I wonder sometimes if one of the reasons some people age horribly and die, is because they have stopped hanging out with friends.

Of course, if they are REALLY old, they may have stopped hanging out with friends because there's not that much to do in the cemetery.

But for people (naming no names) who are perhaps just beginning to be on the older side, whose friends are still (mostly) alive, it's just as much fun to hang out with friends as it was years ago, when we all skipped last hour Chemistry to pile into someone's blue Corvair and head out to the State Park to meet guys.

When my children were little, and it was almost impossible to get away and hang out with friends (partly because it was purt nigh impossible to get away, and partly because they had small children also; living a hundred or a thousand miles away contributed to the level of difficulty. . . .) those few and far-between episodes of getting together quite possibly saved what little sanity I do have.

When we meet now, and yes, Virginia, we still meet at least once a month, the only thing that's really changed, besides our faces, hair, bodies, and big purses, is the fact that we no longer have little children at home. Some of us have GRANDCHILDREN. Not me, though.

Ahem. Are my children reading this journal?

But the giggles, the nonsense, the silliness, the goofiness, the sheer love and devotion, are all still there in full force; possibly in fuller force than when we were younger.

Yes, definitely. Fuller force.

Maybe because, THEN, we knew what we had but didn't fully understand that it could vanish in the wink of an eye. We were young, we were attractive, we knew it. And it would last forever. How could it not? And NOW, we know what we had and we know what we still have and we understand completely that yes, it could very well vanish in the wink of an eye, and that yes, some of it already has. (We have mirrors.) And even though we no longer have some of 'it,' we also know that, whatever 'it' was, we still have SOME of 'it.' And we aren't afraid to use it, either.

No, not THAT kind of 'it.' Although, now that you mention 'it'. . . . . . . . . . .

Those of you with small children: be sure you make time for your friends. "Hanging out" isn't just for teenagers. You need it more than they do. Hire one of those teenagers to watch the little kids, and go meet your friends for a few hours. Keep doing it until you are dead. I'm serious as can be: hanging out with friends can save your sanity, save your health, save your marriage, and make you a better person from all angles. Do not allow marriage and children to put your friends on the back burner. Keep them close to you, even when circumstance very naturally keeps them apart from you. Good friends won't intrude into your marriage, but they will BE THERE when mere marriage isn't enough and your sanity and your SELF need expression that isn't found anywhere on this earth except in the company of FRIENDS.

Friends will listen to you, give you advice (needed and unneeded), comfort you, hug you, bowl with you, eat cheeseburgers with you, share a giant margarita with you, recommend books for you, laugh (or cry) through a movie with you, and just simply BE there with you, and for you, in ways that no husband could ever be. Not for want of trying or intentions, but simply because women need other women, and not even Hugh Grant or Colin Firth will do, when it's FRIENDSHIP we need.

Um, a handsome, educated Brit can come over and keep me company any time, actually, but even so, it's not the same as good friends who keep you company when not even a homely, ignorant Brit will give you the time of day.

Husbands are good for companionship, friendship, romance, true love, sex, dancing, and partnership, but it takes a woman friend to really, really UNDERSTAND. Women need friends, with whom to have fun with and just hang out with.

Your older children and possibly a husband who won't be requiring any sex for a while, might make a comment about how "hanging out" means something entirely different on an older woman with, um, body image deficiency. Remind them all that they know where the food is kept, and that the sofa sleeps one person very comfortably indeed. And then leave.

Get out there and use 'it.'

Readers may interpret "it" as they please. All answers are probably correct.

Posted by Mamacita at 9:45 PM | 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)

I admit it. With all that has gone on in my life in the past 9 or so months, I have been less involved with my kids than I have been in the past. I am not as active in their schools, their hobbies and in general, their lives. Oh, sure, I ask how it is going. I check homework when they ask me to. I go to sporting events and cheer them on. But mentally, I have not been there in the ways they have been accustomed to prior to this school year. I suppose I have known that (how could I not), but I didn't see how much it was effecting them until recently.

We are entering the last few weeks of school and suddenly my oldest son's teachers are coming at me with "issues" that need to be addressed. What? Now? You come to me now? Where were you when you first noticed that my child was not meeting his full potential? Where were you when his work was not being turned in and you knew he was going to get Incompletes on his report card? Why are you waiting until there is so little time left? Of course, those are my initial questions. Then the deeper, harder questions arose that caused me to pummel myself.

How could I have not known that my son was struggling? Why have I not asked more questions about school and followed through? How could I not know that he has been struggling and not doing his work on time? Am I not talking to him enough? I boiled it all down to: I am failing my son.

On the other hand we have my younger son.

I have known he has been struggling this entire year. I have watched him and helplessly given what I can. But at times it is hard to pull from an empty well. I have been an empty well trying to fill everyone else up. But I thought it was just his emotions out of control. He fell behind in work. He missed school due to illness. He has been overly emotional. I chalked it up to "just who he is" and did not do much other than work with his teacher and watch all of us become more frustrated. Finally, at the suggestion of a friend who recognized the symptoms, agreed to get him tested for ADD/ADHD. After very intensive testing, the doctors agreed that he did indeed fall into the "Inattentive ADHD" category. We then went on to learn of all the things that I have seen as him not caring or areas where I felt he was dropping the ball were actually things he could not help.Things that were out of his control. Nevertheless, they were things that I have pushed him to do. Getting frustrated and telling him to FOCUS when he was focusing with all his power. Insisting that he could do things faster when in fact he could not. He has been struggling so much this year with emotional problems and now we find out that his brain is just wired differently. And with just a few weeks left, we just find out. I question myself again. I failed my son. Again.

Guilt.

Guilt.

Mommy Guilt.

I know that we all make mistakes. I know there is no such thing as a "perfect parent" and to try to become one is pointless. But, oh the guilt! I blame myself for not being there enough. Not listening enough. Not questioning enough. Just not being enough.

Television is big on advertising cures for everything from bad breath to heart disease. When will someone come up with a cure for Mommy Guilt?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 7:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

I have so many memories of being a little girl and doing things with my Mom when my older brother and sister were in school. We went to the library. We "did lunch." We went shopping. I had the sole privilege of being the last one home to enjoy Mom on a one on one basis.

Gabriella is in that position now. She is younger than her brothers by 5 and 7 years. In my mind I thought I had all the time in the world to enjoy these one on one times with her. But suddenly last week the elementary school had a huge sign on their marquee stating "Kindergarten Roundup and Packet Pick-up This Week". What? THIS week? It is way too soon. Where did the time go? What about all of the Mommy and Me classes I never signed us up for? What about all of the story-times we never went to? What about the lunches where we snuck off just the two of us and played grown up that haven't happened?

Somehow, the fact that she is going to be in kindergarten next year snuck up on me. And I am not enjoying the idea very much. I am suddenly very selfish of my time alone with her. I know that once school is out for the year, it will be all three kids home with me. No more one on one with just me and my baby girl.

Right now Gabrie goes to school 3 days a week. Of course, that is when I decide to send her. Take this past week for instance. My sister came to town and brought her children with her, so I kept Gabrie home with us. We all had so much fun! I admit I am very flexible with whether or not I make her go to school.

I have a confession to make. One that will make many moms gasp in horror and others shake their head not being able to begin to comprehend what I am saying. I would rather take her out of school for the rest of the year so that I can enjoy these last glorious months with her rather than send her to school when it is optional.

Is this my own selfish grief talking? Is it my own desire to try to recapture the time I had and miss with my own Mom? She likes school. I know she does. But I know our time is so short. Will I regret rushing her into a program where she is gone most of the school week when she doesn't have to be? I know it is selfish to want to keep her with me. Or is it?

As I said, I am still in such a state of grief that nothing makes sense. Decisions that should be a piece of cake baffle me because I am still in such a fog of grief. But the thought of her going off to kindergarten and the fact that I will never again have the chance to have those story-times and Mommy & Me classes and days alone with her, well, it breaks my heart.

Is this normal Last Child Syndrome? Is this grief? Is this just plain insanity? All I know is that the days when I keep her home and it is just the two of us, I enjoy it. Even when I don't.

Tell me what you think. I want to hear what you would do. I want to know how you see it. Because honestly, I haven't made a clear-thinking decision on my own in months. Moms? Talk to me.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 7:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

What is it about the time between Valentine's Day and the first day of spring that is just so terribly oppressive?

It's called cabin fever. It seems everyone we know is gritting their teeth and mustering up every ounce of strength just to keep their ever-loving head together. All one has to do is cruise a few of their favorite blogs to read about the battle many of us seem to be waging. The battle to keep from falling into the abyss of apathy, detachment and depression. The mind-numbing cold and gray, sans any distraction of a holiday makes a person want to crawl under the covers and stay there until the days are longer than they are short, and the weather is warmer than it is cold. This plan would be ideal if it were not for the small humans who rely on us for shelter, food, water, and responsive care giving. Those meddling kids are always tossing a wrench right through the window of the best laid plans, smashing it to pieces.

My mind seems to be fundamentally different in the winter months. It's slow. Lethargic. Small decisions are insurmountably difficult. I have thoughts in the winter that never occur to me in the summer. For example:

"Is it bad to let my 17 month old watch Sesame street three (okay, who am I kidding? Four) times in a day?"

"I love to cook, however that takes too much energy. That involves grocery shopping. And chopping. And then there is the cleaning. I want to lose a few pounds, but let's just order a pizza. Again."

"I knew that it was going to be unseasonably warm today, but it really didn't occur to me to actually go outside. I forgot all about outside. There is an untapped world beyond the oppressive walls of my rambler! Thank GOD I remembered!"

"I wonder if my friends remember what I look like. I wonder if they have forgotten my phone number. On purpose. Because I stopped answering my cell phone (okay who am I kidding? I never really answered my cell phone). I mean I stopped returning messages."

"I wonder if my friends will feel like re-sparking our friendship in the spring when I am feeling better. Here's to the hope that spring time weather is conducive to forgiveness and understanding."

Staring into space.

"I wonder if I could pay someone to take a shower and brush my teeth FOR me."

In the summertime, my internal dialogue is more like this:

"Hmmm. Who can I invite over for dinner tonight? I feel like grilling. Let's eat al fresco!"

"Should we go to the pool today? Or walk around Lake Harriet? I know! We'll do both! And then we can go for a bike ride after dinner! Who wants Ice cream?"

"Where did I put that corkscrew?"

"The HILLS ARE ALIVE! WITH THE SOUND OF MUSIC!!!!! AAAAH-AH-AH---AHHHHH!"

Getting through the final stretch of winter ironically feels like slogging through a desert with no water, or running the last 6 miles of a marathon. A person loses their sense of time. A day seems to stretch out for a week. Exhaustion is amplified.

Any ideas for passing the time until it starts to fly again? Because it's not flying. Time is currently belly crawling through 2 feet of chilled molasses. I am taking suggestions.

Posted by mommybloggers at 6:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | 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)

What’s that? What’s happening, you ask? Oh. The red and khaki clad Target employees running towards the toy aisle with mops and pails! No, no one’s precious progeny piddled on the floor. What happened to my head, you ask? Why are you speaking to a bloody stump of a neck where my head used to be? OH! That. Don’t mind me. Christmas shopping for my toddler just caused my head to explode. Oh, and where are my manners? Here, let me get you a tissue. Pardon me AND my skull fragments for two weeks.

Elmo and Big Bird. Baby Einstein DVD’s. Developmental toys. Fingerpaints and Flashcards. Things to push and things to pull. Do I buy her Crayons? Play-doh? What about a goldfish?

Will my child even remember any of this?

Good heavens I have to buy her SOMETHING! Something to put under the tree! Something to develop her Brain! Something to develop her talents! I start sweeping toys off the shelf and into my cart with wild abandon. If I don’t buy her these things, what kind of parent am I?

I am the kind of parent who feels like a total sucker. I buy into this stuff hook, line and sinker. I am sure I will spend at least $200 on the child before all is said and done. Meanwhile, her favorite toy is a duct-taped dilapidated shoe box we pull her around in on the carpet of her bedroom. That, and a tennis ball. She is not even old enough to produce a Christmas list, yet I am out scouring the toy section to buy the perfect toy. The perfect toy that will likely sit deserted in a pile of a hundred other perfect toys while she intently examines a tube of my concealer for 45 minutes.

The truth is, I could slap on her cowboy boots, hand her a bowl of strawberries and plop her in her favorite shoebox for a few pulls across the floor, and she’d be as happy as a dingety-danged pig in slop.

So why do companies market to children? Children have no money! They are lucky to have a regular supply of food and shelter! Mine has not earned a single red cent in her 15 months outside the womb. She has never even taken out the garbage, yet we toil away day in and day out, and the kid gets a free ride. Sheesh.

You want to know why companies market to kids? Take a look in the mirror at the sucker who hands over their hard-earned dough. That person is precisely why companies market to kids. Their marketing allows us to fulfill the fantasy. The question is, whose fantasy is it, really? Is it the child’s fantasy? Sometimes. Is it the parent’s fantasy of providing a blissful toy-filled childhood? Likely, often the case. But the fantasy truly belongs the guy making a 60% profit on the hunk of plastic manufactured in China he just unloaded on you. The hunk of crap you bought because you are convinced that it’s going to stimulate your child’s intellectual development, hand-eye coordination, artistic capability, whathaveyou. The hunk of crap you will unload at a garage sale in the near future for one tenth what you paid for it. THAT GUY is precisely who is fulfilling their fantasy here. One hundred percent. Fantasy. Fulfilled. Cha-ching.

Sometimes I am convinced that the great American pastime has become fighting in vain to prevent someone from separating you from your money. It’s a difficult game to win.

This is the time of year when the dogged pursuit of our dollars is truly relentless. I mean, the health of the American Economy is depending on our holiday spending, right? FOR PETE'S SAKE.

I admit, I am a skeptic when it comes to these things. On a certain level I am aware of the sickness of materialism. How it distracts us from what is truly important. We derive great satisfaction from filling our homes with vast collections of stuff while we avoid thoughts of human suffering and abject poverty.

I am aware of all of this, and it disgusts me. Yet, I still went out shopping last weekend and came home with a stuffed elephant toddler chair, finger paints that my daughter can’t use for a year and a half, an Elmo doll that sings “Shout�, neon pink Duplo blocks, a 100 piece plastic pretend food set, and a frigging pink leotard and tutu. I was drunk on Christmas spirit. Smack-addled by visions of my daughters beaming face on Christmas morning. I had lost all control. I failed miserably at fending off the spending. I hit rock bottom, baby. I didn't even know what hit me.

In other words, I am a sucker who knows she is a sucker. Is that better than being a sucker who doesn’t know she’s sucker? I would like to think so. I suppose it’s optimal to not be a sucker, and to know that you are not a sucker. Although that might be a bit boring, really.

Maybe someday I will get there. But I doubt it. For now I think I am allright with being a sucker who knows she's a sucker. I sold my soul for a moment of parental bliss in which I get to watch my beaming toddler grow rapidly and inevitably more materialistic while simultaneously modeling to her that stuff, and giving stuff to people that you love, is extremely fulfilling. Oh? You want to separate me from my hard earned money? By all means! Just give me a shopping cart-o-crap for it and everyone's happy! In the mean time, I will be sure to let you know when I plan to hold my next garage sale. Because odds are there will be a crap load of barely-used children’s toys for sale at one tenth what I paid for them.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Growing in motherhood I have noticed there appears to be a tremendous amount of pressure to keep a good front around other mothers, regardless of what happens to be going on in your life or your heart. The “I’m Fine Syndrome.� You say it over and over. You laugh when you’re expected to laugh. You cry when it is appropriate. You carry on as if nothing is wrong because that is what is expected from a “Good Mom�. The problem with that? We’re not made to pretend everything is okay.

I know that I cannot be the only woman who has these moments when they just want to reach out to another woman—especially other moms-- and say, “Is it sometimes this hard for you too? Do you sometimes want to just cry and not know why? Will you just sit with me and talk openly about real issues? Just this once can we be real with each other?� But, in the real world, very few of us actually do that. We wear the mask that says to the world that things are better than they are. Times come upon us when we need to reach out, but don’t know how anymore because we are so used to saying that everything is fine when it really isn’t fine at all. It is the how we have been trained to respond to each other.

Do you want to know a secret? I am not that way. I am not a Super Mom.

Sometimes I feel like someone is going to catch on to my scam. They are going to expose me for the fraud I am. Someday, someone is going to figure out that I really don't know what I am doing when it comes to being a “Good Mom.� When it is discovered that my motto on childrearing is "Do the best you can with the kids you have and try not to screw them up too much", I am sure I won’t be asked to teach any parenting seminars or write any ground breaking articles on motherhood.

I see other women at soccer games, in PTA, volunteering in the schools and I wonder "Where did they learn how to do this?" Who teaches these women how to be the Super Moms that they are? Do they come from a long line of June Cleaver women who were born wearing pearls, an apron and high heels?

It makes me wonder if I am missing a certain mommy gene that other moms have.

For school parties, I am the mom who volunteers to bring juice rather than come up with some uber-cool craft that will awe and amaze both children and parents alike. Rather than meet over lattes to discuss PTA policy, I would rather meet over cocktails to talk about the latest celebrity gossip and dish about our own lives. If you call me and ask me if I could host a meeting after school for a few moms, rather than be overjoyed that my House Beautiful home will be warm and welcoming, I will panic and hope that no one sprains an ankle on the many Barbies, Hot Wheels and Legos scattered around.

Confession time: I am a fraud. I don't have it all together. Most of my mothering comes from the great philosophy of "faking it". I just want to know something: You moms who appear so together, so June Cleaver-ish, so very PTA and Junior League....where did you learn how to be so motherly....

....or are you just faking it too?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | 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)

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)

This post is about poop, but not just regular poop. Giant FLOATING poop. It's also about ice cream, cigarettes, coffee, and prune juice. Oh, and Scalding. This post is also about scalding.

Maggie and I met my family for ice cream yesterday. We shared a small scoop of blueberry yogurt and Maggie sampled the wares of everyone else at the table who couldn't resist her hopeful gaze and gaping little-bird mouth.

We followed up the ice cream with a visit to a small toy store that carries all sorts of fun things for kids. This should have been a happy experience, filled with wonder and giggles, but alas, it was not to be. Something was wrong. Maggie stood red faced, with tears straming down her cheeks. Her nose started to run. She screamed and screamed. She crouched and winced. She was trying to work out a poop that was just not working out. It was not working out and it was wreaking havoc on her little insides. It's very distressing to see your child in pain and not be able to help. This disruptive terd had taken on five adults and a child, and it was winning. We were helpless.

In desperation, we tossed some ideas around.

Feed her fruit? No. That would take too long. Coffee and a cigarette? No. Not until she is at LEAST 8 years old. Liquids! Prune juice! That's it! Prune juice!

We walked to to the local co-op to find some magical prune elixer for my little backed up baby.

I gave her the juice. Nothing happened. On the ride home in th car she seemed to calm down. I fed her a dinner of fruit, fruit and more fruit. More prune juice, more fruit. Then it started up again. The screaming in pain. It hurt just to look at her. In desperation, I started a warm bath.

She sat in the tub and instead of her usual larky splashing about, she stared at me as though to say "THIS is what you came up with? A BATH? Will you just help me already? This giant terd is about to kill me and you start a BATH???? THIS HURTS! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FIX IT. DON'T YOU GET IT?"

Perhaps that was more my own inner dialogue.

Maggie started wiggling and wailing in the tub. Helpless, I could see her pain was escalating. She stood up, screeching in agony. She gripped the side of the tub with both chubby hands, pressed her head to it, crouched over, and out it came. Emerging from sheer toddler willpower and the mouting pressure from within her tiny little colon.

This poop had absolutely no business coming out of the bum of a one year old. It was the meanest, hardest, biggest, ugliest poop ever created by a butt that small. So compacted, I thought the pressure must have formed a diamond inside. I was SHOCKED by the sheer size of this monster. Tommy two-tone. A marbled combination of three days worth of toddler meals. I nearly cried with relief for her. Having seen the sheer size of it, I wanted to buy her a toy or a sticker just for getting the damn thing OUT. My daughter, the bravest strongest, most determined pooper in the world. The diminutive queen of extreme danger-pooping.

I was feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out that a warm bath would help relax those muscles and move the poopy beast along. Jim donned rubber gloves and victoriously searched through the bubbles to fish the massive logs of excrement from the tub. We were quite pleased with ourselves. Giddy, in fact.

My pride turned to horror as I pulled Maggie from the tub and saw her red little legs. Overzealous in my efforts to work the fecal frankenstein out, the warm bath I had drawn was TOO WARM. I may have coaxed the culprit out, but seemed to have scalded my daughter's lower half in the process. "Is there no end to this madness Dear God?" I wailed, "WHY? WHY??"

Why? Do you know why? I think I do. It happened because, as a parent, you can't get too cocky. You think for one moment, you have it figured out. You and your co-parent are high-fiving eachother, oblivious in your pride and self-congratulations for emerging, victorious, from battle. And out of nowhere, you get knocked with a left uppercut you NEVER saw coming. This is to keep us on our toes. Ever vigilant of the next totally stupid moronic thing we, as parents, are about to do.

I carefully pulled Maggies Pajama bottoms over her chubby red legs. Mercifully, Her red legs slowly turned to pink and eventually back to their lovely normal flesh color. We let her play while we ate dinner. I picked her up for her bedtime bottle and story and she laid her head on me as if to say "Please. Just put me to bed already. This day. Let it be over. The poop. The burning hot water. enough already." She struggled to keep her eyes open through "Goodnight Moon" and I put her to bed, exhausted. She was out cold within seconds.

Another day of well-intentioned but grossly mediocre parental blundering behind us.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 1:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday, another report came out about the topic of mothers who work vs. mothers who stay at home and the impact it has on their children’s development. Another report that left me reeling with insecurity and guilt. Another report that made me question the choices I have made. Another report that made me feel like I am failing my daughter. I sat in tears as I watched the news and felt so incredibly trapped by my financial situation.

This is such a touchy subject. I am certain that every mother wants to do what is best for their child. I also believe that every mother worries that they are failing their children in some manner. I think this fear contributes to the judgments we pass on one another as mothers. We want so badly to convince ourselves that we are doing things the right way that sometimes we say things that imply other people are doing things the wrong way. Because it’s not our way.

I have never felt so blessed and so terribly guilty as I have since I became a mother. There are so many choices parents make every single day. Difficult choices. Some parents make a choice between paying being able to pay the mortgage on a house in a good school district, or staying at home. For some parents it’s a choice between going on welfare to stay at home or working.

The topic of stay at home moms vs. working moms evokes passionate opinions from women on all sides of the equation. I do know we all want what is best for our children and for our families. I know there is no one “best� way to do things. Every child is different, every family is different, every family’s financial situation is different.

I am a working mother, and I am fortunate enough to have in-laws who are retired and spend every weekday taking care of Maggie. Every day from 8:00 a.m. to the time her dad picks her up at 1:00, Maggie gets a 2 to one adult to child ratio. She is read to, and she is played with, and she is sung to, and she is hugged about a hundred times in those hours.

I am so incredibly fortunate to have been given this choice by my in-laws.

At 1:00 every day, Jim picks Maggie up and brings her home, and from 1:00 to 5:15 it’s Daddy and Maggie time. I get home at 5:15 and that is when I get to spend time with her.

From 5:15 to 7:30 I play with Maggie, feed her, feed Jim and I, try to clean up the kitchen, and field phone calls and random people knocking on the door. Sometimes I take Maggie with me for a walk or a run. Every other night I give her a bath. I have two and a half hours a day from Monday to Friday to spend with Maggie and to get all of this in. Meanwhile, I go through the typical working mother self-torture.

Here is a sample of my Inner dialogue on any given evening:

“Am I talking to her enough? Am I developing her language skills appropriately? Am I enunciating properly? Do I give her enough hugs? Am I setting limits? Is it better to use this time playing the piano or reading a story? If I get sucked into watching “the biggest loser� on television between 7:00 and 7:30 and reading to her during the commercials, does that make me “the biggest loser� as a parent? I think the answer is yes. Damn. Failed again. I don’t know if she had a nap today! I don’t even know what she had for lunch! Did she poop? I don’t even know if she pooped today! I am a horrible horrible mother. My mother in law has a bigger influence on her than I do! Do I even know what words she is being taught? Do I even know what games and songs she is being taught every day? No! I am allowing someone else to raise my child. What if the next time she falls down and hurts herself, she reaches for grandma instead of me? What if she does that and it hurts me so much that I get insecure and close up? What if that makes me start detaching myself from her? Am I mature enough emotionally to handle that? On a conscious level, yes, but what about my unconscious? What could I do better? Can I even recognize where I am failing�?

And right about NOW my head explodes and brains and skull fragments slide slowly down the walls of the kitchen leaving red trails of blood.

The dialogue above was ONE NIGHT’S WORTH. Yeah, Mothers really need more to question.

Factor in efforts to have a life of my own, work on my marriage, be a good friend, and take care of myself and exercise, and it’s no wonder I feel like I am doing a half assed job in everything. INCLUDING MOTHERHOOD. The guilt in that statement? ENORMOUS. Just enormous. I have no idea how single mothers handle all this on their own. I think every single mother out there deserves a freaking medal for just getting it done, day after day. It’s HARD.

The report I mentioned concluded that children with stay at home mothers had significantly higher developmental skills than children who were in day care.

The report concluded that best scenario for kids goes like this:

1. stay at home with mom
2. stay at home with nanny
3. grandparents
4. day care center

My problems with this “study� are numerous. There is so much variation in the quality of child care available, and there was no mention of this in the blurb that I saw. There was no mention of how parenting style factors in. No mention of what working parents can do to minimize the negative impact that day care might have on their kids.

I live in the state of Minnesota. We have the HIGHEST percentage of working mothers in the country. Our children also typically have the HIGHEST test scores in the nation. How does that jibe?

Is anyone talking about how incredibly hard it is to raise a family and own home with one income? How it keeps getting HARDER? Is anyone talking about how we can help families with limited financial means stay home with their kids? Is anyone talking about women who earn more than their husbands? How these women can handle the incredible amount of guilt they carry for not being the one who has the biggest influence on their children’s day to day activities? For not knowing what their kids had for lunch and how many times they have pooped that day?

I know so many dedicated, loving mothers who work outside the home. Great mothers. I know these women struggle to come to terms with the choices they make. I know that it hurts to be informed that the choice you made might limit your child’s developmental potential

I know many dedicated, loving mothers who have chosen to stay at home with their children. They have sacrificed careers to be with their kids every day. It’s hard to stay at home. It’s hard to deal with people who judge you for being a stay at home mom. It’s hard to deal with the lack of adult interaction. It’s mentally and emotionally draining to work with kids all day long. It’s hard to survive on one income.

I think my point, if I have one, is this: Yes, I want to have access to as much information as possible to help me make the best choices. But not so much information that I live in a constant state of self-torture, angst, regret, resentment and insecurity.

No, I don’t need any more reason to question myself. I do that plenty. Sometimes it does seem like motherhood is an uphill battle. Feeling like a GOOD mother is darn near impossible. Especially if you listen to the opinions of every Tom Dick and Harry out there. And if you are one of the people spouting off statistics and instilling fear, perhaps ask yourself if you are really doing it for the benefit of another mother and their child, or if you are doing it to reassure yourself that you have made better choices than someone else. Do you need to compare yourself to someone else to feel like a good mother?

I need to remind myself that the ultimately, it’s me who needs to be okay with my decisions. I need to feel like I am doing as much as I can with the resources I have. I need to give myself a break once in a while and accept the fact that I won’t always be perfect, but that does not mean I am not a good mother. It does not mean that I can not be a good friend, or wife, or employee. I just means my choices might be more difficult, and that I have to listen to my own heart more than I listen to sensationalized news reports with limited contextual information. I think I can do that. I hope I can.

Originally posted on I'm Ablogging on October 5, 2005

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 12:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (1)