This last Saturday, my husband and I attended a wedding together. With most of my husband's friends already married by the time we met, and most of my friends either eloping or eschewing marriage entirely, we've only watched as a handful of our friends and family have exchanged vows.

I love weddings. I love the pomp and circumstance, the fancy clothes and the happy tears. Saturday, I pulled on a strapless sundress for the first time in years and held my husband's hand as my dear friend married her beau. The ceremony was outdoors at a lovely hilltop vineyard, and while the couple shared smiles and the minister cracked the assembled crowd up with pithy observations, birds sang in the trees. I get a little happy-weepy just thinking about it.

As much as I enjoyed the wedding, it was the time with my husband that was really wonderful. We don't get out much, he and I. With three busy kids and a full plate of outside responsibilities, we are rarely out without the kids, let alone dressed up and well-fed.

We didn't know many people at the wedding, so when we arrived, we lingered on the edge of the crowd and sipped champagne. If you are planning a wedding? Serving drinks and appetizers before the ceremony rocks. When my sister arrived, we visited for a few minutes, and then I noticed that my husband had started schmoozing away with other guests. He was smiling and chatting away, and when he saw me looking at him, he grinned and waved me over to his side.

I've always considered myself the social butterfly of the family, so it was with great surprise that I watched as my husband smoothed our way from the baked brie to the bar and back with effortless conversational skills. I was really proud to be on his arm, and loved watching him in action.

By the time we sat down at dinner, and he took pains to keep my wine glass full and offer me choice tastes from his entree, I was literally eating out of his hand. I must have been glowing. Or gloating. I don't know. I am a lucky woman.

And later that night - with the kids spending the night at my parents' house... he was also lucky. Quite lucky.

You gotta love those hot date nights.

Posted by mommybloggers at 11:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Bloggers are often asked why. Why do we write online? Why share the little details of our day to day existence with total strangers? Why record the minutia at all?

For mommybloggers, the questions continue: What will your children think? Aren't you ashamed to admit you aren't perfect? Do you really think anyone cares if you have sore nipples or changed 900 diapers or spent all night helping your son finish his science project?

The answers to these questions are personal, of course. But here at Mommybloggers.com, we know that we've found validation, humor and support from reading the little details. We think that is valuable beyond measure.

We've been touched by some really wonderful entries this week, and we wanted to share them with you:

Emily McKhann of Been There wrote a beautiful post about her dear friend Erin's legacy:

While most of us don't know when our time will come, as she did, pausing to remind ourselves that, yes, we are indeed mortal gives us a chance to recalibrate and consider our life choices. When we take time to think about what we want in life, both in the present and down the road a bit, we can maybe even find our own unique ways of living with meaning and purpose.

Aldon Hynes of Orient Lodge takes up Emily's theme, and makes it personal:

On June 5, 1989 a solitary man stood in front of a column of tanks in Tiananmen square. The image is emblazoned on the minds of many who long for a more democratic China. Eight years earlier, the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report had a report about five gay men in California who suffered from a rare form of pneumonia seen only in patients with a weakened immune system. For those concerned with AIDS, it was a key moment.

Yet for many of us the day will be remembered as a friend’s birthday or some other important event in our personal lives, or want have any significance. Yet these moments that make up a dull day may not be special to us, but to someone we love, they may have special meaning some day.

Y, over at Joy Unexpected, made us laugh and cry with her heartfelt post about blogging through the pain life can dish out:

I recently confessed to Liz that I find it hard to write the way I used to, because I feel more guarded and protective of my feelings. She said something that I think about almost every day.

“You have to speak your truth.”

And she’s right. She’s right because I have hundreds of saved emails from women who have written to me to tell me how much they can relate to the things that I write. I’ve had women tell me very personal things that have made me weep because I know how they feel and NO ONE should feel that way about themselves. I have emails dating back to 2005, because those emails have meant the world to me and sometimes, when I’m having a really bad day, I’ll go back and read them. I feel so grateful to every single person who has taken the time out of their lives to send me an email telling me their stories, or offering their moral support, or giving me advice, or telling me their praying for me and my family.

Finally, our own Jenn Satterwhite touches on her recent blogging dilemmas, and the conclusions she has reached:

You see when I let myself be free here on THIS blog, the other stuff that I need to do elsewhere falls into place. THIS is my house. THIS is where I should feel at home to be whatever I need or want to be.

Please go read these extraordinary posts - but before you go, share your reasons for blogging with us!

Posted by mommybloggers at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

My four- (AND A HALF, just ask her) year old daughter has become quite the force of nature. I've heard this is common with youngest children, but it is hilarious and simultaneously scary to see it playing out before my eyes.

We took the kids out for chinese food last night. Rather than hit one of the nicer restaurants, we headed for the mostly take-out joint in a strip mall and sat around a round formica table. We were each given a glass of water and a menu to check out. We ordered, sipped our hot tea, and sat chatting calmly while the food was being prepared. As our waiter walked by, my youngest threw her arm in the air and said:

"Um, excuse me? Could you bring me some more water...with ice this time, okay?" I shot her raised eyebrows and a scowl. She straightened up in her chair and added a perky "Please, waiter?" She returned my look, eyebrows arched. Then she shrugged, and went back to dumping sugar packets into her teacup. When the ice water appeared, she nodded like a monarch and said "Thanks!" She didn't add "you are dismissed" but she was thinking it.

This is not to say that she's rude, per se. I mean, okay. Yes. Sometimes she is rude. But this recent rash of speaking her mind has been more assertive than anything. My baby is able to order for herself at a restaurant, determine where she would like to go, and what she would like to wear while going there. She doesn't like being overruled, either. Hoo-boy. No. She's NOT a baby, she WANTS what she wants, and I better just be on my way.

In fact, she has my outfits all picked out too, for that place that I can hurry up and go to. She hears it's hot. I should dress for eternal flames.

I had fantasies that my youngest child would be slow to grow up. She'd naturally rely on me longer than her independent siblings, and relish being my baby.

Ha! Bwahahahahaha.

Yeah. That gig is over. She's done with being my baby, and onto being my boss.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been sleeping like the dead the last couple of weeks. The return of spring, and the rude slap of daylight savings time have made me greedy about my time under the covers. I struggle to the surface each morning, feeling as though my body is wrapped tightly in cobwebs.

My oldest daughter, she who gave up naps at 15 months old, she who sees no need for rest at all, ever, has become a creature of the comforter as the dawn approaches, too. My other two children still spring out of bed as soon as my husband's alarm goes off, and dance up and down the hall with their chipper voices and agile bodies. My oldest, however, yanks the blanket over her head and burrows deep into her pillow, fighting to get a few more minutes of sleep.

As annoying as it can be to have to wake her repeatedly, and put up with her moods in the morning, it is also a happy thing for me. Finally, this child of mine is demonstrating that she shares my genetics. Poor thing. But still! She's been rather unlike me all these eight years, and I've found myself remarking how like her father, her aunt, her grandmothers she is. But this heavy morning sleeping thing - that is all me.

For sure, there are other similarities. Our booming, deep voices. Our love of sweets and horses. Our artistic abilities, and utter lack of follow-through with our art projects. I see those things, and I see my influence. Somehow, seeing her dreaming in those last minutes before she wakes, I know her. I know exactly what it feels like to be pulled from a deep slumber, reluctantly leaving the vivid dreams of early morning behind. It makes me cranky, too. I know how it feels to leave behind the cobwebs and find yourself squinting against the too-bright light of the morning.

I stumbled around bleary-eyed this morning, nudging children towards our hour of departure for school. My daughter's face was puffy, mouth turned down into a pretty pout as she contemplated her breakfast options. I reached my arms out to her and pulled her close.

"Were you having a good dream?" I whispered.
"You have no idea how good," she whispered back. "We had a flying car filled with ice cream."
"Ooh! Nice one! You want some sausages and toast?"

The fog has lifted now, and the kids are off to school. I'm drinking my reheated coffee and planning my day. In the back of my mind, though, I'm envisioning a flying car filled with ice cream, pastel droplets oozing from the tailpipe.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm slowly but surely becoming acquainted with the other parents at my children's elementary school. I know their faces, even if I'm not sure which kid belongs to which parent yet, or in some cases, greeting the other parents with "Hi, Susie's mom!" You would think that after three years at this school, with two children in attendance, I would have more of a handle on these things. Of course, given my NDS (noun deficiency syndrome) - it is remarkable that I can remember my own children's names.

"Hey, you! Middle child! You! Um...brown hair girl!"

I see the faces, I try to remember the names, and I chit-chat at the park, while the swirl of parents and children move around me. It is all a large blur, except for the Mona Lisa.

Mona Lisa is the nickname I've given to a mother that I do not know. I see her almost every day, pulling her stroller from the back of her van, walking across the playground, in between the classrooms. I'm fascinated by this mother, because I have never seen her with less than a smile on her face. She always looks genuinely happy.

This woman is always surrounded by her (also smiling) children, who orbit her with beaming faces. Even when she was full-term pregnant and at that awkward wobbling stage, she simply glowed as she escorted her children to class, and played at the park with her little ones. I've never seen her frustrated, heard her utter a cross word or really, even heard her call to her children to 'come on already.' This could be because I'm part deaf from all the 'come on-ing' I do, but really, I'm starting to believe this woman is either a saint, or an expert in mind control. She is a mystery.

I've also noticed that she always sits alone at the park, rarely exchanging words with the other mothers, totally focused on her kids. I've asked about her, and no one seems to know her. Everybody comments on her smile, though. We all want to know why she appears so content. And some of us want to know what she's taking. Maybe keeping her distance from all the malcontents is her secret.

I've toyed with the idea of marching up to her and demanding to know why she's so happy all the time. I recognize that it isn't probably the right approach. I stand with a gaggle of chattering moms, complaining about homework or field trips or dishes piled in the sink, and glance over at this radiant mommy, cooing to her baby and smiling at her children on the swings. Her eyes are always twinking, her cheeks are always curved upwards into a gentle smile. It is clear that she is happy. She looks like a woman in love.

I've been tempted to run over and shake her, hoping that her pixie dust would make me fly, too. Her peaceful face has been a part of my daily grind for years. Seeing her reminds me to smile more. She reminds me to look at my children with love, walking at their pace instead of barrelling ahead to the van, hollering over my shoulder.

I think it is time to introduce myself to Mona Lisa. I'm afraid that I'm not kind enough, gentle enough, polite enough to befriend someone who seems so gracious. Then again, maybe she'd appreciate a little crazy. Only one way to find out, right?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

My oldest is turning eight in March. For the last 10 months, I've been subjected to endless one-sided discussions about how many kids she wants to attend her party, and whether she wants to have a slumber party, a dinner party, a Harry Potter-theme, a dog theme or a horse theme. There have been countless changes in her plans, and many faux-invites written up and abandonded.

Before Halloween, I asked her to put a halt to the party planning until we got through the holiday season. She kept it on the downlow, and I assumed that she forgot about it. That is, until New Year's Day when she heaved a sigh of relief and pulled out her notebook full of ideas that she had been updating at school.

"Mom, NOW can we talk about my party?"

The thing is, we're tightening all our financial belts this year, and trying to create a more realistic spending/savings ratio. An extravagant party just isn't in the cards. I've told her gently. I've told her bluntly. I don't seem to be able to penetrate her party-planning haze.

I guess it is a good thing that she claims to never want to marry. Bridezilla-in-training is what I've got going on here.

"Mommy, can you make an ice sculpture of a mermaid?"

"Yeah...um...no."

There is no way we are going to cave to her demands, and really, she's not demanding at all. She's just planning. And planning and planning and planning.

Continue reading "Ice Mermaids" »

Posted by mommybloggers at 11:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Our own Meghan Townsend has posted a very thought-provoking entry over at her personal blog:

The company that makes Hummer Utility Vehicles wants my toddler to buy their cars. And no. I’m not kidding. My daughter is not even two and a half, and corporations are already focusing on ways to get her attention.

A recent article I read in the Minneapolis Star Tribune (Ads seek kids' grip on family purses, December 4th 2006) offered up a slap in my consumptive forehead. In fact, the piece scared the dickens out of me. Large Corporations, it seems, are after my two year old daughter’s mind. They want to influence her. They want her loyalty. They want to convince her that their car is the best car, and she can’t even drive, and won’t for nearly 14 years.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:05 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

I think it has finally happened. I've become one of those moms.

The ones who stay up until midnight to register their child for the good preschool at 12:01am, so they don't lose their spot to more motivated parents.

On Wednesday night, I sat blearily in front of the computer until my eyes were swimming, and then I wandered to my bed, determined to read until the magical hour when registration opens. I set the alarm, and drifted off, only to be jolted awake moments later by the alarm. I quicklly logged on, entered the registration information, and then stomped back to bed. My husband turned over in his sleep and murmured "Way to take one for the family, Jenny."

The fact that I've told no less than everyone I meet that I did this remarkable feat (which, gimme a break, I used to stay up to midnight and beyond all the time. It's only the last six months that I've been going to bed before the wee hours) tells me that I'm entering territory that I don't necessarily want to be on.

Martyred Mom Land is no place for me. And yet, just this morning, I was bellyaching to another friend about having four birthday parties in two days to attend. She nodded sympathetically, and suggested that I pick and choose.

Yes! I could do that, except my son is invited to two, my oldest is invited to two, and my youngest is invited to two. In assorted combinations. Now would be a good time for a bout of the flu, if you get my meaning.

It isn't that I'm doing anything remarkable for my children by registering them, or taking them to more parties than I've been invited to in five years in one weekend, or whatever. It is that I'm feeling put-upon about it. And then I use that as a conversation topic. Aha! Perhaps the reason for the drought of party invites.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Since the birth of my oldest, I've been an emotional ninny at moments that defy explanation. Fireworks get me every time. Parades, too. Walking into Disneyland. Pretty much any music with a swooping crescendo somewhere. Christmas lights.

Boy, don't you want to hang out with me?

The latest entry in the weird crying jag roster is Christmas carols. I can handle Jingle Bells and Santa Claus is Coming to Town, but don't even get me started on O Holy Night. Seriously, I have to skip that one. Just thinking about it makes me cry. And I'm not even religious.

My son came home from school singing a delightfully off-key version of The Twelve Days of Christmas last week. He is clearly my son, because he's got through the six geese a laying down, but after that, all the stuff is pretty much interchangable.

"On the tenth, no wait, eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to meeeee...what was ten again? Pipers? Drummers? Ladies? Let's say ladies."

And so on, and so forth.

We also enjoy throwing our heads back and howling "FIVE GOOOOOLDEN RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!"

So, anyhoo. We're driving along the other day, and my son and I get started on the Six Days That We Actually Remember and The Rest That We Sort of Mumble Of Christmas. Soon the girls were howling along, and inspired by whatever that version of the song that has the true love giving "Three French Toast, Two Turtlenecks and a Beer" (anyone?) we started mangling away the remaining lyrics.

Five onion rings
Six buffalo wings
Seven trash cans
Eight traffic lights
Nine hamburgers

And... I forget the rest, because that's what I do. I forget the lyrics to this song, even if I'm partially responsible for making up the new lyrics. It is a talent. Surprisingly, it doesn't make me cry.

We were driving home, shouting along in a singalong that raised eyebrows and earned startled looks from fellow motorists. When we pulled into the driveway. We all shouted out the final verse and then sat there with the van walls vibrating from the shockwave created by our voices.

And then we busted out laughing. You can keep your O Holy Night. I'll take The Eleven, no, Twelve Days of Random Stuff any time.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 2:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been looking forward to setting up our Christmas tree and hauling down the boxes of decorations. For the first time in many years, the kids are actually old enough to reason with. I've got high hopes that the kids will leave most of the ornaments on the tree this year, sparing me from repeated redecoration efforts.

The problem has always been this: the kids are set-players. I have lots of ornaments that come in sets. Rather than allow these sets to be scattered pleasingly over the branches of the tree, the kids want all the families to stay together. This means we have a clump of snowmen over here. A clump of reindeer over there. A colony of gingerbread people. A little family of angels.

This is not the way it is done. And yet, it is the way we do it.

This year, however, I had it all explained, with the help of a few catalogs showing beautifully decorated trees. The kids seem to get it that we are decorating a tree, not creating ethnic neighborhoods. So far, so good, right?

We carried the tree inside yesterday, and set it up in the stand. We put the lights on the tree, and cleaned up the downed needles. Taking a breather while we enjoyed the glowing lights, we saw a grey streak cross the floor at high speed.

The cat climbed to the top of the tree in about 5 seconds flat. Before we even realized what had happened, the cat was swaying perilously at the top of the tree, and the dog was barking at the base of the tree.

Yeah. Forgot to factor the new cat into the holiday decorating scheme. I mean, I got her an ornament, but it didn't dawn on me that she would want to live in the tree.

I filled a squirt pistol and took aim. She hissed at me and began a rapid descent, encouraged by a few more squirts. The dog did the honors and chased her the rest of the way out of the room while I danced around, shooting off a few celebratory rounds in front of the twinkly tree.

"Mom, should you be putting water on those electric lights?"

Hmm. No, I probably shouldn't. But then again, the cat hasn't set a single wisker towards the tree since.

This would have been helpful when the kids were still wee babies.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 7:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Waking up to the smell of noxious burning is never a good thing.

See, I was under the delusion that since all three kids are home from school today, I might actually get to sleep in beyond five am. When my husband and kids all leaped out of bed at quarter past five, I assumed he would wake me when he wasn't able to supervise them any longer.

Uh, no.

The three kids were in and out of our big bed, and I drifted in that half-sleep, half-awake state that has been so common over the last eight years. I was aware, but not aware.

"Mommy, there's a leg bag in the microwave." My son shook my shoulder. It didn't occur to me to question him about this "leg bag" thing.

I immediately leaped out of bed, in fire-fighter mode. As I passed by the bathroom, my husband yelled "Are you cooking something? I don't like what I'm smelling..."

I raced to the kitchen, trailing kids, to find that my nearly-four-year-old had put an ankle weight in the microwave and turned it on. For two minutes. It was black, smoking and bubbling as I wrenched the door open, to be greeted by a cloud of foulness.

I don't know what I said, exactly, but it had a lot of primal screaming for punctuation. My kids stood in a semi-circle around my quaking frame, upper torsos leaning backwards like shrubs in high winds. (I just typed quacking. I might have been doing some of that, too.)

My husband appeared, and we rapidly fanned out, opening doors and windows. The indoor-only cat took the opportunity and ran out the door, to the howls and hysterical tears of my oldest. The smoke detector never went off. I don't know if that is a good thing, or not.

Yes, at seven o'clock this morning, you could have found me in the backyard, shaking a bowl of cat kibble and calling "kitty kitty kitty kitty." At seven-o-five, you could have found me on the deck, separating my two oldest children, with one of my palms on one forehead, one of the other forehead. Every time the cat made an appearance, my daughter would grab at her, and my son would simultaneously charge, freaking the cat out and sending her scrambling under the deck.

"It is seven o'clock in the morning. The neighborhood is still asleep. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

I finally captured the cat, and locked her in the bathroom. Then I made a huge mug of coffee and turned on some Bob Marley. I've been walking around fanning the air in my house with a giant plastic lid to a giant plastic container, swaying my hips to the beat.

The kids are spending the night at Grandma's tonight. Every little thing is gonna be all right.

Our contest is live! Use that search function and get your answers in before Sunday night! Click here (or up on the "Fun") to play!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:58 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

With eight years of parenting under my belt, I've been on cruise control. I've been borderline jaded as the latest milestones come and go for each of my three children. There are benefits to spacing your children closely, one of which is a strong sense of parenting deja vu. Seen it, heard it, diapered it and blogged about it.

Yeah, I thought I had my inner neurotic mother permanently squashed into a neat little compartment, where her nagging doubts and constant overthinking would be muffled by the thick skin I sprouted as part of my veteran mom perks. This last month, however, had my inner neurotic mother springing up out of her little hideaway on a regular basis. I can't seem to keep the lid on her, and she's making me crazy.

I'm rolling my eyes at myself even as I type this. My oldest has been taking horseback riding lessons for half a year, and although she loves riding, and was progressing all summer long, she has suddenly hit a wall of some sort. It started with a pulling back from tacking up her horse with no assistance, and then she insisted on riding only ponies, and then she began to refuse to canter.

"But you love horses!" I insist.

all around the mulberry bush...

"You used to do it all the time!" I cajole.

the monkey chased the weasel...

"Please, just get in the van. I've already paid for these lessons, so you're going," I demand.

The monkey thought 'twas all in fun...

"Why are you afraid? What is the matter? Either get off the horse, or do what your coach says!" With a sudden lurch, inner neurotic mother blows the lid right off her cage.

Pop! Goes the weasel.

While her coach and I both agree that she obviously needs a break from riding, and my daughter agrees, there are still three prepaid lessons to go this month.

Veteran mom says to listen to my heart (the kid isn't having fun, and it doesn't matter what the reason is.)

Inner neurotic mother says solve the puzzle! Conquer the demon! Slay the dragon! There is work to do here!

Veteran mom says that if I'm so worried about the lessons going to waste, I should shut up and take them myself.

Inner neurotic mother says that I'm really close to understanding what caused the change in my daughter's enthusiasm, and by the next lesson, she could be hot to trot. Literally.

Veteran mom says that clearly I've got too much invested in my daughter's riding.

Inner neurotic mother says that if I let her quit without getting her over the fear she's fighting, I'll be doing her a huge disservice. What if she gets the idea that if the going gets tough, you quit? What about that, Veteran Mom? Huh? Huh?

I hate inner neurotic mother. But she won't get back in the box.

Help me hear the voice of reason - do I try to get to the bottom of this, and have her finish out this series of lessons, and then take a few months off and see what she wants to do? Or do I save myself the aggrevation and trust that quitting an activity isn't going to turn my child into a cowering underachiever?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 6:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Never fear! We have new interviews and new content on the way!

These last few weeks will go down in history as the weeks when Real Life Fought Back. Jenn's recent illness, Meghan's leave of absence, and my own family's needs have unfortunately dropped our productivity to a slow crawl. If I owe you an email, I'll be doing my best to catch up over the next few days.

My children had a three-day weekend this last weekend, and it brought all my online ambitions to a halt, once again. I would drift towards the computer, longingly, and then notice the sink full of dishes. I would plan to curl up in my bed with the laptop, only to drop into a deep, twitching sleep the moment my body hit the mattress. I planned on composing a stockpile of meaningful entries, only to get caught up in the breathless recounting of some adventure my kids planned on tackling.

Instead of blogging, we made art projects. We played in the sunshine and tried to learn how to play Pokemon. We read book after book after book and snuggled. We reconnected. I wouldn't exactly call it stopping to smell the roses, but in my case, blowing a few dish soap bubbles served the same purpose.

They also made me insane, but that is a whole 'nother entry.

It felt amazing to just walk away for a few days. It gave me the chance to catch my breath, and to appreciate what I have (and to really eyeball what I need to work on) here at home.

We'll be turning the spotlight on some amazing writers in the next few weeks - stay tuned.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 5:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Mommybloggers: We're so excited to have the chance to interview you, Liz... can we call you Liz, or do you prefer Badgermama?

LIz: Liz is fine, though I answer to Badger, Lizzard, Dr. Lizardo, whatever.

Mommybloggers: You're a published poet, and an all-around prolific writer. Is blogging an offshoot of your 'real' writing?

LIz: Blogging started that way, as an offshoot, but now I wonder if it has become my "real" writing. It's a little bit diary and a little bit epistolary. I have two book recommendations for women who have been blogging a lot and taking it seriously: 800 Years of Women's Letters edited by Olga Kenyon, and Private Pages: Diaries of American Women 1830s-1970s. Those are good starting points if you want to feel hooked into a literary tradition of writing women. Blogging is its own genre now, but it would be good for us to strengthen the connections in our minds between blogs and the amazing rich history of diaries and letters that have been important in women's literature for hundreds of years.

Before I had blogs, I kept paper notebook journals. Usually I had 3 or 4 at once: a main catch-all one to carry with me, a small one to carry in a pocket, one for especially significant moments that has lasted for years and is slow to fill up, and a dream journal. I also was used to working back and forth between two notebooks on drafts of poems and translations, and I still do this. Letters to my friends could run 20 pages handwritten, easy. My notebooks go back 22 years at this point. I wrote and published a ton of xerox zines. So it's not like my overblogulating came out of nowhere.

I do love my poetry best, and my poem translations. But it has always been my ambition to be one of those writers who does a little bit of everything. I can't help being heavily textual. Blogging is super exciting because it puts me into direct touch with other people who are like that.

Mommybloggers: Tell us how Badgermama came about - what inspired you to make the leap? How has the response surprised you?

LIz: I had been writing on my big old catch-everything pseudonymous badgerbag blog. I went to BlogHer's first conference, and really liked the mommyblogger panel and discussion. After that I felt it was important for me to identify at least partly as a mommyblogger, since I'm a mom and I blog sometimes about that identity and about parenting. I was a little frustrated at always being left out of the categories, because of writing about a little bit of everything, and not having a focus. there was (and still is) a lot of advice floating around the blogospher about how to be successful or popular or make money as a blogger, and one key concept was focus. I thought, "What if I go through my archives and pull out all the parenting and mom stuff, and put it together?" I did a little bit of that for badgermama, and then found that I wanted to write there, in that context. Once I made the blog and it had a concept, I wanted to write different stories, and say different stuff, than I wanted to write on my One Blog to Rule them All. I have found, now, the the importance of context.

So my own internal response surprised me. The same is true of sf.metroblogs.com; I sometimes write about my affectionate feelings for place and local geography, but as soon as I had the password for metroblogging, I found I had more to say than I had realized. Once I had a mommyblog, I found a little bit of a new voice.

I also felt that it might be important to let my freak flag fly in the context of being a mom. For other women, to say "here's what that's like - here's my experience - " By "freak flag" I don't mean "I have silly hair". It's that I approach everything intensely. I enjoy my life very intensely and I want to share that, in a way, to give validation to anyone else who has a hunger for life and experience.

It's that someday I hope I'll do something really cool and amazing and be able to write about that. For now, it's just my daily life and my thoughts. And our daily lives, the way we experience them, are important. We should value that now, as we live our lives, not later when we remember them from our hospital beds, or never, or only in the imaginations of our grandchildren after we're dead.

Here's a hard thing to talk about. One response I didn't expect was that other moms and other mommybloggers started acting like I was famous or something. That was just weird. But it made me realize it must be important to say what I'm saying. That people come up to me, and want to meet me, is really nice, but it can also sometimes be a sort of pressure; people want something from the experience of meeting me, they expect something. I want to be able to give it, whatever it is. I hope this does not sound stuck-up, I'm just trying to be honest, and it's a new thing for me. It's new for me to have people meet me and feel they know me, when I don't necessarily know them; and it's new for me to feel a certain responsibility for what I say, because I know people are listening or reading.

Continue reading "Mommybloggers dish with Liz Henry" »

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The flyer came home yesterday. I broke into a cold sweat as it drifted into my lap, the glossy texture causing it to slip away from other, more mundane school bulletins.

School Portrait Time.

Have mercy.

I don't care how photogenic your little Susie is around the house. Sure, little Johnny radiates pure sunshine on YOUR camera. There is something sinister in the art of school photography, and there is nothing you can do to prevent your child's portrait from resembling a gargoyle.

I had a dry run the first year with my oldest. I dressed her up cute, and fixed her hair in tidy pigtails. I reminded her to smile nicely for the camera. (Okay, I admit it, I even rehearsed how to smile with her. Sigh, smile. Sigh, smile. No, put your shoulders down. Uncross your eyes. Stop gritting your teeth. Sigh. Look natural, damn it! NATURAL!) I walked her to the classroom door and pushed her through, hissing one final admonishment (Natural!) and returned home, confident. Several weeks later, the arrival of the pictures revealed the ugly truth.

Not only had they scheduled the kindergartener's photos for the last hour of the day, after lunch and two recesses (hello?) but they had improved my daughter's pigtails by removing the elastics and arranging her now-loose tresses in chunks. Her smile looked like she had a knife point pressed to her spine.

You know, natural.

Then, because I apparently didn't think about it too hard, I dressed my daugher cute from the waist up. She had funny, muddy shoes on, and her class picture features her skort's wrinkled hem and mud-splattered socks prominently. I'm the Mother of the Year! Woooo!

I just kept 'em. No point in trying to improve on it with a retake. I'm just not a gambler when the odds are so clearly stacked against me.

Last year rolled around, and I had two prisoners for the School Photo Firing Squad. I tried a different tack with my daughter.

"Honey, show me how a princess smiles." This resulted in praying hands wedged between her left shoulder and cheek, and a weird, afflicted expression. Okay, no. Barf. Stop the simpering!

"Can't you just smile normal?" Oh yeah. She can't. I forget these things because of the trauma that parenting has inflicted on my poor brain.

I just turned to my son and patted him on the shoulder. I looked him in the eye and sighed. Whispering, I asked him to show me his handsome smile. I got a hideous grimace, cheeks taut over clenched teeth. It was going to be what it was going to be, no matter what I asked for.

Again, the tradition of keeping the youngest kids for last (The hell? Seriously?) left my children in crumb-scattered glory. I remembered to dress them to their shoes this time, but I didn't bank on grass-stains on the knees of my son's khaki pants, nor did I anticipate my daughter's decision to tuck one side of her collar into her shirt, and leave the other side out. Oh, and I totally disagree with the school's decision to have a wind tunnel available for the kids to play in that day. I'm just saying.

The photos we received were hilariously bad. We kept those ones, too.

And now, here we go again. What background do we choose? Purple Passion? Emerald Memories? Smoky Haze? Do we go for the soft filter, for the flattering, Cybil Sheppard lighting - because seven-year-olds need so much help with that?

Do we know enough people to warrant the purchase of a package? Do I want a photo of my child on a bookmark that says "D-Lish?" The decisions are killing me dead. El dia de fotos esta aqui, and I'm not ready.

Sigh. Smile. It's only natural.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 4:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

My seven-year-old daughter and I tend to approach life from a very different place. She is much more dramatic, and loves to plan thing years in advance. I'm hard to rile, and keep my focus fixed on the here and now, much to her chagrin. We joke that my daughter is a carbon copy of my mother, who doesn't understand the way I function either. As different as we all are, it is always a surprise to find traits that we share.

Recently, my daughter attended a birthday party for a classmate. I took her to Target to select a gift, and she chose a stationary set and a few plastic animals. I wasn't sure how that would go over with the birthday girl, so I carefully tucked aside the gift receipt.

At home, she insisted on wrapping the gift herself, and rejected the floral paper I had selected. She packed her gift in a battered Amazon.com shipping box, and then taped plain white paper all over it.. Then she decorated it with drawings in an assortment of markers.

I bit my lip while she decorated. I offered to help her wrap it, and I was shooed away. She quickly signed the card and sealed it into an envelope before I could slip the gift receipt inside. Then she spent an hour crafting an elaborate set of pictures, folded into a book for her friend, which she taped to the sealed card. Her final offering was a large, construction paper badge that proclaimed her friend as a member of my daughter's imaginary club of horse lovers.

It was all a labor of love for my girl. And I knew that this would probably end badly.

At the party, my daughter's gift was shuffled around the table while the birthday girl opened conventionally wrapped gifts right and left. As the pile of licensed merchandise grew, my daughter sat on the edge of her seat, eyes gleaming. Finally, her gift was the only one left, and her friend pulled it towards her. She shredded the typing paper without a glance at the drawings, and ripped open the sad box, extracting the stationary and the animals. She took a 10 second look at them, handed the animals to her baby brother and pushed her chair away from the table.

My daughter spoke up. "Did you see the card I made for you?"

Her friend returned to the box and pulled the card off of the side. She opened the book of pictures and spent about five seconds trying to decipher the story before tossing it into the pile of other cards. She offered a mother-prompted thanks and raced off to play with the other guests.

My daughter's face fell. She took a shuddering breath and then straightened her shoulders. She pushed back in her chair and ran off to play with the girls.

My heart broke a little for her at that moment.

Continue reading "Little Treasures" »

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I just found out yesterday that our neighborhood is hosting its annual yard sale on Saturday. We always mean to participate, but being scattered and lazy usually makes me opt out.

I'm thinking that this might be the year, though. Two out of three kids are in school. I've got a garage full of miscellaneous crap. I've even got stickers that I could use for pricing...

The problem, of course, is the kids. I have to get them away from the action. My friend has her daughter set up a lemonade and cookie stand while she merrily sells off her toys. I can't fault her logic on that, and I might have to set up a competing lemonade stand for our corner.

Because boy howdy do I have toys to unload. We have giant boxes of toys that no one plays with any longer. The problem is trying to get rid of them without the kids seeing them. Because as soon as they spot something, they immediately profess their undying love for whatever it is.

I'm a marshmellow. I need to grow a backbone.

Faster than I can slap a rubbermaid lid back on the object of newly found adoration, they've wisked it off to be abandoned under the couch, or in the backyard.

So. I have two days to sort, spit-polish and slap price tags on all our, er MY unwanted crap. Hopefully, it will change my feng shui, or at least let me approach the garage.

But! What do I do with the kids? Will a lemonade stand be enough to keep them from raiding the tables? Will they even stay at their table? Or should I just leash them to the tree and let them call out to passersby like merchants in a medieval market?

I need some tips, here. Gimme your best garage sale ideas, people!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

My three-year-old was hunched down in the dirt, poking at some unseen object with a stick. I slid the back door open and called her inside for dinner. She froze for a moment, and then resumed her poking. I called again, and she shot half a glance at the door. In a surprise move, she dropped to a tightly curled squat, and covered her head with her hands.

Ooookay. Clearly she considered herself hidden, and beyond the range of my vision.

I played along. I wandered into the yard, searching high and low. I pretended to trip over her, and a small "tee-hee!" escaped from the armadillo-like child on the ground. My apparent stupidity just got funnier and funnier, and she found it very hard to contain herself.

When I started pretending that she was a giant snail, her sides were shaking with mirth. I called to her siblings to come and see this giant snail, and picked her up off of the ground. Her arms and legs shot to the four corners and she yelled,

"I'm not a snail! I'm a GIRL."

Heh.

I carried her into the bathroom, and washed her hands and face. At the table, she regaled her siblings with stories of how she really fooled me. Apparently, she must have been a snail in another life, and switched to a girl up in heaven.

My son suddenly started braying and elongating his neck, making really alarming noises. He raised his fist to his forehead, and extended three fingers. As soon as it began, it ended, and he gave me an expectant look.

"Oh, wow. That was a great triceratops impression." I said.

"Well, you see..." he started. He was once a triceratops, you see. Before he was a boy. He was all the dinosaurs, and when he got up to heaven, he knew it was time to be my boy. But that is why he can totally do great dino impressions. Because he has first hand memories.

This launched a big discussion about dinosaurs in heaven, and an argument over the status of carnivores. Did they try to eat the People Angels? Or were they now Celestial Vegetarians, happily eating clouds?

My oldest, eager to get in on the action, decided that her angelic lineage was from the magical unicorns who could become mermaids family. Of course. That makes total sense.

My youngest alternated between participating in the discussion, and sucking her thumb while pondering the latest startling revelation about her family. After a few intense minutes sucking, she popped her thumb out, and asked, "What were you in heaven, Mommy?"

My son sighed dramatically, and my seven-year-old rolled her eyes.

"She was always our mommy. Duh."

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

When did you start blogging and why?

Back when my oldest daughter was a newborn, I sought out other mamas on the internet - my real-life friends were not having children yet, and I needed a community. I quickly found support and friendship via message boards - friendships that have endured to this day. But as my childen got a little bit older, and I got comfortable with the day-to-day challenges of mothering, I began to outgrow some facets of the discussion boards.

Several of the other mamas from my favorite discussion board began blogging, and after admiring their efforts for a few months, I took the leap. On July 13, 2004, I started Three Kid Circus, and well, I never looked back. Hey, wait a minute. I just passed my two-year bloggiversary!

*putting on party hat, inserting blower into mouth*

So, where was I? Ah yes. After blogging in relative obscurity for a year, I had the honor of being one of the panelists for the first Mommyblogging discussion at BlogHer 2005. Mommybloggers.com is an outgrowth of the passionate response Jenn, Meghan and I heard from the women at the conference - both the positive and the negative.

In June of 2006, I joined the ClubMom blogging team as "BigSlice." Big Slice of Life, Small Slice of Cheesecake documents my attempts to lose 50 pounds. I'm losing v e r y s l o w l y. Nonetheless, it has been a fantastic exercise is accepting myself, appreciating who I am, and what I have to work with, and moving forward.

*toot, toot*

How do you use blogging to build friendships?

Blogging allows me to do the one thing that makes my heart pitter-patter the most - talk uninterrupted. With my three little monkeys, it often feels like I'm never going to finish a sentence, let alone a thought. For a glory-hound and self-important ass like myself, this has proven extraordinarily painful. I have things I want, nay, need to share with the world. Blogging has given me a place to shout my shopping lists and recount my days.

As self-centered as that sounds, it is this drivel that has brought me wonderful friends. Friends who tell me I'm funny, or that they feel the same way at the end of a rough day. Who doesn't love that? Not only that, but through Mommybloggers, we've had the chance to interview and feature some of the brightest talent out there, and it has been really inspiring.

How would you describe your writing style?

Wordy. Descriptive. Humorous.

Okay, I just cracked myself up. because how wordy and descriptive is a single word sentence?

What don’t you write about? Anything considered a no-no in your book?

I generally don't blog about politics, religion or family members without their permission.

How do you feel about meeting bloggers in real life? Are you nervous? Will you have great expectations? What do you home to take away from the BlogHer experience?

BlogHer 2005 was such a positive experience for me. For the first time, I realized that I am part of a larger community that is changing perceptions, making a real difference, and telling our own stories, day by day. It was incredibly moving. To be able to visit with some of the women who I read, and to swap war stories with new friends was just incredible. I can't wait.

So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer. Important question. How do you party?

Obnoxiously. The undiluted Jenny away from her family experience includes lots of squealing and jumping, plenty of cocktails and laughing. I'm immature in a way that I can't even express. You'll just have to see it to believe it.

Have you written anything controversial?

You know, I really haven't. I think that sharing opinions can be controversial, because there is always someone who has another view of any topic. Don't get me wrong, I have very strong opinions about politics, religion, feminism - I just don't usually write about them. There are other writers who are a thousand times more eloquent than I'll ever be.

Are you and your blogging persona the same person?

Well, yes and no. My blogging persona is calmer, and more reflective. In reality, I approach life like a bull in a china shop.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 9:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Mommybloggers: Hello, there, Dorothy! Or should we call you Surrender? Which is it?

RIta: Actually, I’m Rita. I’ve been blogging as Dorothy for about two years now, but I’ve given up on the idea that nobody will ever know who I really am. It’s sort of like trying to force a nickname at band camp.

Mommybloggers: We are all big fans of your blog - how did you discover blogging? Have you
always been a writer?

RIta:My friend C. over at Average Jane forwarded me an entry by Alice Bradley of Finslippy. The entry was about judging mothers and how to do it best. My daughter was three months old at the time, and I felt like everything I did was wrong and someone would be coming very soon to take her away from me. This was before I saw Britney Spears driving with Sean Preston in her lap and realized it’s sort of hard to remove children from their mothers for using the Costco brand of Enfamil.

I’ve been a writer since about age twelve. My first poems centered mostlycon unicorns. In high school, I was heavily influenced by Edgar Allan Poe and wrote a lot of bizarre stuff that I now can’t remember writing. Or even
thinking. Who was that girl? Embarrassing.

I wrote a horrible first novel that never went anywhere while I was temping at Mutual of Omaha and living in my parents’ basement between Chicago and Kansas City. When I got to Kansas City, I decided I needed help and got a
master’s degree. If you want to hate yourself, go to a graduate-level writing workshop. I’m now working as an editor, and that makes me really happy. I think going through the motions of getting the master’s made me own
my writing more, and that’s a good thing. But you don’t really need one.

Mommybloggers: One thing that really stands out in your writing is your obvious affection for your family. Even with difficult subjects, you always manage to create a positive spin. Are you always so upbeat?

RIta: No. It’s all done with mirrors.

I really use this forum to try to find the humor in situations in which I’m secretly doubting myself or paralyzed by anxiety. I’m prone to melodrama and melancholy, actually. I use the blogging to find the lighter side – to see the situation from the outside, like someone else would. It really, really helps.

Mommybloggers: We ask all our guests - what do you think of the term "Mommyblogger?" Are YOU a mommyblogger?

RIta: I love labels. I think we should have more of them.

Seriously, though, it doesn’t bother me. I have categories on my blog –parenting, marriage, writing, teaching, politics, working for the man…I have strong feelings on all of those subjects. I write about my daughter most
because a) I’m shocked on a daily basis by the lack of control involved in parenting and b) I want to have a record of these years. I went to a friend’s baby shower in Chicago a few weeks ago, and her mother gave her a
baby book containing all of these little slips of paper with funny stories about her childhood. I was so happy to realize I’d have a digital version for the little angel.

Mommybloggers: Tell us about your growing up years. We'd love to know where you came from, and what your ambitions were.

RIta: I’m so tempted to quote The Jerk by that question.

I grew up in small-town Iowa, population 5,000. One-fifth of the town lived at the Iowa state hospital school for the mentally retarded. I don’t know why I put that in, but it’s hard to leave it out. I am the older of two daughters. My sister is a very talented writer and editor who works for a textbook-publishing company in Chicago. My mom was a teacher and my dad is a farmer who fell back on mechanical engineering.

What else? I was a fat kid whose mother had cancer twice when I was in middle school, which led to an eating disorder that lasted through high school and college. I haven’t blogged much about that yet, but it also colors my personality. I’m a self-doubter and a perfectionist. It’s hard for me to be nice to me, and blogging helps me, as I said, view my life through someone else’s eyes. We’re always nicer to other people than we are to ourselves.

I met my husband through a proprietary Lotus Notes database. It’s a long story. He impressed me with his killer wit and kindness. My dad always told me to marry someone you secretly think might be a better person than you are. I think I did. But I still like to make fun of him, anyway. He’s a great dad and an amazing human being. I’ve been a lot less critical of myself since he’s been in my life. He’ll never read this, though, because he doesn’t read my blog. Does anyone’s husband read their blog? Besides Heather Armstrong’s?

Mommybloggers: Teaching writing to students with challenges must be rewarding, but difficult. What is the one lesson you try to pass on to all your students?

RIta: Tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, tell them what you told them. Do that, and you’ll be fine.

Mommybloggers: You've written about the freedom you feel when you blog, and how it affects your ability to self-censor in other areas of your life. Is there anything you avoid writing about?

RIta: I try not to be cruel. I don’t think blogging is a good forum for that. If I’m going to be cruel, I write a short story and
disguise the characters. I also try to avoid writing a lot about my family or my husband’s family. They didn’t ask to be part of my blog, and so I try to keep it to stuff that’s purely mine. My sister and I have a deal that we can’t steal each other’s lives for our own stories, and I think that applies to my blog, too. It’s unfortunate, because she has so much material that I’d love to use.

Mommybloggers: For many of us, reading and writing about motherhood helps us to become better, more relaxed parents. Is this your experience?

RIta: Oh, absolutely. I’ve written you, Jenny, about the little angel’s sleeping problems, and I’ve also written to other mommybloggers. Everyone’s always been so nice, and I’m always amazed at how many people actually write me back with great stories.

Mommybloggers: Your blog is full of colorful descriptions and vivid details. Do you approach life from a writer's point of view, or do certain details from your day just leap out at you?

RIta: I can’t turn it off. I make people uncomfortable. Last week I noticed one of my male co-workers has started
shaving his arms, and I couldn’t help pointing it out.

Mommybloggers: We are so excited to meet you at BlogHer... you are going, aren't you? What are your goals for the conference?

RIta: Yes, I’m going! I’m so excited to meet some of the people I feel like I already know. I’m trying to build traffic for Surrender, Dorothy right now. I’m part of the BlogHer ad network and am working on a separate writing project that involves motherhood, so my first goal is to figure out this world and how I might live in it more fully in the future. You never know where life’s going to take you, but blogging has opened some writing doors for me and given me much more confidence to delve into certain subjects. See you there – I’ll be the one with the wine glass.

Mommybloggers: Finally, here are the questions that we subject all our interviewees to - a
la Inside The Actor's Studio:

What is your favorite parenting related word? reward

What is your least favorite parenting related word? night-time parenting

*What is your favorite creative censored curse word used around children? Melonpicker (this is a substitute for "motherfucker")

What is your favorite hiding place in your home where you go to get away from it all? The Internet

What is the hiding place you have been found in too often and can no longeruse? my bed

If Oprah exists, what would you like her to say when you arrive at the Oprah Winfrey show when she features the Mommybloggers? I loved your latest book.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

So, there I was, sitting on my deck, scowling at my children. They stood thigh deep in our inflatable wading pool, frozen in a tableau of cartoon violence.

My oldest had one arm wrapped around an innertube, her other arm raised overhead, hand in slapping position.
My son had one leg inside the innertube, and pointed a water noodle menacingly at his sister.
My youngest was sitting on the inflatable seat inside the pool, barking like a dog.

I had ordered a freeze to assess the situation. The kids, used to being ordered to stop, shush, stand, sit, hurry, and wait were puzzled by the sound of their mother, bellowing FUH-REEEEEEEEZE!

So there they were, mid-fight, and there I was, shooting optical daggers, and the only sound was the rustling of the leaves and the barking of my three-year-old.

I broke the silence. "What is the problem here?" I demanded, fists on my hips.

They both hurried to tattle at once. "He took..."
"She took..."
"I had it first"
"It was mine..."

I raised my hands like a conductor, and made the CEASE! hand motion. They fell silent.

Awesome.

"Arf! Arf! Arf arf arf arf!" added my three-year-old.

"Everyone out of the pool!" I announced, and threw them towels. "Dry off. You do not bicker and complain and tattle. No."

Outside the pool, they started up with the "no fair, jt's not my fault, I didn't do anything, he started it" baloney, and I reared back and roared "Fuh-REEEEEEEEEZE!" once again. I added a "SIIIIIIIIIII-lence!" to the routine, and they stood there looking put out, but quiet.

"Arf! Arf! Arf!" added my three-year-old.

I searched my pea-brain for some sort of climax to this parenting display. Aha! Carmen gives her kids sentences.

"You will each write sentences!" I declared.

They seethed in relative silence while they dried off and got dressed, and then I set them up at the table with a pad of paper each and a sharp pencil. I was feeling quite proud of myself, because hey, these kids of mine are naughty enough that they will have excellent penmanship by the time the school year begins.

"I will not fight with my brother." I announced for my daughter.

"I will not fight with my sister." I announced for my son.

From the living room, my youngest announced "arf! arf arf arf!"

After the first sentence, my daughter kicked my son under the table. My son scribbled on her paper. I seperated them, and started loading the dishwasher.

I got one plate and one fork loaded before my son started to giggle. "I tooted!" he whispered.

"Keep writing, young man."

"Ppppppft." said my daughter.

(Arf arf arf trickled in from the living room.)

I hid my smirk valiently, and loaded another plate into the dishwasher.

"Ppppppft." said my son.

My daughter lost it. My son lost it. Their shoulders shook with silent mirth as their foreheads bopped above their notebooks. My three-year-old crawled in on all fours and sat beside the table, barking.

I sat my 'doggie' up at the table and handed her a notebook and crayon. I headed around to check the work of my daughter and found that she had written I will not fart with my brother. I will not fart with my brother. I will not fart with my brother.

My son had drawn a very nice stegosaurus, with a cloud emerging from under its tail.

Next time, I'll enforce the sentences with more gusto. This time, with the "wind" beneath my "tail" I couldn't keep a straight face, nor make a point. I made them clean the floor instead. Pffffting the whole time.

Arf, arf, arf.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 8:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Watching my children grow and thrive is one of my greatest joys. That said - growing up is a messy, lumpy business. Dimpled baby knees give way to long, coltish limbs complete with scabs and bruises. From the forehead rug burns of babies who scoot on their foreheads to the snaggly teeth of a seven-year-old, there is a ragged edge to growing up.

I had ideas about this whole "watching the kids grow" business. Oh yes. It would be one photogenic stage after another, with nary a stray hair. With the arrival of my first daughter, it took about, oh, two hours after arriving home from the hospital to realize that growing can be torturous...for everyone within a ten-mile radius.

This week, I've been musing on my own growth, which has been ungainly and adolescent-like. As we've moved through the years together, my personal growth has been simultaneously stunted and vigorous. Each new parenting stage requires a new set of skills. It isn't always easy or pretty to gain these skills, either. My daughter's palms are calloused from learning to swing on the monkey bars. I have a wrinkle on my forehead gained from constantly raising my eyebrows to deliver the "Excuuuuuse me?" look. Not pretty, but effective.

I don't know why I assumed I would automatically have limitless patience or a balanced approach to discipline. As a child, I was always flighty, and disorganized. As a young adult, my life was ruled by my whims. I lived in the moment, never planning beyond the next weekend. I believed that you could do things 'right.'

Then "me" was replaced by "we" as I became a wife and mother in rapid succession. I found myself caring for other human beings. Wait, that doesn't truly reflect the situation. I was responsible for keeping other humans not only alive, but in good spirits and well-balanced. Clearly, I was supposed to be all-seeing, and all-knowing, with a full arsenal of solutions.

What I had instead were my own selfish notions about how much sleep I was entitled to get, and a few funny facial expressions I could do on command. This was not a promising start. I lurched through my children's infant years, hoping that I was faking it well enough to keep everyone from revolting and demanding a new mommy. Actually, at the time, I thought I was doing a fantastic job. It is only with the benefit of hindsight that I cringe inwardly at my awkward progress.

We've moved in herky-jerky fashion through these last eight years. For every stage, we've rebelled and excelled and swung our arms and legs about until we finally made it to the next stage. I used to treat each milestone as a stand-alone accomplishment. But in parenting, like in life, there is no done. There is only more growth. More chances to learn. More reasons to laugh and cry.

There have been times when I've stared at my son's forehead, wondering why he can't stop bashing his head when he plays dinosaur. When I've caught my kid picking their nose, big as you please. When I've scheduled a portrait, only to have one kid with a black eye, one with a scaly patch on her nose and another who can't find shoes. It makes me shake my fist at the heavens, and wonder how to parent differently to make life run smoother.

Let's not forget the time (ahem, last night) that I forgot the tooth fairy was due to visit. For the second night in a row. My lack of organization haunts me on a daily basis. Luckily, I'm still in possession of some tall-tale-tellin' skills, and that busy, busy evening that the tooth fairy had was something else, but she'll surely come tonight.

All their faults. All my faults. All my husband's faults. And still, we love each other.

I still live in the now. I am still flighty and disorganized. I suspect there is a 'right' way to do things, but I just don't see how I'm ever going to find it, as busy as I am. Still, I'm not totally inept. I have learned to comfort with a touch, understand without words, and fail spectacularly on a daily basis. I see my own shortcomings in my children, and through them, I can see the beauty in imperfection. We are a family of flawed, yet wonderful beings. It isn't proper, I suppose. But I'm growing into it.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Living in Northern California, we are rarely subjected to hot, muggy days. While I'd hardly call 80 degrees hot, the humidity has been very high, resulting in wild hair for me, and cranky attitudes for everyone around me. Since I am a sainted mother, I was not the least bit cranky, not me. No way. Never.

Despite the heat and the damp, for some reason all three kids made their way into our king-sized bed last night. I clung to the outer 12 inches on one side, my husband claimed his 18 inches, and in between, we had a mass of squirming kids. I woke at 5 am to a chorus of snores. Aside from the occasional kick to the kidneys, or my three-year-old's determination to suck her thumb and hold onto my ear, it was a fine night of sleep. Really, it was. And I wasn't the least bit cranky. Stop laughing.

We've always welcomed the kids to our bed, for the most part. As nursing babes, it was easier. As we added kids to our family, the babies often slept in a bassinette right next to my pillow, but it has never been uncommon for the kids to appear in the wee hours of the night for a snuggle. Since my husband sleeps as though he's been clubbed unconcious, it is usually up to me to see the kids back to bed. When I'm on my A-game, everyone goes back. But often, like last night, I don't even notice when they arrive, and I wake up surprised by the sheer number of critters in my bed.

Now that my kids are seven, five (almost six) and three, their soft baby limbs have been replaced by rock hard muscles and feet almost as large as mine. The crown of my seven-year-old's head rises to my shoulder. It is a far cry from co-sleeping with a mushy, sweet-smelling infant.

And yet...we still enjoy it. Not all the time, of course. There are many nights when our bed remains blissfully empty of stragglers. Sometimes we get a solitary visitor. Sometimes, like last night, we get them all. They sweat, grunt, snore and burrow themselves under the covers. They put their feet on the pillow, and press their faces into my neck, creating a feverish swelter in the room.

I love that they still need snuggles and crave the comfort of our embraces. My dreams are peaceful when my children are kicking and drooling all over each other like a pack of puppies in my bed. As the morning light creeps into my bedroom, I can count my blessings and admire their softly rounded cheeks and splayed limbs without hearing "Moooooom! Stop looking at me!" I know that someday, this too will fade, like the breastfeeding years, like the desire to hear Backyard Bedtime and Goodnight Moon, over and over and over again.

My husband feels the same way. In the daylight hours, it seems that we are always on guard, always teaching and correcting. At night, it is effortless to pull them close and hold them like the babies they once were. The frustrations we struggle with during the day melt away, and all is forgiven.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)