When my son was in kindergarten, he gave me a pair of earrings for Christmas. He picked them out himself, and he chose 'the most beautifullest earrings in the whole store' for me.

Every morning, I put them on and wore them to school. Both of my children came to school with me (from K-8!) so I wore the earrings until they went down to their classrooms at 7:50 each morning.

As soon as the coast was clear, I took off the pearl earrings and replaced them with another pair that I kept in my desk. He never knew. He still doesn't know.

As soon as my own students left, I hurriedly put my little boy's earrings on again. As far as he knew, I'd been wearing them all day. In my heart, I had.

He used to brag about how those beautiful earrings Momy always wore had been chosen by him and him alone, and purchased with his saved-up allowance. (He got fifty cents a week once he started school. A man has needs.)

I was young, and insecure, and my job was fairly new. I wanted to make a good impression. Otherwise, I would have worn those earrings all day, and either held my head high and said nothing, or explained why they were so precious to me. Some of the other teachers would have understood. Some would not have. I was young, and insecure.

When he was in the fourth grade, he bought me another pair of earrings down at the school's 'Santa's Workshop' store. They were a little less 'elegant' than the original pair, and I was able to wear them in public.

No pirate chest or Tiffany's window ever held such precious jewels.

When I cleaned out my desk, the summer of '04, that first pair of earrings was still in my pencil tray.

I do not remember the last time I wore them. I do not remember the last time I took them off and put them in the tray. I do not remember being asked where they were. I do not remember feeling different because I was now putting on 'normal' earrings in the mornings. I do not remember if he asked about them at all.

For four and a half years, I wore these earrings every morning and every evening. Purty, huh.

They are pearls beyond price. Close to three inches of pearls.

When he was in the 8th grade, I showed him the earrings in my desk drawer. He looked stunned, and said, "Mom, you've got to be kidding!"

I wasn't kidding. And when I told him how beautiful they were to me, and always would be, he looked incredulous. And then he grinned and said "Mom, you are so WEIRD."

Well, there's that.

If I had it all to do over again, I'd wear the dangly pearls the whole day.

When you get old, you get braver. And less concerned with what "people" think.

You tend to tell is like it is, when you get older. And let me tell you all: those earrings are the most beautiful jewels I own.

Advice? From MOI? Sure. Here's some advice for you all: when your children make or buy what is, to them, beautiful things for Mommy, wear them. Oh, mothers, wear these dreadful conglomerations of fake pearls and shiny things. Wear them over your heart, and touch them often and smile. Think of the thought that went into the making or selecting of these genuinely hideous "things," because the day will come when you'll look back and wish you had. Don't be too cowardly to walk proudly into the room wearing three-inch-long pearl net earrings, or broaches the size and shape of a baboon's fist, or a ring won from a bubble gum machine. Nothing a jewelry store could possibly offer will ever be worth even half as much as these gifts from the heart of a little boy or girl, chosen for their sparkle and size, because Mommy deserves the prettiest jewelry in the world.

Posted by Mamacita at 8:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

I am often lost in the past. I'm often lost on the freeway, too, but that's another post.

Lost in the past. Mostly, lost in memories of when my children were small and needed me.

I have been extremely fortunate in that neither of my children was frequently ill. They both had migraines which were often severe, and they both had the usual measles and chickenpox. Belle had walking pneumonia a few times but it never got her down. But when it came to the usual list of childhood ailments, such as earaches, vomiting, diarrhea, bad colds, flu, etc, we were really lucky. It just hardly ever happened.

Which meant, of course, that the very few times it DID happen, it was scarier than it would have been for most kids. My kids were not used to it. They still aren't.

When they were sick, I would lie with them on the sofa or bed and rub their hands and arms, and mess with their hair, and run my fingers lightly over their faces. I would sing and hum and breathe deeply and slowly to calm them down. (That breathing thing really works!) And I would love on them all night long.

Last night I was sitting here remembering that. And trying to remember when it all stopped; when did my kids stop needing me to make the bad sickness go away?

And then the phone rang.

My daughter was sick; she was terribly sick, and she called me sobbing to ask me what to do.

So I got into the car and drove up there and brought her back home. I put her in her old bed and got in with her, and rubbed her hands and arms, and messed with her hair, and ran my fingers lightly over her face. I sang and hummed and breathed deeply to calm her down, and I loved on her all night long.

The next morning she was shaky but better. She rode back up to the city with me and I dropped her off at her apartment on my way to the college. She was going to nap a little more and try to go to work by noon.

And now I am sitting here again, lost in the past, but I'm putting a footnote (1) on it.

(1) They will always need us; the old methods will always work; they're never too old to want Momy*; we never forget how to comfort them; and baby, we've still GOT it.

*There's a reason I spell it that way. Stay tuned and you'll find out.

(Parts of this post were published on Scheiss Weekly in March of 2005)

Posted by Mamacita at 2:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

We took our son back to his apartment in his new home town which is not where we live, tonight. Before we dropped him off, though, we fed him. And tonight, I tried to observe him as if I did not know him.

Usually when I'm visiting with my son, I perceive him as the little boy he once was. When we drop him off at his apartment, I'm always amazed that he isn't going back home with us. Tonight, I tried to see him as the adult he actually is now.

I was able to see a VERY tall, very red-headed, very good-looking, very cool, very intelligent, very funny, very grown-up man who held his own in the conversations, ate his own weight in pizza and stromboli sandwiches, and made us all laugh.

But adult? Sorry. All those things in the previous paragraph, plus 'my little boy.'

He'll never escape from my far-seeing eyes; and by 'far-seeing' I mean far-seeing-into-the-past.

Oh, ok. He knows how to pay his bills, cook, manage his time, and wipe his own ass.

But I will always remember when he didn't.

He might be 27 years old, but in my heart he'll never be much older than five.

I remember every detail of his little baby-boy body. I remember all kinds of first-times with him. First step. First tooth. First words. First visit to the emergency room.

I remember all the little rituals. The picture-books at night. The story-books at night. The to-be-continued novels at night. The afternoon nap routine. His first real haircut. All the little things in his room that were sacred to him. First this, first that. To-be-continued this, to-be-continued that. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. The little rituals that would never change. . . .I remember all of the first times, and I remember all of the continuing times.

What I can't remember are the last times.

When was the last time I ran a soapy washcloth down his tiny back? When was the last time we sat on the fluffy blue rug by his bed and read? When was the last time I took him to the barbershop? When was the last time he sat on Santa's lap at K-Mart? When was the last time I actually saw that little baby-boy body? When?

When did it happen, that he took care of his own body and didn't need me to even check behind his ears? When did he start reading in bed all by himself and not need me to sit on the floor leaning against his bed reading aloud TO him?

When did he start brushing - and FLOSSING - and not need me to check the corners?

Firsts: I remember all of the firsts. The firsts are recorded in a book.

I remember every first time. What I can't remember are the last times.

I can't remember any last times.

Do mothers deliberately erase the last times from their minds? What's the deal?

Perhaps it's because the first times are recorded for all eternity, in our hearts and in little blue baby books.

Whereas the last times come upon us covertly; the last times come, and we never know. So often the last time comes, and we don't know.

This is probably a good thing. Our children grow up so terribly fast, and until a certain age, there are 'first times' for so many things. Those 'firsts' become routine, and we don't even notice when they are done. And then, they are not done any more, and we don't even know it till we force ourselves to think about it. And it's too painful to think about, so we try not to.

Sometimes, we are in such a hurry to get our children to the point where they can do everything for themselves that we forget to think about how very much we love to do these things for them.

Wash them. Brush their hair. Rub lotion all over their beautiful little bodies. Make everything better with a kiss or hug.

And then, before we know it, they're washing themselves. Brushing their own hair. And we haven't seen their bodies since. . . . well, we can't REMEMBER the last time.

If we knew that any gesture, word, deed, or ritual would be the last time, our hearts could not bear it.

That is probably why we don't know.

Posted by Mamacita at 7:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | 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" »

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 3:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

The hardest part of motherhood for me--excluding the physical toll on my body-- is the emotional weight being a parent carries with it. Whenever my kids hurt, I hurt. Suddenly, my heart needs to have the capacity to hurt and rejoice for not only my own life, but for the lives of each of my children. As much as I have tried to tell myself that they have to live their own lives and own their own hurts, I can't help but hurt with them when something goes wrong. By the same token, I also have the ability to love in capacities I never knew existed before having children. With each child I wondered how I could ever love another child as much as the next. Then when child number two was born I realized the ability for my heart to love expanded beyond anything I had known. After 5 years of just having two children, I knew that my heart could not possibly be able to expand even more to fully love a third child. Yet, my heart fooled me and expanded to fill with unlimited amounts of devotion and love once again.

But the hardest part of motherhood for me has been knowing when to let my children own their own hurt and when to try to protect them. I learned this lesson the hard way. It was a complete trial by fire when my own Mom became sick and then later passed away. I wanted to do everything to keep them from the intense pain of that loss. I didn't want their safe world to no longer feel safe. But honesty had to win out. And then, though my heart was broken, I found a way to take on as much as their pain as I could. I reassured as much as I could. I gave them as much comfort as I had within me. And it was hard. I was empty and yet I had to find a way to give support and love and comfort to my children.

We got through it. In the 6 months since my mother passed away, we have found ourselves in a new groove and it is working.

And then another phone call came that again has rocked our world.

And I am torn. Torn between being totally upfront. Torn between half truths or full disclosure. Torn between letting them in on scary realities or soft spoken reassurances. Again, my heart has to find a new way around possbile life changing events. Frankly, I don't know how to do it. I immediately called one of my closest friends and did the initial freaking out. I cried, "I just got my feet back on solid ground only to find out it might be ice!"

What do you do as the emotional support to so many when you feel your own stability slipping from your grip? I don't really have the answer, but I can say that I am holding on tight and praying that I know what to say, what to do and how to handle it in the best possible way.

The hardest part of becoming a mother for me has been the emotional part that is required and that we are blessed with as parents. A heart meant for one that has become a heart that feels for four. It has been the most challenging yet rewarding parts of motherhood. And yet, I still struggle with it. Daily. Especially when I feel the ground beneath me rumble once again.

What about you? What has been the hardest part of motherhood for you?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night after I gave Maggie a bath and put her to bed, I met some friends out for a beer at a local dive bar. It is the best kind of dive bar, where shady characters mingle with twenty somethings, and the average age of the folks bellied-up to the bar is about 50. A real dive bar complete with the stink, and the smoke, and the sticky tables.

An acquaintance once told me that being in bars like that made her sad. This same person is also said to have the ability to see into people. She can often tell them surprisingly accurate things about their inner selves and their past lives, and about angels that follow them wherever they go. She has the ability to see all sorts of wild things that my concrete mind has a hard time grasping. She said there is too much darkness in places like that. I think I understand what she meant. Dive bars are fun in your twenties. When you are older (like me), they can be fun just for the novelty factor. However the thought of being a permanent fixture in a place like that is really quite depressing.

Bars like that are for people trapped in limbo. For people who have sad stories to tell, who can’t seem to climb out from under their own personal tragedies. People go there to numb themselves to pain. In doing so, they also numb themselves to life’s more remarkable offerings like unadulterated joy and peace. I think those barflies were the people my gifted acquaintance was talking about.

The conversation at the gunky table in the smelly bar somehow turned to James Frey’s book “A Million Little Pieces”. We are all probably aware of the controversy surrounding the book, and quite frankly, sick of hearing about it. I read the book long before it was featured on “Oprah” and long before anyone knew that a number of the details were shamelessly embellished. The story moved me, plain and simple. I have always been fascinated by the ways through which people struggle to accommodate their bad with their good. I believe that each of us has to acknowledge and accept our imperfections, and the dark, tarry, sticky things in our hearts in order to be at peace. The icky things we don’t like to acknowledge, because they frighten us and make us ashamed. In the book, James Frey (or his character, whichever you believe) came to terms with those demons. He learned to accept the insidious parts of himself, and in doing so, revealed the beauty of ugliness.

Steinbeck’s “East of Eden” is another one of my favorite books. I don’t think a person can be real until they acknowledge and accept those dank parts of themselves. When we embrace the pieces of ourselves that are decidedly un-beautiful, we give ourselves a chance to experience joy in its most real, imperfect form. I suspect that the true barflies in dive bars are stuck somewhere in that process. Mired in the fear phase of the journey, they seek out anesthetic because they feel overwhelmed and ashamed.

The conversation about addiction and recovery turned very personal when a good friend of mine admitted that she struggled with two particular people she loved very much, who were immersed in addiction. She admitted that she loved them even though doing so caused her pain. She couldn’t stop caring even though it was excruciating to witness their self-destruction. She had taken actions to separate herself from them, but still hurt for them. This friend of mine has been through life’s wringer several times, having survived the death of her fiancé and the drug addiction of another love she had to let go in the end. She let him go because she had to choose herself.

I thought of a time when Maggie was not even a week old. I was exhausted and immersed in post-partum blues and insecurity. I felt totally overwhelmed by motherhood and my responsibility for this beautiful tiny human who was my daughter. I sat on the couch and cried big fat tears that were propelled from somewhere deep in the recesses of my soul. I couldn’t stop them. They had a sad song of their own to sing and a life all their own. I was overcome with fear for my daughter. I was terrified of the things in her future that I couldn’t control. I understood that I was helpless to stop things that could hurt her and cause her pain. Things that would damn near kill me to witness. “What if she gets cancer?” I sobbed. “What if she becomes a drug addict and I can’t help her?”. It felt like my insides were being pulled out of me and exposed to the cold air of the world, inside-out. I felt more powerless and fearful than I have ever felt in my life.

Loving people can be awful sometimes.

It takes guts and massive bravery to love another human being. In loving we make ourselves vulnerable to having our delicate hearts ripped right out of our ribcages. We take enormous risk in loving. At the same time, we open ourselves up to massive unimaginable joy. When I was pregnant with my daughter I thought about the kind of person I hoped she would be. I realized all the things that could go wrong. As her mother, I have always understood that it’s my job to love and accept her regardless of what life brings our way. I promised myself I would never forget for a moment that bringing her into the world was my decision, and that she will be whoever she ends up to be. And I will love her unconditionally.

I hope my daughter doesn’t end up a barfly in a dank, sticky dive bar. Addiction runs in my family. So does depression. These are things I can only protect her from to a certain degree. I hope I can teach my daughter to be kind to herself. I hope she is better able to acknowledge and accept the things in her soul that make her imperfect and human than I have been. I hope she can see the beauty and brutal honesty in imperfection. I hope my daughter knows that regardless of what life brings our way, that I love her. Even if loving her breaks my heart, and I am certain that at some point it will, that my choice to love her has opened up doors of pure joy in my heart that I never knew existed. That even if my child ends up a barfly in a dive bar, she will be a barfly whose mother loves her. I will never regret opening myself up to that kind of risk. Ever.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

On Saturday, my oldest will turn seven. S to the E to the V-E-N.

Everybody throw your hands in the air and bounce with me!

When I was struggling through the terrible "threes" with this girl of mine, my friends with older children all shrugged and smiled. "Just wait until she turns six. Six is a thousand times worse than three. You'll see."

I shot these know-it-all, so-called friends looks that should have melted their faces off, had they not been battle- hardened by blasts of fury from their own years with a six-year-old. I mean, come on. What could be worse than a three-year-old, face down on the mall floor, shattering the light fixtures with her shrieks?

Someone once told me that every other year is a great one. Which means that the in-between years suck. The first year was tough. The second, not so bad. Three was a tantrum-fueled ride. At four we had a good year. When she turned five, it was still good. Great! We broke the pattern! Smooth sailing, people.

And then she turned six. Have mercy.

This last year has seen the rise of The Drama to new heights. I was misled by her apparent understanding of the basics for getting along in this world. She understood it, sure. And she hated it. Why must she be a commoner? Where is her staff? Why has her royal family abandoned her with these people who look like her, and yet do not accept her for who she is? Why? WHY?

As the school work picked up, and the group of friends she made in kindergarten were scattered into four different classrooms, she has struggled to find a happy balance. She has grown tremendously this year, socially, emotionally and physically, and every little gain was hard-won. This has been a painful year, judging from all the outbursts and tears.

She stood in front of me this morning, face beaming and flashed me seven long fingers, a physical trait passed on from her father, along with her perfect, cookie-ears and pointed chin. Her excitement is contagious. I shot my stubby fingers into the air, copying her stance. We stood there, hip jutted forward, shoulders back with giant grins and seven wiggling fingers.

It feels like spring has finally arrived, and my girl is blooming again. Maybe all that lucky seven nonsense isn't so ridiculous after all.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Nothing makes me want to burst into a fountain of sloppy tears more than seeing my daughter hurt. My heart gets pulled up into my throat and makes me choke, and I find myself wheezing for air. I get tunnel vision. All activity stops dead in its tracks. Seeing her injured just about kills me.

I don’t know how it happened, but Sunday at my parents, right after I managed to down half my weight in cheese and olives, but just before the Superbowl started, my daughter fell and hurt her leg. I didn’t see it happen. She was wearing her pink cowboy boots, and was surrounded by her doting cousins and aunts, who she especially likes to show off for. Apparently she got a little cheeky, and tried to defy the unforgiving laws of gravity. I was told she just kind of fell and her leg kind of went out, and she kind of landed on top of it.

You wouldn’t have known she was hurt by her expression. She was her usual kamikaze self, and too busy getting into three things at once to cry about a silly old malfunctioning leg. But she was limping badly, and every few steps her leg would buckle underneath her, and she would fall over. Watching her stuggle made every cell in my body grimace. I followed her around, grim-faced, observing carefully to see if I noticed any improvement. I didn’t. She continued her crazy cock-eyed walk. Then every few steps, her leg buckled again, and down she went. She looked up at me as though to say “What the heck is going on? I had this walking thing figured out just a minute ago..Help me!”

There have been a few occasions since having Maggie when I have wanted someone to tell me what to do. When my first instinct was to freeze up. Times when I wanted to flop to the floor and assume the fetal position. Times when I felt frightened and cowardly. Times when I desperately wanted someone else to take charge and tell me what to do. When your baby is sick or hurt, and you are scared and trying not to panic, a minute lasts an hour. That strange pocket of time when you know something is wrong, but haven't yet decided how severe it is, or what to do about it. It's easy to be overwhelmed because that sick or injured little human is the center of your universe. I don't think there is anything more frightening to a mother than the sight of her injured child. Then the realization sets in. I am the mommy. The buck stops at me. And you have to make a decision. You have to stay calm, take charge, and do the right thing.

There was the time she couldn’t keep fluids down and became sunken-eyed and lethargic. It was awful. I wasn't sure if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe she was fine, and I was a crazy overzealous mother. I agonized for a minute (although it felt like a year) and decided to err on the side of caution. We ended up taking her to the doctor who sent us right to the hospital so she could be treated for dehydration. There was the time we had to decide whether or not to fit her for a helmet for the worsening flat spot on the back of her head. Maggie had developed Plagiocephaly (flat-head) on the right side of her skull. One ear was crawling up higher and higher on one side and her forehead was starting to stick out. The doctor told us we could do it, or not do it. Again, I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but the decision was ours. We ended up deciding to have her fitted for a helmet which she wore for months, and her head rounded out eventually.

Here I was again, floundering between overreacting and taking her to the emergency room, or waiting it out to see if her leg got better on its own. I waffled back and forth, and finally decided I couldn’t take it another minute. The limping was tearing my heart to pieces. My perfect little girl just wasn’t walking right, and I had to find out if it was something big, or something little. My sister Betsy offered to come along, and off we went to go to Urgent care.

Maggie was not the least bit fazed by her injury. The waiting room had an enormous fish tank. Maggie’s idea of the heaven on earth is any place there is fish tank. Betsy parked the car while I got registered and tried to keep ahold of Maggie, who screamed and flailed in agony, wailing and extending her arms desperately towards the towering tank of her chosen creatures. Her fishies. Betsy arrived just as the child's head was about to explode, and took the sobbing toddler from my arms and mercifully, towards the tank where she smiled and stood, mouth agape. Mesmerized, she repeated “Shishee! Shishee!” Over and over again.

We were called in to a room where a rather stern nurse ordered us NOT to spin Maggie in the Doctors chair. By the way, any doctor or nurse who leaves you in a room for an extended period of time with a toddler, and then instructs you to not let said toddler play with something that is A. within their reach, and B. utterly irresistible to them, should be beaten within an inch of their life with a tongue depressor. And a rubber glove.

The doctor eventually walked in and checked out wee Madge. He pulled her legs this way and that, and observed her limp for himself. He bent her knees and rotated her hips, and finally pronounced her not broken or maimed. I was happy, if not slightly embarrassed by my apparent over-reaction to a twisted ankle. I could have a bone sticking out of my own leg, and I would refuse to go to the emergency room, but I am not taking any chances with that sweet girl. I needed to know that she was okay.

I know that wasn't the last time. There are many cuts and bruises in our future. I can handle cuts and bruises just fine on my own. I can handle the pedestrian fever or vomit like a seasoned veteran. I predict, though, that each time I find myself in that bizarre time warp of uncertainty, trying to decide how seriously to take the medical emergency at hand, I will err on the side of caution. I have no problem running the risk of being accused of having Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy. I am just fine with being crazy, as long as I know my baby girl is okay.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 6:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was first asked to join the Mommybloggers at BlogHer ’05, I never thought about the name “mommyblogger.” I was a mom. I blog. It never occurred to me that I should ponder and think hard on the name. It was just the session name. And, really, what power does a name have until you give it power?

As a young girl around 5 or 6 years old, I was a huge fan of Little House on the Prairie. (What? It was way cool back then!) I remember so vividly standing before my parents one night after getting my hour fill of life in Walnut Grove. “From now on, I am going to call you Ma and Pa,” I declared defiantly. I struck the perfect pose: hands on my hips, little chin stuck proudly in the air, swiftly blowing the hair from my eyes that had fallen out of my crooked ponytail.

“You are?” Mom asked. “How long are we doing this?”

“Until forever. Or until I forget.” (I think it lasted about a week. At most.)

I was probably 8 or 9 when I realized that I was a big girl and that big girls say “Mom” and not “Mommy”. I broke it to her as gently as I could one morning on the way to school.

“I think I should call you Mom now. I mean, I am almost 10. And that is practically a teenager. So, I just wanted to tell you that. Umm, okay, so…uhhh..it’s ‘Mom’ now.”

Mom smiled at me and leaned over a little bit to whisper to me. “But maybe, if we are all alone, you could sometimes call me Mommy?”

After thinking on it, I agreed that only if we were alone.

With teen years came hormones and angst (as most teen years are apt to bring with them). And of course, another name change. Mommy/Ma/Mom became “Mothhheerrrrrrrrr!” [Insert same pose as the 5 year old with hands defiantly on hips and chin stuck in the air.] It really is only effective coming from the grating voice of an angst-y teen, but you get the idea. And honestly, I had so much fun with my Mom that she did not often get “Motthhhhherrrrrrrr.” It was usually only when she disagreed with what was so obviously my correct opinion on something (as opposed to her so obviously incorrect opinion.) She was just Mom.

As I grew older and life became harder, I will admit to the occasional slip back to “Mommy.” In fact, she was the first person I called when I found out Jacob had died and I didn’t miss a beat. The instant I heard her voice, I burst into tears and cried out “Mommy, I need you.” Twenty-one years old and I never gave it a second thought. I needed her just as much as that little girl who first called her “Mommy” did.

In my Mom’s last days, a name didn’t matter. The power that was behind it is what mattered. When we were alone I stayed true to my promise from all those years ago. As I laid my head beside hers on her pillow or when I held her hand and pressed it to my face, it was not the name “Mommy” that made us both cry. It was the power behind it. The power I gave it. The power she received from it.

Don’t think for an instance when the grief I feel now overwhelms me that I am wishing for my Mom or my Ma or my Motthhhheerrrrr. I want my Mommy. And all that it entails.

So really, what is in a name? Nothing. Until you give it power and meaning. Only then will it make a difference.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

If there is anyone reading this who does not feel a tiny bit strange stomping their feet, singing happy birthday and shouting “hooray!” along with a poor soul in a mouse costume, a handful of three-year-olds, and a group of men and women you have seen put more beer away than you can count, please raise your hand. Because I was recently right there, and it struck me as just about the oddest thing I have ever experienced.

Last night my husband and I attended the birthday party of our friends three year old daughter. The party took place at a local pizza parlor, marketed to children. An establishment not only marketed to children, but also to the parents of children who see the clear and obvious value of throwing a birthday party for 8 kids at someone else’s place. Where the cake, food, and paper party-ware are included, and someone else cleans up. It was the kind of place where the kids are given fistfuls of tokens and are sent off to busy themselves with video games and seizure-inducing flashing lights. What in the world is not to like about that? I, for one, can certainly see the appeal.

In attendance were several men and women I have known since long before they were married and had children. Men and women I have traveled with, played with and partied with for years. And there we all were, laden with baby bjorns, donning diaper bags, wearing silly expressions and dancing with giant cartoon characters.

So, when did this happen to us? I wonder if, a decade ago, I would have ever thought I would be sitting at a table with a toddler in my lap, looking at my good friend dancing enthusiastically with her daughter and an enormous mouse. This is the very same friend whose grandmother once dragged her out of a keg party in front of our entire high school. My good friend who one day after school, snuck her grandma’s car silently down the alley in neutral, and drove me home from her house a solid 2 years before she was old enough to get her drivers license. She was fearless, and she was either always in trouble, or avoiding trouble by sheer luck and the skin of her teeth. And there she was, beaming and dancing away with her pre-school daughter who was also beaming and dancing. And it was a beautiful sight to behold.

As I looked around the room at my friends, I wanted to laugh. Not because of the sillyness of it all (and it is really kind of silly), but because of how funny it is the way life changes when you have children. My friends and I might have looked at a group of people like us years ago, looked at each other, and mouthed the word “LOSERS!” My GOD would that have looked lame to us back then. We would have mocked us mercilessly.

But the fact of the matter is that when you have children, you do things that feel silly simply because it makes them happy. Seeing them smile is worth making a fool of yourself. You do it because you love them. And you really don’t care if the barely twenty-somethings are pointing and laughing at you. Because you know how much they have to learn about life, and you remember the days when you were the one doing the pointing and laughing.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, a client of mine, who is the father of twins, told me that life does not end when you become a parent. You just have what he eloquently called “a different kind of fun”. So the keg stands have morphed into jitterbugging with a giant mouse named Chuck. The beer is often times replaced with fruit punch, and we no longer have to sneak our parent’s cars out of the driveway. The thrill is not so much in getting away with things we might get into trouble for. The thrill lies in things that are yet to be. The firsts for our children, and the proud smiles that beam from their faces like white light become the thrilling moments. First steps, first words, first day of school, first ride on the bike without training wheels, first day of college, and maybe someday, our children’s first moments as parents.

So there we all were, having a “different kind of fun” with our children and, presumably, a teenager making minimum wage in a large mouse costume. And I was happy because the three-year-old birthday girl was happy, and my daughter Maggie was happy. Besides, we can still get our grooves on, as veterans, in our own right. We just have to make sure we have sitters lined up.

But we don’t ever point and laugh, because we know an infinitely greater amount of humility now than we did then. Children have a way of teaching you that.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

My biggest fear in life used to be that I would die before I became a mother. I was terrified I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer, or hit by a bus, or eaten by a shark before I ever got down to the business of getting married and having babies. I was afraid I would never find the right man to marry. I worried I would miss "the window" for getting pregnant. I worried that I would have to figure out a way to have a child on my own if I didn't meet someone I wanted to spend my life with. It seemed like I wanted to be a mother so badly that it was bound to get bungled up somehow.

I look back on that time and I laugh. How funny it is to me now. I thought I knew what fear was back then. I know now that you really can't grasp the true potential of terror until you become a parent.

Back then I thought I would be really good at this whole motherhood shtick. I was certain I would just glide into my new role as a parent, cooing, soothing, and burping all the way. Like a pro. Overconfidence and obliviousness made me shortsighted. I laugh at that now too.

I was 31 years old when Jim and I got married. We got pregnant about 2 months later. It happened that fast. I secretly enjoyed watching people doing the math in their heads when they first learned that I was pregnant. I would coach them. "She will be born two weeks before our first anniversary". Twelve months minus one month is eleven months. Eleven. Not eight. Eleven.

I looked forward to meeting my daughter. I wanted to be done with the whole pregnancy thing and just get on with it already. My fears about missing the opportunity to have a child disappeared into the breeze as I neared my due date.

Then Maggie was born, and "the fear" came back. But it was different. It had grown teeth and claws. It was bigger and scarier than before. It had morphed into something else entirely.

My visceral reaction to the new title of mother surprised me. Those were the "deer in the headlights" days. I thought I would be a natural with an infant. I wasn’t. At all. I was awkward and jumpy and nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It felt like everyone could tell how clueless I was. I had created an imaginary audience and they didn’t think much of my performance. I was about to be booed off stage. They were on the verge of lobbing rotten vegetables at me. It felt like I was being judged by everyone. I didn't have a frigging clue what I was doing. I was a fraud and they knew it.

I didn’t feel ready for the responsibility of another human. Not just any human but an itty bitty human who could poop and cry and eat and breathe but couldn’t do much else. A little human whose mother was ME. ME. I was responsible for the physical and emotional development of a baby who would grow to be an adult. And I was doing a terrible job. T here was no turning back. I was in it, and I was in it deep.

It felt like Maggie and I weren’t connected the way mothers and newborns are supposed to be . I was going through the motions of feeding and holding and burping, but she didn’t know me from Adam. It creeped me out when I would go to her bassinet and find her trying to nurse the side of it. She didn't know me from her bassinet. What the Hell was wrong with me? I was an abysmal failure. I was failing my daughter. I was afraid I would never be a good mother. I was afraid Maggie would suffer because if it.

I was in bad shape. Toss in sleep depravation, a whole lot of stitches, a body that I no longer recognized and jacked up hormones and I was a mess. I practiced what you might call "fake it ‘til you make it" (a very useful coping strategy), we got into a routine, and things eventually started feeling a little better. Closer to normal at least.

And then the fear. It came back. And this time it was bigger than I ever imagined.

I fell in love with my daughter. I was swept away in absolute adoration. And that scared the motherloving crap out of me. When you love a child that much, they become more that mere flesh and blood. That baby is so much more than brain synapses and dendrite connections. More than their collective parts and movements and noises and expressions. That little person becomes the center of your world. They change you. They alter your body chemistry and your brain. They become part of who you are. They move right on into your heart and they never ever leave. When I felt the magnitude of that, fear gripped me like a vice. It crushed my lungs so I couldn't breathe. It buckled my knees getting out of the tub. It made me so cold my stomach turned.

My thoughts went all panicky and herky-jerky.

"What if something happens to her? What if she gets cancer? What if she becomes addicted to drugs and I can't help her? What if we get raided by terrorists and Jim and I are killed and can't be here to protect her? How would she survive? How can I prepare her now for possibilities like that?"

The world. It had me by the balls. I kept thinking to myself "I am so screwed".

I found myself obsessing about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. I wanted to set up camp next to her bassinet and monitor every breath. I wanted to check on her every 5 minutes every night. I would startle awake if she slept too long and think to myself "She could be dead right now. Please don't let her be dead." And I would hurry to her room to find her sleeping peacefully. I actually considered the pros and cons of staying up all night every night staring at her, just to make sure she was okay. It was about then that I realized that in addition to needing more sleep, I needed to let go a little and have some faith. I am not the worlds most trusting person, so just having faith was no small feat.

I found myself making deals with God.

"Okay God. I officially surrender. You've got me. Remember all that time when I wasn't sure if you existed or not? I am sorry. All those times I have used your name in vain? Sorry about that too. You know this baby I have wanted for basically my entire life? Her existence is all the proof I need that you are for real. I didn't really get it before. I do now. I require no further education, so if you were thinking of teaching me a lesson you don't need to. I have learned my lesson. Really. In case you didn't know (oh that's right , you're omniscient) if anything happens to her I don't think I would ever recover. Ever. My soul would be decimated. You've got me, and you've got me big time. You are one hundred percent in charge. No kidding. I finally get it. So please, please, please, have mercy on my heathen soul and keep this child safe from harm. I will do my best as an earth-dwelling human to keep her out of danger. If you could take care of the fate, disaster, apocalypse part of the equation I will be forever grateful. Thanks."

Maggie is fourteen months now, and still alive (Thanks, God). I don't worry as much as I used to. "the fear" doesn't grip me as often as it used to. Perhaps I have learned not to turn my brain to that station. Perhaps I get wrapped up in the day-to-day tasks and routines of parenthood. Perhaps I just take things for granted. It does creep up on me once in a while though, and the fear is just as overpowering and as menacing as I remember.

A friend of mine e-mailed me a quote from the book "Operating Instructions" by Anne Lamott. It reads : "one of the worst things about being a parent is being face to face with one's secret insanity". That pretty well sums it up. Although my insanity doesn't seem to be a secret anymore . I am one crazy momma.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

I left for the infamous Blogher conference on a Friday. Jim was out of town and getting ready to leave for my trip whilst chasing Madge around proved to be a taxing endeavor indeed. I got her ready for her weekend of adoration, first by one grandmother and then the other. At the airport, I said goodbye to my daughter in her car seat. She was wiggling and whining and looked at me like she didn’t know me from the mailman. She was cranky. I got no love at all. Walking through the double automatic doors towards my flight check in and 3 days of freedom, I was surprised by the unexpected pang in my heart.

I had anticipated a gleeful rush of “Halle-freaking-lujah! I’m Free!!!! No diaper bag to lug! No atomic poopy butts to wipe! Woohoo! ”

Instead, I found it hard to breathe and my eyes stung with tears.

What if she was confused by her new surroundings? What if the teeth she was cutting bothered her? What if her runny nose turned into a full fledged cold? What if she cried and cried and I wasn’t there to calm her down?

I was one of those people that just didn’t quite take to motherhood right out of the gates. I was awkward and I felt not-right and off balance. I didn’t know this baby girl at all, and every time I went to retrieve her from her bassinette, and found her trying to nurse the side of it I felt nauseated. What did she want from me? What did she need from me? I was ashamed that I didn’t have a white-light experience the moment I became a mother. I didn’t hear a choir singing the hallelujah chorus the moment I first laid eyes on her. Frankly, I felt panicky and anxious. I didn’t know what to do.

I remember a morning about a week after Maggie was born. She was not able to latch on to breastfeed, and I was trying to pump milk for her. I was living in a stranger's body. I was attached to this milking machine and it felt more foreign and awkward than anything I have expereinced. I sat, pumping and stared wistfully out the window at my neighbors. I watched them doing normal things like mowing the lawn and bringing groceries in. I thought to myself “How nice for them, doing normal things like normal people.” I wasn’t sure what I was feeling but I was certain it was not normal. I had a machine attached to my boobs and Maggie laid, tiny in her crib like some Romanian orphan. It felt like my life was over.

I tried in earnest to see to all of my motherly duties with care and thoroughness. I made sure I did everything I was supposed to. In the back of my mind though, I was terrified. I was scared out of my everloving mind that things would never feel right. I was afraid I would forever be some crazy, detached mom who was always forced and awkward with Maggie. What if I could never distinguish a hungry cry from a cranky cry? What if my inability to feel in sync with her scarred for life? Would her relationship with her father be enough? I felt like everyone could tell I was struggling. I felt like a fraud. I felt like a horrible mother.

It didn’t change in a day. It actually took a few months to feel connected to my daughter. To fall in love with her. I don’t know if that’s bad, or if it comes as a shock to anyone, but it is the truth.

So, Friday morning I sat on the plane and cried real, surprising tears because I missed my daughter. I missed her so much it hurt. I was taken aback by the open floodgate of my own sadness, and by the overwhelming anxiety I had leaving her. It was oddly very reassuring. I am normal! Perhaps overly attached! Hooray! I am miserable!

Late afternoon at the Blogher conference I saw a man holding a baby girl. I blinked and shook my head. It looked like my daughter. I STARED. I wanted to run across the room and get a closer look. No… It couldn’t possibly be….. It was the spitting image of Maggie. Hair, eyes, everything. It was surreal. I was afraid the man holding her would notice I was gaping and think I was some kind of mommystalker. I had to go over and see her close up after the final comments at the Blogher wrap up. No, it was not my daughter, but she DID look a lot like Maggie.

I got home Sunday night and crept into Maggie’s room to look at her as she slept. I stopped breathing for a moment and my stomach jumped. OH MY GOD WHO REPLACED MY LITTLE BABY WITH A 27 POUND ELEVEN MONTH OLD Who WALKS?? She looked HUGE. She was lying on her back with her arms sprawled out. She filled up half the crib. It was alarming how big she looked to me. I accidentally-on-purpose woke her up so I could hold her and rock her. My little amazon baby. I can’t remember anything ever feeling so good. Or right. Or perfect. EVER.

Originally posted on I'm Ablogging on August 2, 2005

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been manic the last couple of days - and my kids are starting to lose patience with my sorry self. I've told them "No. Not now. Mommy's busy. I can't. I don't. Later. Wait."

I know I've been expecting a lot, and giving the bare minimum. I have a lot of catch up work to do, and while I sit in front of the computer trying to deliver some of the work I've promised to other people, my children have been repeatedly pushed away. Chubby hands reach for the mouse in frustration, and I have found myself snarling at the owner of those delicious dimples "don't touch."

My youngest is going through a big indentifying phase. Everything gets a label, and she usually prefaces the label with "My." My shoes. My toy. My house.

She managed to clamber up into my lap while I tried in vain to continue typing. She sucked her thumb and rested her cheek against my chest as I tried to work around her. After a minute or two of that, I began to gather her up into my arms so that I could once again find another place to put her, away from my working zone.

She grabbed both my ears in her tiny talons and put her nose to my nose and said "My. Mommy." I couldn't help it. I just started to cry. I don't know how work (on jobs other than parenting and housekeeping) at home parents do it. I settled myself on the couch with my baby clinging to me, with a ferociousness that let me know I've put her down and walked away one too many times in the last couple of days.

We sat there, just leaning on each other, breathing in tandem. My son approached, and quietly sat next to me and pulled my arm around his shoulders. He melted into my side and we just sat quietly together. Both kids gave me gentle, almost subconcious kisses on my arms, my shoulders, whatever they could reach. It was a benediction, full of the promise of forgiveness for the lack of care I sometimes take with the precious gifts I have been given.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on January 11, 2005

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

My darling girl,

Tomorrow is your sixth birthday, as you are well aware. You have been counting down the days for a year, imagining the New and Wonderful Things that your sixth year will bring.

As for me, I can't say I'm as thrilled. I mean, I am excited, but wistful in a way that is all too familiar over these last few years.

From the moment I knew you were on your way into this world, I was consumed with that precious knowledge. I held my banner high, letting the world know that I was ready to be a mother. I spent impatient months waiting to 'show' - jealous of other moms-to-be whose glorious round bellies collided with displays of baby paraphenalia at Target.

With my characteristic bravado, I assumed that I already had all the tools and faculties to birth and raise a child. I read a few books, took a birth class (which was more for the hubs, frankly) but overall, I was brimming with confidence. Instead of pouring over books on babies, I spent my time shopping for baby gear.

Oh yes. The SHOPPING. We had every gadget and bauble that I could lay hands on. My husband shook his head as every corner of our apartment took on the appearance of a display aisle at Babies R Us. Months before your birth, we had enough clothes stockpiled to dress you in a different outfit every day of your first three years.

At my 40 week checkup, the day before your due date, I bent to tie my shoes after the doctor left the exam room and felt my membranes rupture. I decided not to tell Daddy just yet, and we returned home. Within an hour, I was contracting away, and several hours later, we headed to the hospital.

When you were born in the wee hours of the next morning, it was a magical moment in time. As the exhaustion gave way to elation, I was confident and proud. In other words, I was a delusional rookie.

You received the dubious benefit of my overzealous parenting. Before your brother and sister came along, I turned my mother high-beams on you, and documented every wiggle, every sigh. It was very important to me that I have a ready, understandable reason for everything that happened. If you cried, I wanted an explanation, and I wanted to share it with the world, to prove that I had mothering chops.

Along the way, you taught me that although we may be housemates, we were destined to butt heads. You are adventurous, creative, determined and sensitive. Your laugh never fails to make my toes curl, and your 'angry' face is the best I've ever seen. When you cry those giant crocodile tears and I can hear the hurt radiating from your very core, I open my arms and you crawl up into my lap and rest your firm, wet cheek against mine. Somehow, that makes it better, and honestly, it's as close to holy as I can imagine, feeling the energy change as your tears dry and your breathing slows. I'm not worthy of the power you give me.

Your face is more familiar than my own. You are my own flesh and blood, and yet you are surprising and wonderous. When you sleep with your butt in the air, knees curled underneath your body and arms thrown overhead in an exaggerated Child's Pose, I can glimpse the tiny baby I brought home six years ago. When you give me that look, the one that so often is accompanied by "Mo-om!" I can see the baby on the changing table who was so sure that all the other babies got the smart parents, and she alone was sent home with the half-wits.

You, more than anything else, have made me, well, ME. I used to credit my strengths and blame my weaknesses on my years as a stubborn child, my experiences as a young woman, my travels, my loving and traumatic relationships. Being your mother has brought me to my knees in thanks and in shame. I have been humbled like never before and have been filled with an exhiliration so great I wanted to shout my joy in giant swooping phrases, maybe while twirling a baton. Ooh! Or one of those rhythmic gymnastic ribbons. Yes, tumbling about shouting with one in each hand.

Over these six years, I discovered a raw heart beating inside my armadillo-like exterior. Mothering makes me FEEL in a very physical way. I used to pride myself on being able to detach emotionally, on letting the little indignities roll off my back. Now I well up and spill over at parades. And fireworks. And while talking about you. I'm so very proud of you.

I will always hold the baby-you close to my heart. My eyes seek her out, finding her at unexpected times as you continue to amaze me with all the growing and learning and challenging and adventuring you do. You've got a zest for life, a spring in your step and a song in your heart. You have always had it, and I feel charged to protect and nurture that spark. Except at certain times, like waiting in line and at formal dinners. Then you can tone it down a bit.

With every passing year, I find myself saying "This is my favorite age!" and it's true. I just keep loving you more. Happiness and health to you, my darling girl. All my love.

originally published on Three Kid Circus March 24, 2005

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't think anyone was more shocked by the fact that I was pregnant than I was. Okay, maybe Clint was too. We certainly weren't trying to get pregnant. I was on the pill for crying out loud. We lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment the size of a shoebox (or so it felt!) To say that we were unprepared would be an understatement. However, we began to get used to the idea of our baby. We didn't have 2 pennies to rub together, but we managed to get me some pretty decent maternity clothes. We took walks everyday. We even gave into my frequent cravings. The pregnancy was pretty textbook. Morning sickness the first 3 months and then feeling great!

At the time, Clint was working a lot of hours and I was working part time as a receptionist. With crazy schedules, he rarely was able to go to any doctor's appointments with me. I eagerly shared everything with him the moment I got home. We must've watched our sonogram tape a hundred times. We were officially in love with this baby...this boy (as we came to find out about halfway through the pregnancy.)

So finally, as I reached my seventh month, Clint was able to go to the doctor with me to hear the heartbeat and just share it with me. It was a normal appointment. I was measuring smaller than I should, but the doctor didn't seem worried. I asked if he could use the doppler so that we could hear the heartbeat.

The doctor rolled it across my belly. Nothing. Again. Nothing. He began to look worried. "I'm sure everything is fine, but procedure says we need to do a sonogram to ensure we can see the heartbeat." But I knew. I knew everything was not alright. If I close my eyes and remember, I am right back in that room with that sinking feeling of all innocence and joy being sucked out of me.

As soon as the image popped up on the sonogram screen, we knew. No heartbeat. Everything in my world stopped in that moment. I don't remember a lot of the next few moments. I remember the nurse trying to comfort me. I actually punched her to make her go away. If she comforted me, that would make this real. I didn't want it to be real.

We were scheduled to go home and come back the next morning to labor and delivery. I begged the doctor to either do it right then or do a c-section or something. He said it was safest for me to go through labor. I was devestated.

I don't know how I made it through that long night. It was the most torturous, agonizing night of my life. The next day, my parents and Clint's parents came to the hospital to be there for me. They did one final sonogram to make sure and then began the pitocin to start my labor. Eight hours later, Jacob was born. I never got to hold him. I never got to see him. I just gave into the strong medicines they had been giving me all day and passed out into a deep, sad sleep.

We didn't know what had happened. An autopsy showed nothing was wrong with him. It wasn't until later, when we were brave enough to talk about someday trying again, that I decided to go through testing to see if it was something preventable in future pregnancies. The most amazing doctor ever (one of my heros) took me into his practice and ran a number of tests on me when I was not pregnant, to compare to when I was pregnant.

Many months later, when I I found out I was pregnant again, my doctor ran the same tests. We had found our culprit. I had a condition known as antiphospholipid antibody syndrome. Had we not lost Jacob, I may never have known about it. Had we not tested me, we probably would've lost Kidlet Sr. too. However, since we knew, we could help this pregnancy along. In order to save the baby I was pregnant with this time, I took one baby aspirin a day. One. To save his life. And it worked. Kidlet Sr. was born healthy and safely. Each pregnancy became harder and harder on my body. By the time I was pregnant with Little Diva, I was taking heparin shots and on bedrest too keep her safe.

I'm often asked about whether or not I still think about Jacob. I do. I still hurt for the baby I wanted so badly and loved so much. Days like today, his birthday, I think about the "should've beens" and the "what if's". I don't stay there too long. It would hurt too much.

So today, by sharing his story with you, he goes on. Now you know Jacob and will remember him, too.

Originally appeared on Mommy Needs Coffee on April 07, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

There is an aspect to this motherhood thing that few people are willing to talk about. Sure, if I say it outloud many of you will probably nod your head in the solitude of your own home and agree. Some of you may even shout out an "Amen sistah!" And yet, a few out there may look at their computer in total confusion. (Those of you who do that, you may just want to go read a warm fuzzy parenting story. This isn't for you.)

Some days, I just don't like the job. I look around and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I thought that being a mom would be the greatest and easiest job in the world. For the most part, it is the greatest job in the world. (We won't even go into how naive I was to think any part of it would be easy. That is just sad!) But there are days this job just sucks.

There. I said it.

I have been in that place the last few days. For example, this morning, when I heard Little Diva waking up and calling for me, well, let's just say I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. In fact, I wanted to smash the monitor and go back to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't the children that I am disenchanted with right now. It is the job. The work. The nonstop being on duty. The neverending demands on my time, my energy, my funds and my sanity, not to mention my sleep. (We'll get to that one.) By the time the day is nearing an end and it is time to put the kids to bed for the night, there is very little desire for one on one time. The only person I want to be alone with after 16 hours on the job is myself. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have even yelled in the general direction of their bedrooms (more than once) that they "better not get up unless there is blood, vomit or fire".

But, the catch is, you can't just look at these little people and say, "Nope. I am not on duty right now. My shift ended 15 minutes ago. You're on your own, bud. If you don't like it, call the union." (Sure, the occassional, "Go ask your Dad" will escape my mouth, but that usually ends up with him asking me whatever it was that they were going to ask me in the first place.)

Some days, I just don't want to play Barbies.
Some days I don't want to put together the same puzzle 75 times.
Some days I don't want to help do the homework that I already had to do 20+ years ago.

I don't think it is fun to change a dirty diaper.
I don't find my zen in washing load after load of stinky boy-clothes.
I really could care less who Yugi is and why he is so Oh!
And since I am being so honest, I really don't get that excited about someone using the potty. I have been doing it for years and the excitement of it has pretty much worn off.

So, let's talk sleep. At least, I will try to talk about it. I vaguely remember how wonderful it was to sleep. We're talking about sleeping when you are tired. Sleeping all night long without anyone waking you up. Because trust me, when one of these little people wakes you up in the middle of the night, it is never for an enjoyable reason. I have yet to be awakened to hear, "Mom! Mom! We won the lottery!" or "Mom! Mom! You're going to be late for your all expenses paid, all- nclusive, trip to the spa...alone." No. It is usually "Mom! I threw up." Or "Mom! I had a bad dream and need you to get up right this minute Be sure to wake up fully so that you can take me to my room where I will immediately fall asleep. You, however, have adrenaline rushing through your system and will be wide awake for at least an hour." (Okay, so maybe those exact words were not used. But they were implied!)

The point? I am sure there was a point here somewhere. (Yeah, yeah, besides that somedays I just don't like my job.) I guess part of the point is that it really is okay to admit that.

It is okay to admit that.

Why can't we talk about it? Does it make us bad moms? No. Does it mean we love our children any less because we really want to sleep and be alone every now and then? Not at all. Does it mean we won't win "Mom of the Year"? Well, it probably does mean that, but so what? Do you really want it if it means you have to be fake about who you are and what you feel? I don't.

So, listen up, sisters. It is okay to not like this job everyday. It is okay to get frustrated and cry about it. It is okay to look at another Mom and say, "This sure can suck and the pay leaves a lot to be desired."

It is not okay to keep it all inside if you feel this.

Trust me, I stake everything I have on this one fact: You are not alone in thinking this way every now and then. I know that at least one other mom out there related to this. If one did and admits it, more did. That's all I'm saying.

Tomorrow, I hope to say, Hey, this is the greatest and easiest job ever. (Okay, I at least want to not say, "This sucks. When do I get off duty?")

Based on past experiences, I will. I hope you do, too.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)