Earning My Stripes

This past Mother’s Day was one of particular importance to me because it felt, as pompous as it may sound, well-deserved. Although I had the excuses to celebrate it three years ago with a new baby in my arms and old stretch marks on my belly, my  first Mother’s Day felt more like a rite of passage; an initiation into a maternal sorority. My hazing rituals consisted of forfeiting months of sleep and tethering myself to a pumping machine around the clock and I was finally pinned in early May of 2009. Instead of a pin, however, I received a necklace from my husband: an oval aquamarine gem (our son’s birthstone) set in white gold and surrounded by pave diamonds. I was treated like a queen and felt like one—taboot—as I wore my jewelry with delight. It was a holiday with a little bit of glamour that contrasted the months of postpartum darkness that I dwelled in. It was a holiday in which my baby, barely 3 months old at the time, was still immobile and fairly easy to accommodate (Eat every 3 hours. Nap. Poop. Repeat.) It was a holiday in which I could go out to eat with my husband and child in tow and the restaurant staff would wish me a wonderful Mother’s Day, complement me on my new sparkling accessory, and I could say, “Oh, thank you so much! It’s his birthstone” nodding to the baby beside me, to which they would ogle my adorable little bundle.

On my second Mother’s Day I was gifted a Rhododendron. For me it was like a metaphor for what the prior year was like learning to become parents and truly adjusting to life with a child.  Like our son, the flowering bush added beauty to our home and was a symbol of growth (well, until I accidentally killed it… No one in this household was born with a green thumb.  In fact, I am pretty sure they don’t even fall within the color-spectrum.)

Then on Mother’s Day of 2011, I received a hammock.  This gift was so appropriate and appreciated.  It provided a place to spend time for rest and relaxation before the birth of our second child. In the months following that Mother’s Day, I spent many sunny afternoons rocking with my firstborn, reading him stories, and singing songs together. These were moments that I knew I would treasure, but are now even more coveted to me that our second son is here and my firstborn is continuously active.

Mother’s Day weekend this year kicked off on Saturday when I sent Caiden to The Little Red School House in town so that he could participate in their weekly preschool play program. It was there that he planted me a flower to which he promptly plucked the bloom off. His teacher allowed him to plant me a new one and then he plucked that bloom off, so I am currently displaying a cup of dirt on my kitchen table with amusement. Dan worked night before so he needed to sleep during the day in preparation for  his next 3^rd-shift. Prior to heading to bed, however, he delivered me a large coffee and a ½ dozen donuts. Once the boys were awake and ready, we went to church. With the help of the nursery staff there, the kids made homemade art pieces. They were unexpected and inadvertently served as little paper time capsules. Caid’s demonstrated his emerging preschool skills of pasting while Ryan’s is so precious with a simple tracing of his tiny hand.

(C's had an unfortunate encounter with a bag of chips-- hence, the grease marks.)

                            

(Makes me melt.)

We went about the remainder of the afternoon as usual with a few household chores and caring for two wonderful children on two completely different schedules. When Dan awoke he ordered dinner out and I closed out my day with some comfy pjs and the Desperate Housewives series finale (although I must add that my husband did surprise me with a bowl of hot popcorn to snack on in bed).

Yes, although this past Mother’s Day was not filled with gifts that sparkled and shined, it may have meant the most to me to date. This was a Mother’s Day in which I felt like I actually deserved to be honored. It was the first year that I felt like I wasn’t merely just a “mommy”, but a “mom”.  You see, “mommies” have lots of fun, are still figuring things out, but still look good doing it because their kids are not in a  particularly challenging stage of life. “Moms”, on the other hand, are finally at peace with their parental inadequacies, have mastered the art of balance, and could care less that they did it all in yesterday’s yoga pants because their kids are older. “Mommies” look forward to each new milestone that their child will accomplish, encourage them to achieve it as soon as possible, and then scrapbook it.  “Moms”, on the other hand, know that the more a kid can do, the more trouble they can get into and rely on the photos that their friends take, post, and tag on Facebook to chronicle their kids’ early years.

Despite having a picky eater, I can hide whole grains and at least one vegetable in almost anything. I can nurse a baby and complete a 48-piece puzzle with his older brother at the same time. I can change a diaper with one hand behind my back and recite all 62-pages of Green Eggs and Ham. I can determine which Baby Einstein DVD is playing based solely upon the soundtrack and I can figure out a good rainy day activity using nothing but my imagination and the contents of our recycling bin. I know that a baby wipe is good for cleaning just about anything, anywhere, the necessity of shoes for any infant is highly overrated, space-saving highchairs are a Godsend whereas skuzz-seeking bath squirters are the work of the Devil, and that there’s nothing that a sticker—even if it is from the peel of a banana-- can’t fix. I have thrown out my kid’s art projects because there will always be a new one tomorrow, I have carried out a “time out” in the middle of a public place with no qualms, and I have even threatened to turn the car around if my kid didn’t stop his tantrum. Yes, I am now officially, a “mom”.

Let’s face it: Everyday life with two children ages 3 and under is as unpredictable as the front lines (and the appearance of my home resembles that metaphorical battlefield). But this Mother’s Day I earned my proverbial stripes. And like a decorated war hero, I wear them with pride and honor…

Ambiguous Adoration

When we were ready, my husband and I decided on having a second child. We were financially stable. We were comfortable in our parenting skills. Our firstborn was becoming increasingly independent and we knew in our hearts that our family was not complete. We were beyond elated when an EPT test authenticated a new baby was on the way, but as my belly began to swell and expand, I began to feel anxious and fearful about my capacity to love my new baby as deeply as I loved my eldest son.

There was no doubt in my mind that I would love this child. He was a part of me. We were excited to hold him. And new babies are always fun to snuggle with. But would he have the power to melt me with a single smile? Would he make my heart skip a beat when his tiny fingers wrapped around mine? Would he make each day brighter no matter how early it started?

My questions were all quickly answered the second my newborn son was placed into my arms for the first time. He eased into our lives seamlessly. But whatsmore, he enriched them beyond anything that we could have ever anticipated or imagined. His ability to make me feel so needed and loved with a simple gaze assuaged my insecurities. His sweet little face captivated me each moment it met mine. He has truly made each day since his arrival so much better, so much more gratifying, so much more complete.

Tonight I held my, now, 6-month-old baby in my arms, reflecting upon our day. It was mundane in nature. Some errands here, some housework there, punctuated by shared meals, naps, and hours of play. As he drifted off to sleep, his eyes closed tightly, his lips puckered in a peaceful grin, his body draped across my arms weighted heavily by relaxation and trust, I couldn’t help but revel in how beautiful that moment was, how beautiful my little boy was, how beautiful my life was because of he and his brother.

When the realization of having a second baby tested my confidence, I used to question myself constantly.  “How could I possibly love another child as much as the one that I already have?” Then tonight a more obvious realization hit me. “How could I not?”

Unsolicited Advice

When a woman announces that she is expecting a baby, she instantly becomes a magnetic force field attracting advice, anecdotes, and the occasional horror story from any other woman who has ever expected a baby at one point in time.  The problem with this is, although this wisdom is dispensed abundantly with the best intentions, most of it is probably unsolicited. After the birth of my first son, I was inundated with wave after wave of “When my daughter was teething…”, “When my son wouldn’t sleep through the night…”, “The best remedy for this is…”,”Buy this brand of bottles…”, “Don’t buy this brand of diapers…”,  “Feed him this way…”, “Hold him that way…“, “Breast is best!”, “I was formula-fed and I turned out ok…”, “Pacifiers were my saving grace…”, “Binkies are the work of the Devil!”, “Cosleeping is great!”, “Ferberize him!”, yack, yack, yack, yack, yack…

When I wasn’t going cross-eyed from sleep-deprivation coupled with the constant barrage of unsolicited advice, I learned to sort out what tidbits of guidance worked for me and what counsel could be cast aside. I got my parental groove and was unfazed by others’ recommendations until I was in the hospital after giving birth to my second son.

It was 12 hours after my delivery. I spent those 12 hours gazing smittenly at my new bundle, nursing him around the clock, and entertaining hordes of well-wishing visitors. It was time for me to eat breakfast when a 1^st-shift nurse whom I later dubbed “The Boob Nazi” came into my room. After manhandling me, she glanced over at my breakfast tray, and abrasively reprimanded me for ordering a cup of coffee. Jokingly I responded, “You mean to tell me that I am going to be in charge of two children under the age of 2 and I can’t have a cup of coffee?” The Boob Nazi was not amused. She proceeded to tell me that she made the sacrifice of not having coffee, medication, alcohol, etc. when she nursed all eight of her children and it was something all good mothers should do. (Based off of her response, it was also glaringly apparent to me that she had sacrificed FUN.)

The caffeine issued has remained present in the back of my mind. I cut my dependency on coffee drastically, but never quit it completely. And I don’t feel bad about that fact in the least. This is why: Here is how my night went the other day…

10pm- Settle into bed for the night.

10:20pm- Hubby wakes me up to ask where the dog leash is.

11pm- Finally find the dog leash stashed away in the drawer of our coffee table.  (NOT where it belongs, but apparently an excellent spot to hide a regularly used and necessary item according to our 3-year-old.)

11:15pm- Back in bed after letting the dog out.

12am- “Rescue” wailing 6-month-old in his sleep after he has rolled over onto his stomach and forgotten how to roll back.

1:20am- Make a sleepy sprint upstairs to wailing 3-year-old’s bedroom in order to soothe him after a nightmare.  He requests to snuggle.

2:30am- Stumble my way back to my bedroom after waking up and realizing I had fallen asleep in the kid’s bed.

3:40am- “Rescue” wailing 6-month-old once again from his belly- beached state in crib.

5:00am- “Rescue” wailing 6-month-old yet once more.

5:15am- Surrender to 6-month-old and take him into my bed.

5:45am- 3-year-old wakes up and is rearing to go. Awesome…

As I worked my way to the Keurig machine in a zombie-like state, I couldn’t help but think, “Screw you Boob Nazi.” And my first cup of joe that day was delish!

The moral of this story? The only piece of unsolicited advice that any mother should ever heed is to ignore unsolicited advice.  :) 

The Facebook Fast

In years of Lenten sacrifices past, I made choices that seemed obvious at the time. Growing up Catholic, we did not eat meat on Fridays. When I could begin selecting my own practices give up, there were 40 days lacking ice cream. There were 40 days lacking swearing. In an effort to appreciate silence and experience being” in the moment”, there were 40 days lacking listening to the radio during my commutes. There was even an honest attempt to go 40 days without engaging in gossip, but I worked in a field dominated by women and amongst incredibly dramatic teens (fodder for the rumor mill) so that one was an epic FAIL. This year, I struggled with seeking a “good fit” for my Lenten sacrifice. I am no slave to chocolate. I gave up cigarettes years ago and, trust me, this Mama NEEDS a drink by the end of the week. I contemplated giving up the gym, but that certainly wasn’t in the name of Christ. It wasn’t until I came across a blog post from a former college classmate that I found the answer to what I was looking for. She wrote about how she was implementing a “Facebook-Free Friday” in her routine. What a novel idea—and the sacrifice that I was seeking!

So I now I find myself in the midst of a Facebook Fast. I must be clear in the fact that this will not be 40 days straight of zero social networking. Unfortunately, with two small children in tow, I do not get enough access to the outside world to rid myself completely of this public forum. It is springtime: A season brimming with friends getting married and lots of babies being born, so I still feel quite compelled to check in every so often to smile at a giddy status and ogle at images of plump newborns. But I am maintaining a conscientious venture into avoiding the site as much as I can. Every Friday is an absolute “Facebook-Free Friday”. With regard to the remainder of the week, well that is left mainly to my own personal discretion, but I must admit that I really have been “good” (usually only responding to messages sent to me via Facebook, but accessed through my email account). This act of denial, in turn, has already served its faith-minded objective. Renouncing my urges to communicate via the Internet has not only made me aware of a cognizant, sacrificial practice, but has also forced me to reconnect with the world through far more personable actions. I have mailed out greeting cards. I have invited friends into my home. I have picked up the phone to call and chat versus sending out a quick text. And in an ironic turn of events, I have discovered that the current lack of social networking in my life has actually made me more sociable.

The inspiration for all of this came in the form of an unassuming blog post, but the Lord definitely works in mysterious ways. I sought and He answered. My response was found in the words written on a blog site entitled “Instant Gratification”. And, in a paradoxal twist of fate, that is what the Facebook Fast has actually given me: Instant gratification.

Curious Caiden and The Birthday Bash

It used to be that when I went out shopping and fell in love with an amazing pair of shoes, I would purchase the footwear first and then buy an ensemble to go along with it. It was kind of a backwards methodology, but I always built my outfit from the bottom up.

I don’t shoe shop often anymore, but I have adopted the same methodology for planning my children’s birthday parties. I build their celebrations from the cake up. It usually begins right after the last birthday is celebrated. Then, throughout the remainder of the year, I page through magazines, cookbooks, and websites seeking inspiration for something cute, feasible, and, most importantly, better than the last cake that I created. I stockpile my ideas in a binder that I keep in my kitchen and look at each frequently. As the birthday comes closer and closer, I narrow down my options to ones that are particularly applicable to my child at that stage. Yes, there are a MILLION Thomas cakes out there, but given my child’s obsession, I think I can hold on to that one for another year. Blue’s Clues? That one was simple enough and boy could I have with thematic activities, but Caiden goes through spurts of being bored with that character. Once the cake for that year is selected, I develop the homemade invites in which clever wordplay is a MUST, and then burden myself with a bunch of obsessive, not-really-necessary, self-inflicted late-night “homework” deciding on décor, activities, the food spread, and favors.

For Caiden’s first birthday, I was enamored by a cake that a friend of mine did based off of Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I stole her idea for the cake and then ran off with the rest. As our guests ate their way through the same foods the caterpillar munched on throughout the text, the kids created their own caterpillars to take home using a simple template and pom-poms. The following year was the “Year of the Mega Block”. Giant primary colored blocks decorated our home, I carved and sculpted a series of building block cakes out of cakes baked in loaf pans and decorated with assorted chewy candies (PS- it is nearly IMPOSSIBLE to locate blue Laffy Taffy…), the kids could create structures of their own, and I was far wiser and ordered pizza for all that year. : )

So now what? Caiden was turning 3 this year. Although he probably wouldn’t remember all of the painstaking details and effort that I invested into his party, he is at a stage where some of the memories will stick. I wanted to make this not just another birthday to remember, but, quite possibly, the first birthday that he would remember. When I think about my little guy and reflect upon all that he has become over the past year, all that he had done (who can forget the baby powder incident?), and all that he loves in general, the answer was obvious to me and allowed me to dive into one of my favorite pages in my idea binder: The Monkey Cupcake.

This year we invited our closest family members to “Go Bananas with Us” as we celebrated “Our Little Monkey’s”’ 3^rd birthday. And what character were we going to “monkey around” with? Curious George, of course! That beloved character is a classic portrayal of what life is like for our little guy—always well-intentioned, driven by inquisitiveness, and, usually making a mess. After baking my chocolate-banana cupcakes, I decorated their 24 little faces with a homemade ganache, Nilla wafers, mini chocolate chips, and Fudge Stripe Right-Bites.

Our home was minimally decorated (because it is quite difficult to hang streamers with an almost 5-month-old attached to you), but what was chosen played off of the bright yellows, red, and blues so commonly associated with George. I created an activity station for our youngest guests with George-themed coloring & connect-the-dot pages (thanks PBSKids.org!), as well as Caid’s collection of George books, toys, and games. Because of my kids’ varied eating and napping schedules, we skipped having a meal together and went straight for the good stuff: Cupcakes and Make-Your-Own Banana Splits. Each child was able to bring home a sheet of Curious George “tattoos” and (my favorite find) and Curious George foam mask that I personalized on the back with each kid’s name (“Curious Caiden” prefers to have Mommy wear his mask, though). My little monkey had an absolute blast playing with all of his family and tearing through his gifts. It was a great deal of work to prepare and execute, but seeing the smile on my 3-year-old’s face made it all worth it and I would do it again in a heartbeat for him.

At the close of the day, once the gift wrap was cleaned up, the cupcakes demolished, and the toys were out of their boxes, I curled up on the couch with Caiden and read to him from his Curious George Treasury. I stroked his hair as he wore—what else but—his monkey pajamas and couldn’t help but replay the day that he was brought into this world in my mind. That afternoon was quite similar to today in the sense of the extensive hours of planning and effort, the chaos that surrounded his actual birth, the laboring and commotion, and then, the beautiful end product that I held closely in my arms. That “bundle” is now much bigger than the 7 pound 10 ounce one that he once was. But he still has the sweetest smile, the kindest disposition, and my heart in his hands.

(Caiden: Then and Now)

Hmmmm, now what to do for Ryan’s 1^st Birthday…

Blessings in Blue

Before I had children, I had always envisioned that if, indeed one day I became a mother, I would have at least one little girl. I grew up with a sister. I have two nieces. I was a girl myself so it just made sense to me. Girls were what I knew. Girls were familiar. Comfortable. A safe bet. And girls would be fun. I have always had a fetish for tiny Mary Janes and outfits accompanied by ruffled bloomers. I thought that it would be great to stuff chubby baby legs into cable knit tights and to dress my child to the nines complete with dainty bow barrettes and bibs edged with eyelet lace. Yes, a little girl would be so much fun to have. And then I gave birth to two boys.

Boys. Raising boys was an anomaly to me. What the heck did I know about boys? Every time I have built a structure out of Legos it was the same style, rarely going outside the box. Here. It’s a tower. A tall one. Collecting bugs was boring to me and the idea of intentionally locating a snake turned my stomach. Spending hours upon hours pushing toy trains along a track made me want to go cross-eyed and who the hell could tell the difference between Edward, Gordon, and Thomas, anyway? (They’re all blue for God’s sake!) I played sports in high school, but am no fanatic by any stretch of the imagination. Ugh! And the thought of creating storage for an arsenal of Nerf guns or stepping on plastic Army men hiding out in their Lincoln Log forts triggered a fit of anxiety. So although I was happy that my ultrasounds showed us healthy babies throughout both of my pregnancies, being the mom to boys definitely scared me a bit. I was confident enough in my abilities to feed and clothe them properly (begrudgingly not in anything cute though). I knew that I could teach them how to function appropriately in the world, but I certainly lacked all esteem in the idea of being able to be a fun mom for them. And, truth be told, how fun would it be for me?

Oh, how we all underestimate ourselves.

There is absolutely not a single fiber of my being that can imagine what life would be like without my boys. My children have taught me such an obvious lesson in life. The “fun” found in raising kids is not determined by the clothing that they wear or the gender-associated activities you assume that they will enjoy. My kids have reminded me how much fun it is to dig in the dirt, to discover new things using all my senses, to make messes in finger paints, to run around the backyard with my arms spanning wide pretending that I am airplane. They do play for hours upon hours with their Lincoln Logs and trains, but it’s okay-- because I have just as much fun watching them and am amazed by their creativity and imagination. Yes, they think that crashing their cars into one another and knocking down cities of blocks like Godzilla is the greatest pastime. But they also think that it’s hysterical to dress up whether it be in a fireman’s hat or a handful of Mardi Gras beads. They have so much fun cooking their play kitchens and helping me make meals in my own. They smile when I sing to them and laugh when they are read stories. They love their Legos and trains and bugs and sports, but have taught me how to love them, too. For just being able to share those moments, engaging with them, is where the fun is found. My children have taught me that it is not about boys or girls being “better” to raise—being able to raise a kid in general is the greatest.

And, for the record, I now also realize that stepping on Army men feels no different than stepping on Barbie shoes. Nerf darts can accumulate just as easily as a stash of Polly Pocket figurines. My blessings I blue have brought to light the fact that I don’t have to spend hours brushing the knots out of my child’s hair and there is an awesomeness that exists being that it is socially-acceptable to give him a faux-hawk. My kid can basically wear any combination of clothing in his wardrobe given that every shirt his owns can be paired up with a pair of jeans or camo pants and, with a little effort and attention to detail, I can now tell you—with pride-- the differences between Edward, Gordon, and Thomas.

I never really liked the color pink anyway.

Amazing Grace

This afternoon my cousin, Grace, delivered her firstborn. I wasn’t there physically. But there is no doubt that I was there, rooting her on, in spirit.

To be completely honest, for many years, I never felt like I was on the same playing field as Grace. We were born 10 weeks—to the day—apart. We shared the same grandparents, yet, in my eyes, it seemed that our maternal heritage was the only thing that we had in common.

Growing up I envied Grace. We have never lived close to one another in proximity. She is from a military family, so every couple of years they would come to visit us in Massachusetts or we would drive to whatever state that they were living in be it Ohio, Illinois, Kentucky... My glimpses into her world were brief, lasting no longer than a week at a time. Yet, from the perspective of a younger version of myself, she had the life that I wanted to live. She was, in so many respects, the person that I wanted to be. At the most basic level of reasoning, I envied her because she was named after our great grandmother. I thought that was so cool—a name with symbolism, a connection, a meaning. She could not only make other people laugh, but had the ability to also poke fun at herself. Everyone in their family has the gift of humor. She was so smart. She was an athlete. And a damn good one at that. Being a part of a military family, she had lived all over the world. She is the only person that I know who could speak German, but with a Southern twang. To that regard, I am pretty sure to that having to move from place to place was probably extremely difficult, but it made her family incredibly close. I truly have never witnessed a bond as tight as theirs. It is beautiful. That alone is something to envy. Her parents were amazing—firm, yet so loving, demonstrative and outwardly proud-- and she had an incredible relationship with both of them. She had brothers. I always wanted brothers—I figured that they would be awesome to have on hand to protect me, to teach me how to be tough. Growing up she had cool things that I wanted so badly. An RV. Neighborhoods that had quiet streets, cul-de-sacs, and sidewalks. And, for some reason, I seem to remember a canopy bed in one of her homes-- but my overwhelming envy could very well be making that part up. I was even jealous that they had the “Schwann Man” deliver Flintstone push-up ice cream pops to her doorstep. And despite all of these amazing aspects of her life, the one, most “enviable” characteristic of Gracie, however, was—and still is—her humility. She is so stinkin’ sweet, that even if you wanted to hate her, you simply couldn’t!

My envy remained silenced within for many years until early adulthood. It wasn’t until the deaths of our beloved grandparents—whose bloodline we shared, whose presence always brought us together, whose passings created deep voids-- that I began to see Grace simply as an individual and not as an individual whose life I coveted. My envy morphed into admiration; My longing into respect. Our correspondences with one another changed as well. We graduated from the occasional letter penned in childish handwriting on Lisa Frank stationary to weekly phone calls to wish each other a “Happy Sunday”. And thanks to things like Facebook, I have been able to see how her life is unfolding through photographs and status updates. As maturity granted us wisdom, education, careers, and husbands, I began to feel more like an equal to her. It is even more so now that we share something else. It is no longer just our maternal heritage, but our own maternal experiences.

Our babies were born 4 months—to the day-- apart. These children, like their mothers, will not grow up in close proximity to one another. But they will share some of the same lineage and, through that, maybe embody a few similar characteristics. A physical reminder of our Grampie or Grammie might cross our babies’ faces through a warm smile or a twinkle in their eye. And then there are the qualities that can’t necessarily been seen. The importance of a good education and making sound financial investments will most likely be imparted, and perhaps our children will love things like poetry or be great at jigsaw puzzles like their great grandparents. No matter what attributes that they might possess, they are both lucky and have no reason to be envious of one another.

Yes, the feelings of envy towards Grace and the life that she leads are now feelings of love and genuine well wishing. Time, experience, and sensibility have all taught me that family is not something to be jealous of, but, rather, joyful for.

Welcome to the world—and to the family-- Baby Clara. And welcome to “Club Mama”, Cousin. I love you both!

Mama Rut

I want an uninterrupted hot shower. I want a non-reheated hot cup of coffee. I want a hot bod.

I am in a “Mama Rut”. So much of my current identity is associated with being the mother to my two boys. Although I love them more than anyone on this planet, am honored to call them “mine”, and thank the good Lord each and every day for them, I also mourn the loss of the other parts of me. The parts that were much more evident during the years 1981-2008 B.C.: “Before Children”. The parts that I worked so hard to identify, create, build, and develop over the years. The parts that attracted the interest and courtship of my husband. The parts that made me, well, me. The parts that will remain present, yet inactive after years of motherhood, once my children eventually and inevitably leave the comforts of my home and daily care.

If I were to have described myself in terms of “B.C.” it would have been something like this:

Energetic, creative, passionate, outgoing, relatively self-confident, and educated young woman, seeks opportunities to network with others, make the world a better place, and establish a reputable name for herself and career. Financially independent and not afraid to spend hard-earned dollars on funny T-shirts and stylish shoes. Diligent pupil at the theoretical “School of Wit” possessing a double-major in sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. Has plenty of free time to nurture her interests of creative writing, people watching, exercise, attending concerts & comedic performances, and drinking. Heavily. Focused and goal-oriented, she is the gal to call to organize projects large and small and offer original, innovative ideas to take your school lesson plans, charity events, staff functions, and business ventures to the next level. Always willing to try something new, she will take time to enroll in new classes and put her life on the line in order to feel the rush of adrenaline through tackling dangerous adventures usually requiring a “waiver of liability” in advance. Hates cooking, but loves eating.

Then my beloved first child entered this world. From the moment that I announced my pregnancy with him I no longer felt like “Laurel”, but became “The Belly”. Everyone—friends, family, strangers in the checkout line at Target and their grandmothers included-- seemed to direct all their conversations and inquiries towards the ever-inflating basketball emerging from my abdomen. When are you due? Do you know what you’re having? What’s its name? Any weird cravings? (Answers: Late-February. Boy. No. Only to sock you when you touch my stomach unsolicited.)

The frustration of losing my sense of self subsided for a bit once Caiden was placed in my arms (in early March. Apparently “Club Uterus” was a happening place). Proudly toting my beautiful blue-eyed baby everywhere was an honor. All I seemed to be able to talk about was his sleeping patterns and number of bowel movements. It didn’t matter who you were. I often gravitated towards sharing all of this information with other mothers, but now the Target customers waiting in the checkout line were getting a bit of payback. In this era of new parenthood, with that baby physically in my hands, I felt like I was part of elite alliance: “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Burp Cloths”.

Within a few months postpartum, however, the isolation and loneliness and urge to be that vivacious woman that I “used to be” set back in. Yes, Caiden was simply adorable and extremely loved. But he certainly wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Now a full-time stay-at-home mom, I missed spending quality moments with my husband—watching TV, making dinner together, going for a walk with the dog-- without being interrupted by a feeding, diaper change, or downright fussy infant. I missed the camaraderie of my friends—most of whom weren’t even married at the time, nonetheless parents. I missed the predictable routine of my mornings (wake up, make coffee, take shower, dress up in something cute & flattering, put on makeup, and get out of the house). I missed utilizing my education, experience, and imagination to create fun lesson plans for my students. I missed my commute where I could listen to the Top 40 while sipping my coffee—still hot. I missed having somewhere to be. I even missed having deadlines to meet. I missed going to my little work mailbox every Thursday to see my pay stub—measly, but all mine. I missed going to the local dive every Friday with my amazing coworkers to recap the highs & lows of our week and share a pitcher. Or two. Or three.

When I became confident enough to leave the home with my baby and his arsenal of necessities in tow (car seat, stroller, blanket, burp cloth, bib, pacifier, rattle, bottle, formula, diapers, wipes, change of clothes…), I joined a local support group organized by the hospital geared towards new moms. Here I discovered other women who felt the same as I, and in turn, a few new, precious, dear friends. They only met once a week for 1-hour, though. I needed more. I yearned for more. Thank GOD for play dates… [To date: I still believe that they are more for the benefit of the caretakers than that of the children.]

Flash forward a few years and Caiden and I are now into a groove. He is old enough to enjoy and participate in things like library story times and Kindermusik classes. He has his little friends and we can actually get out of the house with a sippy cup, granola bar, travel pack of wipes, and a single diaper. Trips to the grocery store are fodder for learning & adventure and I get into coming up with creative ways to teach him stuff (Find me a fruit in this row that is red. How many apples should we get? Let’s count them as we put them in the bag.). Every now and then I even get the urge to treat myself to wearing some mascara and a cute pair of heels. We have a schedule at home so I can do things like read during nap time, watch the nightly newscast with my husband, or go to the gym on a regular basis. Life is good. I got this now. Sure, I’m “Caiden’s Mom”. But we are also in a good enough routine in which I can have those snippets of time in which I am, simply, “Laurel”.

Then. Comes. Baby. Number. Two.

In addition to being “Caiden’s Mom” with guest appearances from”Laurel”, I have now reverted back to being “The Belly.”

Nine months plus later (I added the “plus” because Ryan also felt that “Club Uterus” was a happening place), my second child is lovingly embraced in my arms and we are in that euphoric stage of “Hey Lady at Target, look at my baby! Isn’t he amazing! Let me tell you all about his cute quirks and my breastfeeding troubles!”

…And we are now currently in the throes of that postpartum period in which the isolation and loneliness and urge to be that vivacious woman that I “used to be” is setting back in. Some days, aside from those coveted ones in which I can meet up with a friend or have a date night with the hubby, I feel that my only release from the identity of being “Caiden and Ryan’s mom” is through the ability to write it all out in these entries.

It goes without saying that being a mom, nonetheless a stay-at-home mom, is an amazing and blessed opportunity. I am extremely lucky and I know that. I thank God each and every day for my husband & children and all that they have added to my life. But I am also fully aware that there is a side of me that is being muted, put on temporary hold, for the next 18 years or so, that is just dying to get out.

Is it possible to suffer from a “Mid-Momma Crisis”?

If asked to describe myself today, in 2012 A.C.: “After Children”, it would look something like this:

Exhausted, creative, lackluster, somewhat inverted because she doesn’t feel like she has anything interesting to talk about, no longer self-confident, and educated young woman, seeks opportunities to network with others, make the world a better place, and establish a reputable name for herself, career, and family. Would settle, however, for a shower that wasn’t interrupted by a toddler playing peekaboo with the shower curtain or a cup of coffee that wasn’t reheated 3 times prior to complete consumption. Financially dependent upon her husband and not afraid to clip coupons, spending hard-earned dollars on funny T-shirts and stylish shoes is a thing of the past. Diligent pupil at the theoretical “School of Wit” she has graduated with honors possessing a double-major in sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. Has almost NO time to nurture her interests of creative writing, people watching, exercise,and attending concerts & comedic performances. Two glasses of wine now make her quite giggly or in a state of comatose depending on the afternoon that she has had. Overtired and suffering from a terminal case of “baby-brain”, she is the gal to call to organize projects large and small and offer original, innovative ideas to take your school lesson plans, charity events, staff functions, and business ventures to the next level-- just don’t expect her to remember that she said “Sure, I’d love to do it” and make a deadline unless you see her write it down before your very eyes. Always willing to try something new, she will take time to enroll her children in new classes and put her life on hold for the benefit of her family. Hates cooking, but loves eating. A little too much.

So here I am on a Tuesday morning writing a 4-page invitation to my pity party in a terry cloth robe. My initiative to go running at the gym was overridden by my husband’s initiative to bring home a treat for us: a ½ dozen from The Donut Dip. Caiden’s watching his favorite “Baby Einstein” DVD and I am typing 1-handed as Ryan is sitting in my lap. I wonder if they will read these musings one day. I wonder what they will think of them if they do. Will they question my feelings towards raising them? I hope not. They are, without a doubt, my most prized “possessions” and greatest accomplishment. But I do hope, that with the gift of time and a learned skill of achieving a balance of good parenting and self-expression, that they might be surprised that at at one point in time I was full of self-doubt and wasn’t really sure who I was or who I had become. I hope that in years to come, after spinning my wheels in this “Mama Rut”, I will break free instead of burn out. I hope that, if asked to describe me in terms of “A.C.”, they could say something like this:

Vibrant, creative, passionate, outgoing, relatively self-confident, and educated woman, seeks opportunities to network with others, make the world a better place, and continue to establish a reputable name for herself and family. Set out on a new career path and was successful at being a talented freelance author and doting mother. Financially codependent and not afraid to spend hard-earned dollars on the finer things in life like a vacation with her family or good bottle of wine to share with a friend. Sympathetic when you need her to be, but still funny as hell. Enjoys spending her free time nurturing her interests of creative writing, people watching, exercise, attending concerts & comedic performances, volunteering for non-profits,and spending quality time with those that she holds most dear. Never takes for granted the gifts that are found in the company of her husband, hanging out with her beloved children, the calm and peace of uninterrupted showers, and her daily cup of hot java. Takes good care of herself, her home, and her family-- physically and spiritually. Focused and goal-oriented, she is the gal to call to organize projects large and small and offer original, innovative ideas to take your school lesson plans, charity events, staff functions, and business ventures to the next level. Always willing to try something new, she will take time to enroll in new classes and put her life on the line in order to help someone in need. Mediocre cook and can demonstrate self-restraint when faced with an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Ok. So maybe the last part is a stretch. But a girl can wish, right?

Under My Nose, In Front of My Eyes, Within My Heart: A Prepositional Epiphany

There are moments in every parent’s life in which they take a split-second, look at their child, and see that they are no longer a “baby”. It goes beyond the obvious things like when they outgrow certain clothing or reach particular milestones dictated by pediatric checklists. It’s when they lose that irresistible pudginess on the top of their little feet. It’s when you stretch them across the changing table and notice that they are longer than the changing pad. It’s when they get a haircut and look more like a “little boy” rather than a “little kid”. It’s when they do things like twirl spaghetti around their fork. It’s when they actually say the word “spaghetti “ instead of “psghettis”…

Since Ryan’s arrival 16 weeks ago (hard to believe it’s already been that long!), so much attention and conversation has been focused on what this little guy has been doing. How is he sleeping at night? How is nursing going? Does he get in a lot of tummy time? Is he still spitting up a lot? (And to answer all of the above in brief: He’s a trooper, It’s going, As much as he can when I remember, and Yes.) It is easy to marvel at the milestones such a tiny human being can accomplish in such a short amount of time. Each time we get a GIANT gummy grin or he holds his head high, I can’t help but look to that beautiful portrait of me holding my 48-hour old newborn in the hospital and see the changes—both physically and ability-wise-- that have already taken place.

Whereas he used to find comfort in wrapping his monkey-like fingers around one of mine, he now loves to suckle on his own thumb that is no longer than inch. The amniotic puffiness of his face is now full-fledged healthy chub, flush with warmth and breastfed goodness. Instead of resembling more of my side of the family, he is now “Caiden with Dark Hair”. He can focus in on features near and far and smiles instantaneously when he realizes it is me or his daddy or big brother in the room. He thinks that when we “eat up” his belly it is hysterical and doing baby pushups isn’t nearly as exhausting as they used to be. He becomes fascinated with that the lil’ guy in the mirror and agrees that he pretty darn cute, too. He can reach and grab objects in front of or above him and loves to explore each by shoving them into his mouth. His Big Brother is already an idol to him and can elicit coos and funny fits of happy fist pumps. (To say that is a joy and blessing watching these two together is an absolute understatement.) Bath time is a delight and, given the way that he kicks and splashes, I wouldn’t be surprised if a love of swimming is in his future. Or soccer. Or karate. Or River Dancing.

And all the while, as Ryan entranced and awed us with his spit-bubble blowing and sing-songy “conversations”, another miraculous state of growth was taking place with our older child. It is amazing how much transformation can occur with your first-born once a younger one is introduced. The birth of his little brother has not only provided Caiden with a best friend, but with a newfound independence and sense of responsibility. (Hard to believe when you consider he is just under 3.) Since his parents are usually physically tied up with a baby in their arms, he relies less on being carried everywhere. He totes along his own belongings and now enjoys the status of being a “big boy”. He selects his own place setting at each meal and loves to open the refrigerator to grab whatever beverage he wants. He knows where to hang his coat and place his shoes once we walk in the door of our home. He loves sharing his toys and games with others, but is just as satisfied with autonomous play and can often be found piecing together elaborate train track formations, completing large puzzles with ease and speed, and is willing to sit and tell me a story by turning the pages and giving me his toddler renditions of current favorites, Green Eggs and Ham, It’s Not Easy Being a Bunny, and Go Dog Go (or as he refers to it, “Go Go Dog”). He has transitioned so beautifully that I have hardly recognized the changes occurring before my own eyes.

It wasn’t until the other day, when Caiden marched around the house in a determined quest to find a screwdriver and “bad-rees” in order to fix his brother’s baby swing that I realized, “He’s so freakin’ smart. Who taught him that? He’s not a toddler anymore. Oh my God. He’s like, a real PERSON now!” Then I continued to just observe and be amazed at this little person who has been under my nose these fleeting 16 weeks. His scribbles now resemble real shapes and rudimentary numbers & letters that he proudly identifies. He loves to point out that there are octagons (stop signs) around town and declares that “green means goooooooooooooooooo!” whenever we are at a traffic light. He puts away his toys as long as you are willing to sing the “clean up” song as he does it. Brushing his teeth is now a game to see who can make their teeth shinier. His ability to play “Memory” is quite impressive (and he is, sadly, actually better than me at it, with the exception of waiting for his next turn). He says things like, “I be back. I pwaw-miss” and runs around scouring for things like a burp cloth when his brother arcs another feeding across the room. He does his best to be tender with Ryan and loves to rub his head, watch a diaper change, sing him lullabies, or get in his face to say “Hi Ry-lee”. He displays empathy. He is creative and imaginative and quite funny. And even though he came out of the womb a “Manley”, somehow he still manages to look more and more like his father each day. He is truly a kind, gentle soul—something that I have always known—but am now, so very proud of. He makes me feel extraordinarily lucky to be his mother.

As our day came to a close at the end of Ryan’s 16^th week on earth, I couldn’t help but notice the two boys’ shoes sitting side by side. The smaller pair, once adorned on Caiden’s tiny feet, showed little marks of wear & tear. The soles were soft and have never actually had someone stand nonetheless walk in them. They seemed so teeny compared to the size 8s that were next to them. Their Velcro embedded with remnants a toddler’s daily adventures—pet hair, dried grass, a speck of mud, a hunk of Play-Doh, a string from God knows what. The topside of the toe areas were worn away from where he stumbled to get someplace, surely in efforts of enthusiasm and novelty of discovering something new. The treads on the bottom are now almost obsolete, as they have traveled to the homes of little friends, the depths of our backyard, the park, the beach, and other “wondrous “destinations as seen from the eyes of a little boy—now recognized as a little kid. It was another one of my moments of being a parent: When I understood that these hours, although they seem so mundane and routine in the throes of daily existence, are truly so precious, so ephemeral, so ever-changing. These days, just like my sweet, beloved, growing little boys, are gifts to be cherished.

Sacrifices

With only 5 minutes left before I had to be out the door with two small children this morning, I was faced with a choice: Do I throw on some makeup and style my hair so that I actually look presentable in public or do I make a cup of coffee to go? Coffee won.

The sacrifice of my own vanity is one that is not uncommon for me. But as I drove through the snowy roads to get to my destination, I couldn’t help but consider all of the sacrifices that we, mothers, make. They are abundant. Some are obvious, others, not so much. All are necessary and unavoidable.

From the moment of conception, the most evident of sacrifices is our bodies. Our waistlines expand, our bladders seem to shrink, our breasts ache, and the things that we used to salivate over may send us straight to the bathroom in a fit of nausea. For the health and safety of our unborn children, we sacrifice guilty pleasures like sushi & hot tubs and the ability to do things that we used to take for granted like curbing a nasty cough with a shot of Nyquil. We sacrifice wine, people—WINE!

We sacrifice sleep to feed our infants. We sacrifice time with our husbands so we can rock our peaceful babies “just 10 minutes longer”. We sacrifice clean laundry for items that can pass the “sniff test”. We sacrifice some self dignity to wipe another human’s bottom or catch their puke in our bare hands. We sacrifice 5-stars for Friendly’s. We sacrifice couture for anything with elastic.

In the car, we sacrifice the music that we love, that makes us bob our heads and dance in our seats, in exchange for classic nursery rhymes and silly “jams” by Laurie Berkner. In our homes, we sacrifice the serene, styled spaces in order to accommodate the inundation of toys that light up, make noise, and race around. We sacrifice the ability to open a cupboard or drawer without having to finagle some sort of “safety” contraption first. We sacrifice silence.

In some cases, such as mine, mothers sacrifice their careers in order to stay at home with the kids. We sacrifice spending time with our own friends and fill up the social calendar with play dates, library story times, music classes, and swimming lessons. Once we have more than one child, we sacrifice our cute shoes for a pair that is more practical—usually ones with good treads that will allow us to chase after an escaping toddler.

We sacrifice stimulating conversations about politics, world affairs, and current events to swap more conventional ideas on discipline, potty training, and peanut-free recipes. We sacrifice Miatas for minivans. We sacrifice our vacation homes for tuition funds. We sacrifice our own dreams in order for our kids achieve theirs’.

So is motherhood an unending state of martyrdom? In many respects, absolutely. But when we feel our fetuses kick us from within for the first time, when our babies utter a legit belly laugh at a face that we made, when our budding preschooler counts to 20 without missing a number or completes his first difficult puzzle with pride and independence, when our child shares a toy without being prompted, when our kids hug us “just because”, when they mind their manners, make good choices, earn honor roll, graduate college, find true love of their own, and become good parents like us … we know that we wouldn’t change our lives for anything.

Yes, we mothers make sacrifices. They are abundant. Some are obvious, others, not so much. All are necessary and unavoidable. But they are, without a doubt, rewarding.

The makeup and properly-styled hair can wait. Don’t get me wrong, though. To survive this lifestyle, caffeine is a MUST. I will never sacrifice my coffee.

Superman-ley

Yesterday morning my husband was more productive in 4 hours than I am over the course of a week. He managed to wash & fold 3 baskets of laundry, throw in a load of dishes, take out all of the trash in the house, clean the litter box, and bring the dog to the groomer’s. His efficiency was utterly mind-blowing. I offered to help him, but he refused, telling me that this was his job, too. [Touché.] While I took care of the children, I watched him course through the house with purpose and determination, admiring how focused he was at the tasks at hand, avoiding distraction. I was brimming with gratitude and a relative amount of awe. And, perhaps, a bit of jealousy coupled with, ironically, guilt. He’s the kind of person who refuses to rest even on his day off. He’s not only industrious, but thorough in his efforts. He’s the partner I want to be. He’s the parent I want to be. He’s Superman-ley.

His productivity allowed me to spend quality time with the kids. I got to scoot around the house with less stress, enjoying my cup of coffee while it was still HOT, and relished in the fact that the burdens of the household duties were not on me that morning. It was quite nice. But the perfectionist in me felt somewhat inadequate, while the mother in me felt lazy.

What is it about being a woman that brings on all of these pressures? Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves when we are given a break? Why can’t we accept help when it is offered and not feel the need to reciprocate? Why can’t we let someone else empty the dishwasher without feeling the need to jump in and grab the utensil caddy to lighten their load? Why is it that even when we are given that coveted trip to the grocery store, hair appointment or Girl’s Night Out, we can’t help but wonder, “Hmmmm… I wonder what the kids are doing right now… I should probably get home in case Daddy needs a hand. ” Why must we always be “On”?

The only break that I ever allow myself to take is a night off from cooking each week. It spares me from having to do something that I don’t particularly like: cooking. (It also, in turn, probably spares my family from having to something that they don’t particularly like: Eating my cooking.) But other than that, I feel that it is my job to do the majority of the housecleaning. I feel that it is my job to take care of the laundry. I feel that it is my job to entertain, educate, and nurture the children. And, in part, all of this is true. But Dan is right as well. This is our home, filled with our children. So I suppose that sharing the tasks that keep this place running does make sense. But would I be more accepting of this fact if I worked outside of the home?

This is something that I grapple with on an almost daily basis. There really is no easy answer either. To be honest, although I receive no paycheck for it, I do see myself as the CEO of Casa de Manley. Dan brings in the finances, but I manage most of the bills, clip the coupons and make the grocery lists. I create the weekly meal plans, carry out the bulk of the household chores, and organize the kids’ appointments and activities. (I am pretty sure that I am the only person in this house that knows how to interpret the color-coding on our calendar…) So when my hubby steps in to tackle some of “my job requirements”, I begin to feel a bit useless, as though I am taking a day off from work. Then I feel silly feeling this way—guilty, that is. If I were still teaching, I would get the weekends off, breaks in December, February, and April and the summers off. So why can’t I just simply give up the reins for one measly morning?

Why? Because I am a woman. I am a wife. I am a mother. I feel the overpowering need to be in control, to nurture, to help, to be of use all of the time. The problem with all of this is that, in addition to be being terrible at accepting my husband’s assistance, I am the QUEEN of starting a great project and then jetting off to do something else before the job is finished. Why, just the other day I managed to wash a load of laundry (forgetting to throw it in the dryer), attempted to organize the junk drawer, completed a series of puzzles with Caiden, sang songs to Ryan, made lunch, changed multiple diapers, mailed a letter, and cleaned the bathroom. But this wasn’t a series of smooth efforts. No. The result of my attempt to multitask was something just short of stinky laundry, puzzle pieces in the junk drawer, a half-eaten sandwich left on the changing table, and a tiny tune crooned about a somewhat clean bathroom. (Hey, at least I got to mail the letter out on time.) Ok, so I am over-exaggerating a bit, but my point is that when I try to do my job, I get all sidetracked. Dan makes it look so easy when he does it. Maybe that is why I have a hard time accepting his help, too. Because it makes me more aware of my shortcomings. This is something that I am sure will get easier over the years. (Oh Lord, I certainly HOPE that it will get easier.) My boys are still young, as is our marriage. I am hoping that in years to come I will get into a functional groove, making my home work like a well-oiled machine. I am hoping that this case of “baby-brain” is not terminal and I can focus more on individual tasks-- nonetheless finish them. I am hoping that as the years go on, as my children become more self-reliant, I can begin to glide through the daily demands as easily as my husband. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy my family, do my best to graciously accept and appreciate the assistance that my husband gives me, and aspire to someday give myself a break, not only from cooking once a week, but from the self-inflicted pressures of becoming Superwoman-ley.

A Public (Dis)Service Announcement

It’s funny. This morning I stood in the shower praying that I never had to get out. It wasn’t because I was using a new lotion or potion that made it feel like a relaxing spa experience. It wasn’t because the warm water felt good on my aching shoulders. It was because I was avoiding the almost 3-year-old on the other side of the locked bathroom door…

Under the stream of water I found myself closing my eyes, envisioning that I was under a tropical waterfall. I covered my ears to block out the “Mama... Mama! Maaaaaaaaammmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!” being belted out of a set of overused toddler lungs (accompanied by two little fists rhythmically pounding on the door). Hands over my ears, eyes closed, I chanted in a monotone voice, “I am not here. I am not here. I am far, far away…” But it didn’t work. My shower was cut short by something more shocking to the system than someone flushing the toilet while bathing. He was now proclaiming from another room, “Whoaaaaa! BIG scissors!” Holy. Shit.

I was warned that age 3 would be worse than the so-called “Terrible Twos”. The anticipation and mental preparation for this stage though wasn’t nearly enough. Perhaps it is because of Caiden’s increasing independence and curiosity. Perhaps it is because he is vying for more attention now that he is no longer an only child. Most likely, it’s a combination of both. At times, I can’t help but wonder though if it is because I have failed in some areas of raising him. It’s in these moments of stress, anxiety, and frustration when I realize that I have done my readers a disfavor within these blog entries. Therefore, I now present to you the following “Public Disservice Announcement”.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS A HALLMARK MOMENT HERE. Being a mom doesn’t always foster some warm & fuzzy revelation for me. It is not always fun & games in this house. Quite frankly, most days include some portion in which I question whether or not it was a good idea of becoming a stay-at-home mom. Amongst the cuteness and playtime, laughter and learning, there are also ample opportunities for disobedience, bad behavior, and outright rebellion that make me want to run away. Today alone has included Caiden feeding the dog doughnuts, helping himself to items in the refrigerator and then hiding them around the house, dumping four 24-piece puzzles in my room, leaking a cup of milk onto my freshly changed sheets, pulling a chair over to the “junk drawer” and removing a large pair of kitchen shears (hence, “Whoaaaaa! BIG scissors!”), and “playfully” biting me on the right buttock. Yes. You read that correctly. And it’s only 1 o’clock.

It’s not like I am inattentive or a pushover. I’ve developed a sense of hearing similar to that of a bat and grown a proverbial extra set of eyes on the back of my head. Our home is “child-proofed”, but this future engineer has figured out how to override any system put into place. (One time, he actually showed my own mother how to operate the childproof door handle to get down into the basement.) All it takes is a few minutes in which my back is turned to take a coveted 90-second shower, change Ryan’s diaper, pee with the door closed, or be rendered immobile by a nursing session, and Caid is off and running with some less-than-desirable agenda. Yesterday, I swear, I wondered if he would be in “time out” until he was 30. (I also considered renting him out to local schools to be demonstrated as a new form of birth control.)

The “best” part about all of this is that he saves this behavior just for us at home. Ask anyone else who knows our family or has taken care of him and they would simply gasp in disbelief at his naughty impulses! I know deep down that this is because home is where he feels the safest and he tests these waters because he know that my threats to “call the gypsies” are empty, but there are some days (such as today) when I can’t help but question if I am doing the right things with him. He’s my first child, therefore he is my “practice child”, right? But I am a perfectionist to the core. And when he “fails”, I feel that I have failed, too. I think that this is something that all mothers do. We know that our kids are supposed to screw up. But we put so much pressure on ourselves to make sure that they are the very best that they can be that tend to beat ourselves up when a shortcoming or poor choice emerges.

I write this entry today, not to seek reassurance from others. In reality, I know that I do not have to sport a T-shirt reading, “World’s Suckiest Mom”. I also know who the members of my reading audience are and so I know that they have all had days like today, too. I write this entry today because I need to reassure the public, myself included, that we all don’t have to be Hallmark-Mamas 24/7. Believe me, these anecdotes about my life don’t always end with a prophetic vision. You don’t always find a deeper meaning of life while wiping another human’s bottom. It’s hard to find a moment of Zen when you are literally catching someone else’s puke in your bare hands. Your kid, may also indeed, rip you from the comfort of your hot shower with a “Whoaaaaa! BIG scissors!” and then proceed to bite you on your ass. But we are all entitled to having a bad freakin’ day. And, really, it’s ok. It’s parenthood.

[Ironically, as I type this, Caiden is now laying on his belly next to me, “reading” the screen as each letter pops up. Oh. And now the random listing of the letters has turned into a repetitive singing of the “Alphabet Song”-- like a cute, yet annoying, broken record. It breaks my concentration, but makes me laugh at the same time. And, as luck would have it, he just sat up and wrapped his little arm around me and randomly said, “I sorry, Mama”. Maybe I am not doing too badly after all.]