all that already. When he nurses, his eyes find mine, intelligent and questioning, he breaks the suction to smile delighted at my face and then claims his prize again with a self satisfied wiggle. He knows things now. He's no blind kitten in my arms. He stretches his curious prairie dog neck over my shoulder to see the world when I hold him. He watches his brothers and sister with an avid, interested gaze. He'll be running the race with them in no time, mimicking Cue's signature phrase, "Mine coming. Mine coming. Age. Garreh. Mine coming."

Babynater coos for my attention. I never noticed that with Gee or Cue. Is it because I was so novice, so fixed on doing things right that I missed the details? Or is it because I am so busy this time, this child must be creative, find ways to draw my eyes?

No one asks me now, oh, such a brand new one, when was he born? He's not a novelty, not new, just a baby, a big, chubby baby. They focus on him, he demands his own time, shines his own light. He doesn't like to be ignored. It's a good trait for a fourth child, this quiet, joyful quest for attention.

I relish our quiet mornings together, Cue and Babynater and I. I roll, briefly each day, in the ease of being a mom to two. One toddler. One baby. We meet friends for coffee. We run errands. We have time and sufficient hands for silliness, for dallying to pet dogs or buy flowers at the market. Even as I love the freedom, I mourn it. It comes at the price of Ess and Gee's babyhood. It's a toll I'm forced to pay, so I might as well enjoy it.

I pull the last clean newborn sleepers and onsies from the laundry basket and hold them each a moment. Can it really be that on the day, maybe a week ago (okay, maybe ten days), when these were soiled and thrown carelessly into the corner hamper, that they fit him, if only barely. Not today. I hold them to him, hopeful. Maybe just one more time. They are laughably small.

Into the box. Into the closet. What else is there to do? Onward to three to six months and rolling and sleeping (a mother can hope) and holding up your head and grabbing. Onward into two and tantrums and sentences with correct pronouns and jumping and potty training. Onward four-year-olds, to preschool, to the playground on your own, to art class and talking back and friends that you choose, whose parents I don't even know.

I'll stop a moment to fold what you leave behind and store it carefully, like petals between the pages of a heavy book. I won't even cry, much. After all, three-month-olds are pretty darn cute.

And two-year-olds aren't half bad.

And fiercely independent preschoolers are break-your-heart beautiful.

Reveal and Counter-reveal Continued

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 21:20:00 +0000

These comments are a blast. Thanks for playing this game with me.

Kaycee confides that she swore she would find a job that allows jeans every day. "I succeeded with every single job I ever had, until my career. I am a teacher, but at least at my building I get jean Fridays." Teachers are awesome! I swore my whole life, right up until I was 31 years old, that I didn't want to have children. Then I had four in less than five years. I adore blue jeans. I buy really expensive ones; it's my only nod to fashion.

Erin (who delivered her own baby on her stairs) has pregnancy brain. "I was 16 weeks pregnant with Luke and my brain was so broken that I locked my keys in the car with the lights on. I didn't realize until someone was all, Hey, your lights are on, and I was all, Better go take care of it, hey, where are my keys?!" Ditto, Erin. When I was twenty weeks pregnant with Gee, I spent about an hour in World Market looking for my car keys. I thought I'd laid them down somewhere while browsing. When I finally returned to the car it was unlocked. And RUNNING.

Tracey called me a brat and she hates comments off. (xo, I get to tease, Tracey, we've met ;-) I've been called worse. In fact, just the other day a woman screamed "IDIOT" at me out the car window because my daughter stopped her bike at a street corner and refused to cross the street at this woman's prompting until I caught up with her (as I have instructed her repeatedly!!). One woman's good parenting is another woman's idiocy, I guess. This fine Saturday morning, I hate 11 minute on-demand children's programs. I have to get my coffee-drinking ass up every eleven minutes? Touche PBS Sprout, way to join the fight against obesity. And moms getting to sit down. And coffee drinkers. Marinka, it's possible that PBS is antisemitic. After all, I'm sort of Jewish and they are making me walk. It's practically a death march.

Erin writes, "I just started my blog last week and got giddy with excitement when I got my first comment. I even texted my husband! Lame, I know!" Oh, Erin. It's normal. When I got my first comment from a stranger I called my sister. I was so excited! Someone reads my blog! A stranger! She loves my writing! She thinks I'm funny and my kids are adorable! I must be the only person in the world who writes a blog that someone else found!! Because I'm awesome! My sister informed me that there were like one bazillion trillion blogs in the world and that blogging/commenting was a hobby for many, many people. Also, the stranger on my blog was her friend Anne. Maybe I do wish I had brothers.

TMC Photo wishes for an incredible movie star makeover. If I were ever to have a lot more money, my guilty pleasure would be to have my hair professionally blown straight every third day. I love my hair down...when a stylist does it. Otherwise, it looks like crap and I put it in a perpetual ponytail.

Hezra admits that she is "superstah" clumsy. She fell and broke her ankle at a funeral. Way to make it all about you, Hezra (kidding. xo.). She also has a ton of kids and gets my life. I'm not particularly clumsy, but I have severe hip spacial issues. I'm always ramming the counter corners with my hipbones. Ouch.

Raising Z reveals, "when I was in Greece as a college student, this older gentleman propositioned me for sexual relations in exchange for a fish dinner." Yikes! Not worth it. I've never been propositioned quite that blatantly, but when my friend and I were in Turkey, doing nothing in particular except randomly traveling, we wanted these shirts at a shop on a tiny back street of Istanbul. We bargained SO hard and thought we'd made a great deal for the shirts. Then the large, hairy shopkeeper with, um, unfortunate dental care went in for his payoff. He thought he'd bargained for KISSES. Not on the cheek either. I'd totally bargain a cheek kiss for a cute Turkish shirt. (A FACE cheek kiss. Gutter minds.)

Beck'sthree has the bizarre skill of picking up things with her feet. "Why bend down and pick up the matchbox cars when I can pick them up with my feet and not have to bend over? My laziness knows no bounds." My feet are not that talented, but my laziness is also boundless.

Anna See admits, "I threw up on my teacher's desk in 7th grade French class. Any good barf stories?" My best barf story appeared here a few months ago, when I puked repeatedly in front of the squadron of firemen in my house to deal with my husband's busted open head. I also carried a nasty pukey virus to Matt's family reunion two years ago, spreading it to his entire extended family, my six-week-old Cue and probably half the U.S. since we rode on four large airplanes.

Elaine A leaves the dishes for the morning most nights because she just doesn't want to do them and would rather look out the kitchen window in the a.m. while she does. I'm trying to think of something I leave until morning around the house and there is nothing. I think it's difficult to understand how insane I am about clutter. I straighten the entire house before I go to bed. Kitchen clean, everything picked up and put away. Meanwhile, my baby has had three baths in three months because I'm too tired to bathe him. I do know how crazy that is.

Debbi is "a living, walking, breathing circus" (her words, not mine). "I can turn my belly button inside out, I can swallow my tongue (for real!), I can blow bubbles with spit so they float in the air like soap bubbles, I can jiggle my eyes." I really want to go to a bar with Debbi. Except I really hope she doesn't have a seizure with that whole tongue thing. I can catch four quarters stacked on my elbow with that same hand. It's not that impressive. We'd need Debbi at the bar.

Claire intelligently comments that Matt is WRONG and I do have arm flu. She backs this up with science-like information. Claire is my new best friend.

Mommymae may or may not like to smoke pot. (She's keeping her options open to run for president in 2012.) I may or may not have spent a substantial chunk of the summer after my senior year in high school smoking pot. For some reason, it's hard to remember the details. If that were true, it would be the only time in my life I've engaged in that particular vice. I am actually too anal retentive. I can't smoke anything without picturing my lungs turning black with yellow snotty goop inside.

Heather's daughter mocks her because she can't tell the difference between a canter and a trot. I could totally mock Heather as well, as I'm pretty horsey, or I could give her a lesson in three beat gaits vs. two beat gaits, but I won't. My kids are still a tad young to mock me. It's coming, though. I know because I considered mockery and sarcasm acceptable parenting techniques and it's so going to bite me in the ass.

Inna was born and raised in Brasil and she'd love to have a big family like the Anyfamily. She worries about not working though and wonders about doing both. I was born in the Philippines and raised all over the USA (military family). It's hard to make these choices. There's pros and cons to everything. We love the dynamics of our large family, but worry about the lack of individual attention and stretched resources. I never, ever (in a million years) imagined I would adore being home full time the way I do and yet I feel wistful and out-of-date and a little envious of friends who have kept their careers going. There's no perfect answer, you have to go with what works for you.

Keely reveals, "I have 2 tattoos and 2 gold teeth. I'm about to end up with a new gold crown, so does that mean I need another tattoo?" Magic eight ball says, "yes, absolutely." I have two tattoos as well. One on my ankle and the other in the "sacred zone" according to Matt (the area just above your hips and butt). Both are small. No gold teeth here, but that's cool, especially in light of talk like a pirate day today.

Butwhymommy writes, "I wanted to dye my hair pink when I was 13 because I thought I was all cool and punk rock. But I waited until I was almost 40 to do it. Well bright red but its close enough to pink. So my question is was I cooler then or now? Or am I just not cool at all?" You are endlessly cool to me, Renee. I thought I was really cool last May because I splurged on these new Pra.da sunglasses. I felt all hot and classy in them. Turns out, they are kind of heavy and they're always flying off my head when I laugh or talk with my hands, or sliding down to my chin when I'm buckling carseats. So, I'm the same nerd I always was, but now I'm a nerd with soon-to-be-broken expensive sunglasses.

Michelle hates it when her husband laughs at himself when he says things. Rightly so, Michelle, he's probably not that funny. I am insanely livid when Matt leaves the back door unlocked at night or when he leaves in the morning. He walks in the door, tired and hungry after a long day, and I'm all "so, it means nothing to you if an insane murderer walks in the back door with a hatchet and hatchets us all to death?" And he's all, "I'm sorry, did the insane person walk in the back door and crawl up your ass and take over your brain?"

Keary lived on the island of Saipan from one year old to the age of four in 1959 to 1962. Her father was in the Navy and her brother was born there. Wow. That is amazing. It's pretty remote now, so it must have felt like another world then. Keary, if you have any memories of the island, you would be shocked by the changes. Gee was born there too and the health care was basic in 2005. I'd love to hear your brother's birth story.

Erin tells this funny story, "I never came closer to divorcing my husband than on our honeymoon, when we got back to London late and the Tube was closed, and he insisted that Paddington Station wasn't a long walk. When we were still walking at 2 a.m. with heavy backpacks, our 2-week-old marriage was in jeopardy. And possibly important parts of his anatomy." I feel your pain and I have a shockingly similar story, except I was the one in danger of being kicked and left. We flew into Paris on our honeymoon and, being the experienced backpacker that I felt I was, I had mapped the looooong trip to our boutique hotel on the underground. Except we had a suitcase the size of a supertanker instead of backpacks. I think several Parisians spat at us in disgust as Matt lifted that sucker over the turnstiles.

Mommygeekology confesses, "I check my email all the time. Like, in the bathroom. In the middle of the night while I'm waiting for the baby's formula to get warm. At stoplights. I think I might live on email. And technology in general. I will stay up all night working on new websites. It's a sickness." I have a fairly frequent email checking schedule myself, there's no judgment here. Fortunately, I have no mobile communication capabilities, so it's limited to stolen moments when I'm actually in the house.

From Bridget: "I love to sing. I know lots and lots of songs. And usually all I can do is hum or stumble along because I can't remember lyrics to save my life. That's why I love karaoke so much...it gives me the words! Also, even though I have 3 kids, 2 dogs, a husband and a mortgage I don't feel like an adult. Sometimes I look around and wonder how exactly *I* became the resident grown-up." Oh, Bridget, we are kindred souls. I am an in-the-car song belter. Also, my four kids, husband and mortgage company often give me a blank, horrified look, like, "wait, you're the grown up?!"

EatPlayLove says, "I can happily sit here commenting on blogs and reading posts while my sink is FULL of dinner dishes." Girl, I can happily sit here commenting on blogs while my precious newborn baby goes unbathed.

Keeper of the Cheerios has four kids under four as well...except hers include triplets. Gulp. She hates that she never gets comments. Honestly, the blog world is 95% participation. If you comment, have fun, interact, they will come. I hate spam phone calls. Hate them. I get all excited, the phone!, adult interaction!, and they just want my money or my vote or something.

Lisa L asks me if lawyers have to keep up with their licenses and renew them every couple of years like doctors and nurses? It depends on the jurisdiction, lawyers are regulated by State, but yes, in most jurisdictions there's a continuing legal education requirement to remain active in the bar and all jurisdictions have a yearly fee to remain licensed. I'm licensed in the District of Columbia and an inactive member of the Virginia State Bar. I took the bar in Virginia, where, at the time, women had to wear a skirt while taking the test. (Shakes head at Virginia.) Also, I will never forget the gamey smell of fear on that auditorium floor.

Tanya has an irrational fear of garborators. "Because you know I'm going to stuff my hand down the thing and turn it on and have my hand mangled or chopped off." First of all, garborator is a fantastic word, which I have now adopted as my own. I think this is what we call a garbage disposal. I agree 100% and I am always leery of sticking my hand down the damn thing to retrieve whatever plastic child's utensil has fallen in there and is making the catastrophic noise when I turn it on. Remember the guy in Firestarter that jammed his arm down there and turned it on? Shudder.

MommyTime finds one of my favorite subjects. "I have a hard time deciding whether my perfect dream vacation is (a) two weeks in spectacular country (think New Zealand or Hawaii) where I can hike, kayak, snorkel, and generally be crazy outdoorsy during the day, and then come back to plush digs and really good food at night; or (b) two weeks in an old European city plus the surrounding countryside, soaking up the culture (and wine). Which would you choose?" Yes, please! Traveling was my number one passion before I somehow became the mother of several small children. It's impossible to choose. Honestly, it would depend on current status of life and travel companion. Right now, I'd choose option (a) with my sisters for a dream "forget your current life" getaway and I'd want to hike to Machu Picchu. But, I'd choose (b) to spend time alone with my husband. That latter would be the priority in my life and I would absolutely, 100 percent go back to Prague.

That was really fun for me...hope I didn't miss anyone. If I did, you can yell at me in the comments. Okay, now for the reversal. Two things I've done in my life that I do not think I'd have the guts to do today are: 1) snorkel above sharks off the reefline in Palau; and 2) tandem skydive strapped to an ex-marine. Et tu? Tell me, tell me!

Post 201 (ish)

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 15:36:00 +0000

Thanks for all your thoughts on comments and commenting. I'm looking for that elusive life balance and I appreciate the input tons. I hope you all know that I didn't mean to complain about comments (never!) or complain about not getting comments. I'm just thinking out loud.

And speaking of comments and interactions and all that good blog stuff, you are all hilarious and you have really bizarre skills. Here's the reveal and counter-reveal...in two parts!

Marinka asked, "wouldn't it be funny if no one commented? Like ever again?" No, Marinka, that would not be funny. That would be depressing. Why do you want me to be a depressed liar, Marinka? Whhhhhyyyyyy?

Melissa confides that she was not into purses before children and after the diaper bag years she's a small, cute bag fanatic. I still carry the huge honking diaper/backpack, so I get it. I was not into children before children. At all. Now, I'm a small, cute baby fanatic. Mostly my own though. And close friends. I can appreciate the cuteness of other babies, but I prefer not to touch.

Hokgardner's secret ambition in life is to be a back up singer in a band. My secret ambition in life is to write a romance novel. Not a high class, it's really about the plot romance novel. I mean a really steamy soft p0rn fantasy. (She's also celebrating her 700th post!! And she knits adorable baby sweaters.)

Mary doesn't mind commenting as long as there's no pressure or whining for comments. Me too Mary, hope you didn't feel that way about this little game! I do not like to be pressured to make a decision about eating out. I LOVE eating out and picking the restaurant is my favorite part. Matt and I have had many fights on this issue.

OHMommy wants to know if she makes any sense. No, darling, absolutely none, but I still love you. I make no sense when I don't eat. I'm irrationally, wickedly irritable. That lovely trait contributes heavily to the "where are we going to eat" fights.

The weirdest thing Jeanne's Beloved Daughter did as a small child was to take a black crayon and color over Huey, Dewey and Louie's eyes. Then she looked at what she'd done and started yelling, "They're blind! Oh, no! They're blind!" That is weird, also darkly funny. The weirdest thing Gee has done so far? He used to have cows that followed him around. He'd make them move back when they were crowding him and they slept in the closet. Now, he has a dog named Chetta. I have to hold Chetta's leash occasionally, which is inconvenient when I have babynater and my coffee. Ess' weirdest thing? She can not restrain herself from doing whatever Gee just received a time out for doing. It's like a compulsion to be in timeout too. Cue? His nanny blanket is an uptate (cupcake) every morning and I have to sing happy birthday and eat it. Maybe that's the weirdest thing I've done? Nah.

An anonymous commenter has to have things she likes in every color. I always choose chocolate brown or dark gray. It's painful for me to buy another color; I have to force myself.

Jacie broke her leg when she was four because her brother pushed her off of a picnic table into a trash can and rolled her down a hill. Oh my god, Jacie. I am so glad I don't have brothers right now and I will be keeping a close eye on Ess to try and prevent any maiming. I broke my tailbone at about twelve. Our crazy-ass dog rammed a chair I was leaning on and I fell back down on it. I cracked a rib when I was pregnant with Cue falling down our hardwood stairs. I had an arm load of laundry. God that's domestically pathetic.

Connie, mom to two lovely little ones, wants to know if she'll ever hear the blissful sound of silence again. What's that Connie? I can't hear you, it's these damn kids, they are all screaming and the TV is on and the phone might be ringing.

Christy commented that being lonely is the thing in the world she is most afraid of. I am most afraid of Matt dying. If you think about it we have almost the same fear.

Linda tells me that she dreads having to go back to work again. "I love my alone time and am never bored. But now I feel guilty not "contributing" and feel lazy for not wanting a job." I dread ever, EVER having to practice law again. I wish I could find a passion and focus. Maybe I should get on that romance novel thing?

Therealbecks is tongue-tied. For real, medically. I have no appendix. And only half a brain.

Tina says "I secretly (ok, not secretly anymore) want to be like you, more just in the blogging world and not necessarily with all the kids and stuff." Tina, I love you, I'm pretty sure no one has ever said they want to be like me before, and I hear you, I secretly want to be more like me except without all the kids and stuff too. (95% kidding.)

Lyndsay says if she had to pick any singer/musician to sit in the corner of her bedroom and serenade her upon command it would be Michael Stipe. Hmmmm. Musician captive in the corner of my bedroom? I'm embarrassed to admit that while I love music, I never really know the artist of songs. If I could have anyone captive in the corner of my bedroom? Wait. This might be getting obscene.

FADKOG wrote: "If I could have my dream job, I'd be a personal chef. Not one that was at the beck and call of a client. Not where they'd ring a bell and request a dish of ice cream at 3 a.m., and I'd have to fetch it for them. No. My idea is I meet with a client to map out their family/personal meal needs for a week or two, then shop for those needs, come into their home and use their materials to prep and freeze the food, and then leave after cleaning up. Your dream job, real or imaginary, would be?" I would absolutely love to fly around the country giving speeches. But, that would require that I be an expert at something, or have something to share that others want to hear, or be inspirational in some other way, or be a past POTUS. None of these things are in my near future. I've also always wanted to name colors for J.Cr.ew and Ral.ph Lau.ren paints. They have the best color names.

SmartAss Mom wants to know if I am having secret meetings with her husband? No. Definitely not. I barely have time for my own husband (;-)

Issa confesses to a terror of horses. No wonder since she met a killer horse as a child that broke her wrist and behaved generally badly. I adore horses and I'm a proficient rider. I owned a pony named Tammy as a child and then a horse named Bubba in high school. I've ridden across the Atlas Mountains in Morocco and through Mongolia. Matt and I rode and camped in the Australian outback for seven days. Matt's crap at riding, but his effort was so sweet. I'm terrified of too many things to list, my top two are spiders and messy children's crafts.

Tonggu Momma had the swine flu last week. I had three glasses of wine and a chocolate kiss martini last week. I currently have the arm flu in a DESPERATE quest not to have any other kind of flu this season.

LazyCrazyMama will let her kids make messes in order to get time to herself and preserve her sanity. I admire that so much. I never let my kids make messes. I hate messes. I have a hard time letting them play with water. I know, I know. Therapy fund.

AmazingGreis writes, "I love the color red, I hate most veggies, I have a food and television addiction and I'm in LOVE with Justin Timberlake." I love dark brown; I hate peppers unless they are incredibly spicy and cut up really, really small, preferably in a salsa with a margarita on the side. I have an ice cream and television addiction and I have a ridiculous crush on Matt Damon, but only when he's Jason Bourne in the black kicking-ass suit. Also, Viggo Mortensen, but only when he's wearing a sword and protecting hobbits.

From Christy: "I am neurotic about folding towels. They have to be folded just the right way and stacked neatly in my linen closet. But the clothes? I let them sit in the basket for WEEKS." I have to say I'm not a folder. I am neurotic about clutter. My house is consistently, painfully neat. Dirt doesn't bother me as much. I hate to actually clean.

Mama Cas confesses: "I'd rather drink Mountain Dew all day than eat real food. If MD had liquor in it, I'd be a smelly, homeless, divorced bag lady by now living under the Brooklyn Bridge and naming the flies buzzing around my festering foot blisters." I love food, but I hate to cook. Eating out is my idea of heaven. I love your imagery, but I don't think there's anything that I'd follow into homelessness. I am a creature comforts person. Fireplace. Ice cream. Soft bed. Running water. I don't camp at all and homelessness sounds a lot like permanent camping.

Kirsten reports, "I am having a hard time helping my 2nd grade daughters with their homework this year. What do these things mean!! \a\ \å\ /ke/ Am I the only idiot mom who is confused??" No, Kirsten, all us idiot moms are confused. Promise. I have no idea what those symbols are. Have aliens taken over the schools? Are they teaching our children alien languages? OMIGOD! Is Obama the head alien? (I. AM. KIDDING.)

Susie really, really likes to watch tv. Her favorite book is The Preservationist by David Maine. I haven't read that, but I love to read and I'll check it out. I used to read so many books a month and now I'm lucky if I read a book every other month. Two of my favorite books are Jitterbug Perfume and The Bone People. Right now, I'm reading Native Son by Richard Wright.

See what I mean, quirky, funny, intelligent people hang out around here. No wonder I missed comments. Stay tuned, I'll post the other half tomorrow.

Commentary

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 06:09:00 +0000

I turned my comments off for a week. What did you think? That question is more for bloggers than for my mom and a few other non-blogging readers, but I'm so curious. Did you like getting a 'break' and just reading? Or would you rather have the ability to respond when you feel like it? (Option (c) - I really don't care one way or another and I think it's kind of weird that you're this interested in this topic. Oh yeah, well that's mean and also I have arm flu from the flu shot that I got three hours ago, so you should really be nicer to me. I could lose my arm. Not really, Matt informs me that it's impossible that I have arm flu because the flu in the shot is "dead" and cannot infect my arm. Know it all.)

From my perspective, it really changed the posting experience. It was weird to put my thoughts out there, accustomed to hearing a few responses, a few echos back from the internet void, and then wait...and remember, no, nope, that's it. Just send the thoughts out and move on. (Except for a few lovely emails, which I deeply appreciated because, wow, it's quiet when you turn off comments.) It felt a little bit like telling a joke and no one laughs, or revealing a secret and everyone listens and then leaves.

I liked that I didn't hold back on posting. Sometimes, I don't post for a few days so that I can catch up or because I want to focus on reading. But, bottom line? I missed you. I found that the interaction is most of the joy for me and I am not just "writing for myself," at least not entirely.

There it is.

Now I'll do a one-eighty on you. This is my two hundredth post. I think. Blogger counts drafts in the number of posts that you have and I am always starting posts and not finishing them, which leaves me with a lot of drafts. According to blogger, I have two hundred and eighteen posts, but when I subtract the drafts (roughly, this is not an exact science), I think we're at 200ish. Could this paragraph be any more anticlimactic?

Yay! It's my 200ish post minus drafts plus the square root of what the hell are you talking about Stacey? A game. I'm talking about a game. A comment game in honor of my 200th (ish) post. Here's how it works. I'll tell you anything* about me that you tell me about you in the comments of this post.

Game examples.

Issa comments: My favorite color is blue. I respond (in my 201st (ish) post): My favorite color is blue too. See how boring that is?

Okay, but I'll work as hard as you do.

Issa comments: I've never been more frightened than when a two-hundred pound bull charged me in a field while I "accidentally" trespassed in Ireland. I respond: I've never been more frightened than when I set off the alarm system alone in a parking garage in downtown DC at midnight. (I might have peed my pants.) (The peeing my pants part is gratuitous, but true.) Isn't that fun?**

To recap this ridiculous late-night post, written while I suffered with imaginary arm flu: After barring you from commenting for a week, I am now shamelessly asking you to comment in a convoluted and complicated manner that requires you to tell me something about YOU so that I'll tell you something about me.

Clear as mud?

*Unless it's obscene. I know it when I see it.
**If you are thinking, no Stacey, that is not fun. That is dumb. I wish you would re-close comments because I like you better when I don't have to interact with you, you are in luck. Marinka has closed comments this week because she is a total copy cat, oh I mean, because she knows a good idea when she sees one. You can visit her obligation free.***
***That's a lie. She just posted another post that allows comments. I'm not sure why she lied on the post before this most recent post, but I think it might be to ruin my life, or at least my blog. Or because she's an habitual liar and she wants you all to think that I'm one too. Thanks, Marinka.****
****Right after I published this post, Marinka took her new comment-allowing post down. Either arm flu is making me delirious, or Marinka is trying to drive me insane. I'm going with the latter. I've met Marinka.

The Hand Waving Makes All the Difference

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 21:57:00 +0000

My kids are completely obsessed with Halloween. Which, okay, bags full of candy that their healthy-eating-pushing mother never lets them have, costumes, staying up late, getting to push doorbells and (especially for Cue, the two-year-old) open and close the door all night long. What's not to love?

The costume question has raged in our house for weeks now, fueled by the endless catalogs delivered to our door as a result of my slightly out-of-control Christmas catalog shopping. I have four kids, I don't get to browse stores much. The Halloween costumes in these catalogs astound me by the way. And, I've paid $40 for a roll neck sweater for my toddlers that was beyond-cute-to-heavenly, not-to-be-resisted, so I get being suckered in by adorable, but has anyone else seen the Cha.sing Fire.flies catalog? Who buys $100 kids' costumes with a $58 accessory package and how can I get invited to their parties?

Ess has known from Halloween obsession day one that she wants to be a clown. My girl. Easy, cheap and available at Shop.co. Gee, in his wonderful, love him for who he is, the turtle does not win the ever loving race it just slows the rest of us down until we go insane and keel over from a stroke and so it has no competition in the race because it has actually killed the competition, slow, deliberate manner, rejected every picture in every catalog, every suggestion, every possibility until his stroked-out mother resigned herself to Halloween pictures that include a pouting, un-costumed Gee. But oh, does he love to peruse the catalogs. My boy.

Imagine my surprise when his delightful, full-body bellow drifted up the stairs during quiet time.

Gee: MOMMY. MOOOOMMMMY. I WANT THIS ONE. MOMMMMMMYYYYYY. I. WANT. THIS. ONE. MOMMY. MOMMY. MOMMY.
Me: Yes, what one? What is the problem?
Gee: I want to be a pouf for Halloween. Right here. This one. A pouf.

Hmmmmm. Where to go here? That's not a nice word? Where did you learn that word? In this family we are accepting of all life choices (that are not actually criminal and hurtful to others)? I lacked all available information. I had to do the unthinkable and descend the stairs during quiet time.

Me: A pouf?
Gee: (wagging his tail with excitement) Yes! A pouf! A pouf!
Me: Show me said pouf.

The catalog had closed in the interim, so we sat on the couch and flipped pages, looking for the pouf. We missed it the first few times, but finally, near the back, he spotted the costume again.

Gee: There it is! That one! The pouf! Can I be a pouf, momma?

Me: Oh. (I waved my imaginary wand at an imaginary hat to produce an imaginary rabbit.) Poof! Like abracadabra alakazam, POOF!
Gee: (flourishing his imaginary wand spectacularly) Yeah, a pouf.
Me: Yes, yes you can.

September Rain

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 22:28:00 +0000

Early September feels sad to me. Maybe it's because I don't like change and September is all about change. Changing seasons, changing schedules, birthdays, new schools. The days are long and light-filled. The sun still shines, but I can feel it, the cold, the damp, the gloom lurking over my shoulder.

I lost a pregnancy in September. My very first pregnancy. It was a fairly early miscarriage. I don't mourn the baby now, but my cells, my brain waves, my fibers remember the fear, the desperate sugar of hope mixed into the bowl with the clogging flour of despair. For four months in late 2004, I ate that sickly, sticky dough every single day. I woke up knowing exactly what day this was. Day one. Tears. Days 7-14. Sex. Days 14-25. Hope. And then day one. Tears. I wanted to go back so badly that it almost drove me insane. I wanted to be that silly, carefree girl who had no clue about her cycle, who got caught out every month without a tampon because she couldn't be bothered to track her periods. Because she didn't care. Who didn't know if she wanted babies. Who went off the pill just to see what would happen.

In those months I didn't know, how much of my life would be defined by this need, this pain? Gee was conceived four months after the miscarriage. Looking back, it was a laughably short period of time. Compared to what people endure, are enduring all the time, it's enough to make you scoff. Oh, you poor, sad, ridiculously fertile woman who had to try for three whole months before you got what you wanted. How do I unsubscribe? My heart bleeds.

Mine does too. Every time I hear a story about infertility or loss or both. Every time I read a post. Because I lived with that unknown for four short months and I could barely take it.

A woman I love with all my heart, have loved since I was twelve, lost a baby last September. Not a potential baby. Not the hope of a baby. Not like me. Her baby died.

I don't know why babies die. I don't know what makes them leave their warm, soft wombs too early, try to take on the bright lights and harsh cold air too soon.

I suspect there is no reason. Chance. Biology. Random contraction of the stars. I can't dwell too long on it or my vision contracts, my own breath constricts. I flounder in dark fear of the fragility of life, the frailty of lungs and tissue; I have to rush, gasping to see that each of my children still breathes.

I'm afraid, sometimes, GG, to touch the veil that separates your baby girl from us.

I don't know what it means to write into the void like this. Do the numbers mean anything? Do they really represent living souls? On any given day do almost 800 people really glance at my words? I hope so. Today I hope so because I hope it means that they will read her name and know that she was here, if only on one day in September, and is, always, loved. I hope that they will feel, briefly, the grief that you always feel and spare a moment to muster peacefulness and love and strength and hope and send it to you.

Her name is Ella. She lived and left on a single day in September.

When I See You Smile

noreply@blogger.com (anymommy) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 04:35:00 +0000

There's nothing like a baby's first smiles. Something clicks in that interaction. My whole perspective shifts. In the first few weeks, it's like I've been entrusted with the care of a very fragile, featherless, somewhat ugly baby bird. My sole goals are to make sure that I don't break its tiny limbs or mar its fragile person in any way and to monitor constantly its wee birdy chest to make sure that it is still breathing its quick, little birdy breaths.

Then, magically, overnight, awwwww, a baby. A big, fat, milk-filled, cuddly baby that is interactive and occasionally even somewhat pleasant. That coos at me from across the room to get my attention. My positive attention. Suddenly, I'm willing to sit in front of him and coo back for long stretches of time, to work for his precious, full-body smiles. Whereas, before the whole smiling gig, I felt more like: how can I get rid of the little alien birdish being for twenty minutes so that I can do something, ANYTHING, besides bounce it, or sway it, or - sigh - let it maw on my nipple.

Smiles. They are the difference between bird and baby. From it to he. Not a moment too soon either, because, wow, I was just about to put that little alien bird thing up for auction to the highest bidder.

You kill me, Daddy.
No, really, stop, I'm going to pee myself.

Now. Babynater, my smiley, delightful love, if we could just talk about sleeping from 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. because that is mommy's clean-up/computer/trash TV time and she needs it. She needs it.