I keep my photograph albums in my cedar chest. Dozens and dozens of albums, all crammed full of pictures. Beautiful pictures of my beautiful children. . . pictures I loved. . . pictures that were calendar-quality!!!!! Pictures of my babies, and of my toddlers, and of my preschoolers, and of the first day of kindergarten. . . pictures of birthday parties and skating parties and picnics, and playgrounds.

Mostly, pictures I hadn't seen in years. Some of them? I'd forgotten they even existed.

That's why I was so excited when I got my wireless digital picture frame last Christmas. I'd wanted one desperately ever since I first saw one on display at Sam's Club.

As soon as it arrived, I opened that cedar chest, got out all of those wonderful pictures, started scanning them, and then I put them all on my FrameChannel account.

I took the frame out of the box, wrote down the serial number, and typed that in on FrameChannel. Bingo.

I've got over eight thousand pictures of my beautiful children in a random, looping slideshow, on my wireless picture frame.

It's the showcase of the living room. Nobody can walk past it without stopping and watching for ages. The frame even plays my Mp3's, so I've got a soundtrack to the memories of my life running 24/7 on the back of my piano.

This isn't an advertisement or anything. It's just a statement about the most awesome material object in my house.

When I stand and watch my wireless frame, I am watching my children grow up before my very eyes. I also see my parents, my siblings, our vacations, our pets, and, and, and. . . you name it. If it was precious to me, there's a picture of it on my wireless frame.

The sensation is indescribable. When I look at all of those pictures that had lain hidden for so many years, the sensation is just simply, well, indescribable.

My kids are in their twenties, but not on the back of the piano. There, any time I want, I can see my babies.

My parents. My brother. My sisters. All ages of them.

Any time I want.

If you are looking for a gift for someone you love, you might consider a wireless or digital picture frame. Seriously, if my house caught fire and all the humans and cats were safe, I'd run back inside for that frame. It's like another family member, because it's ALL my family members.

I love it. Sometimes, late at night when nobody's watching, I look at it and cry. Not the bad kind.

Posted by Mamacita at 5:54 PM | Permalink | 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)

Last week as I sat with my husband Clint at my younger son's 5th grade graduation, I thought back to the road that got us here and how sometimes that road comes full circle in ways you wouldn't imagine.

My mind wandered back twenty years to that day when I attended another graduation celebration. I was hesitant to go because I was having issues with my friend who was graduating, but was talked into attending in the name of friendship. "Besides", my buddies who were taking me said, "you might surprise yourself and have a good time!" Across town from the celebration another group of friends piled into a car and headed towards the graduation fun.

As the party got started, I began to relax and was glad I came. It meant a lot to my friend and I was having fun. I only knew a handful of people there, but they were all fun. As the day wore on, a game of volleyball broke out. (Yes, I realize that makes it sound like 'a fight broke out' but, seriously, don't mess with me when it comes to volleyball. I will spike you.) A guy I had yet to meet was taking his turn serving. I have never seen a serve hit so high into the air. Ever. From the time he served until it actually came back down into any general location that it would be reachable by a human to return it, I could have had time to walk off the court, make a sandwich, eat it, wash it down with a Diet Coke and return to spike the ball. Serious hang time. Seeing as I have never been one to resist a good teasing, I completely started in on the HIGHEST SERVE EVER teasing. Grabbed a chair and everything. (Can you believe I could be such a smart alec?)

That guy realized he met his match and teased right back. He never knew what he was getting himself into.

That was the day I met my husband. The guy behind the HIGHEST SERVE EVER.

Twenty years later we sat holding hands watching our youngest son at his 5th grade graduation. Our eyes met and we smiled over our shared memory of that day two decades prior. We could not have imagined then that we would be sitting in an overcrowded middle school cafeteria/make-shift auditorium watching our child celebrate a graduation experience of his own.

Twenty years ago I met my husband.

Eleven years ago I gave birth to my son.

Today we came full circle--together-- from one graduation to another.

Continue reading "20 years ago. 11 years ago. Today." »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 11:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Here at Mommybloggers we know what we have coming up for 2007. We know what our plans are for the upcoming year. (Well, as much as we can know and plan for. You know how it goes!) And this past year, well...let's be honest, it had some rather hellacious moments for many of us. I for one am happy to see 2006 to get the heck outta dodge. Bring on 2007.

But this isn't just about our plans. It's about yours.

We want to hear about your New Year's Resolutions/Plans/Hopes/Dreams for this new year.

What are you planning? Are they the same as last year? How far have you come this year?

Today (New Year's Eve) is a time for many to look back and reflect on where you have been and then look ahead to what they want to accomplish. Share those things with us. Who knows? We may have a pop quiz, put you on the spot and ask you later if you stuck to it. (Ohhhhh! Pop quizzes!)

On behalf of Jenny, Meghan and myself, we all want to wish you the happiest of New Years. A year where you are blessed. A time where your dreams come true. And of course, a year that brings you health and happiness beyond measure. We love you, people!

Continue reading "New Calendar! New goals! Share with us!" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 2:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

I have a baby book for each of my children. Of course, they are all filled out in different degrees of completion, but they all have a book to record the moments of their childhood. Page after page is filled with "firsts." The first time they: sat, rolled over, said "mama", and slept through the night (oh praise be the gods of infant sleeping). It has a place for first steps, first foods and the first day of school. Each with a spot for the date and thoughts about the event. I confess not all of them are filled out even though the tasks have been accomplished. However, each one of them is permanently embedded in my brain. I remember these firsts. For each child.

Last night my teenager came in the room and sat down on the couch beside me. He was all limbs...long legs and arms. Awkward, yet in that stage where he is between a boy and a young man. How is this my baby? As I stared at him I began to think. Obsess, really. When was the last time I picked him up?

I mean, he is now a good inch taller than I am and weighs what a 5'8" male should weigh. There is no more picking him up. But when did I last pick him up? Was he crying? Was he just tired of walking? Did he need just a bit of comfort or snuggling? Was I tired and frustrated that I had to pick him up and didn't cherish the moment? I wish I could remember when it was. I am sure, as it had happened a thousand times before, for whatever reason I had for picking him up eventually passed and I put him down. Never to pick him up again. I had my "Last time that I..." moment and never even knew it. And cannot even recall it now.

When was the last time I sat up in the middle of the night with my tween and rocked him to sleep after a bottle? Did I stay alert and stare into his eyes, memorizing the way he looked in that moment? Did I caress his baby cheek and love how soft and smooth it was? Or was I too tired and rushed the moment praying he would fall asleep quickly? After I rocked him to sleep and placed him in his crib, did any bit of nostalgia hit me? Probably not because I had no idea that would be our last middle of the night date with just the two of us, the rocking chair and soft music.

I thought I would never forget the last time I changed my last diaper of one of my children, but I have. With my daughter being the end of the diaper line in our family, you would think there would have been a parade to celebrate, but there wasn't. I wiped, changed and sent her on her way like I had done with my children thousands (or it feels like millions) of times before. That day she took off her diaper, went into her drawer for "big girl" underwear and we never went back to diapers again. I never knew it would be the last diaper I would change of one of my own children. Another last forgotten.

Continue reading "Do you remember the last time you did it?" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 2:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

The following essay was written especially for Mommybloggers by our featured guest, the beautiful Karen Rani.

Eight years ago, when I was pregnant with Dylan, I walked into a Starbucks on a Friday morning, as I did every Friday morning of my pregnancy, and ordered my weekly treat of a tall Mocha Frappuccino and a slice of Banana
Bread. It was 5:30 a.m. and I was on my way to work at the Big Box Store where I had met the father of this heartburn-inducing baby I was carrying.

The woman in front of me nearly whipped her own head off as she hissed, "Should you be drinking coffee while you're pregnant?"

"Should you be talking while you're brainless?" I quipped back.

It was on the way to work that day, that I realized, I was about to become an expert.

A parent.

Eight years later, I am proud of that day. I am proud to tell people I treated myself to a Frappacino every Friday of Dylan's gestation. I will also tell you that when that little bugger was 12 days late, I had a Kahlua and milk.

*gasp!*

Yes, I did.

And I don't regret it.

When the cross-eyed doctor told me I would feel better if I squatted during labour, (my first blog entry EVER!) I told her to go ahead and squat on the effing floor. When Dylan got sick, my instincts told me to take him to the ER. Those expert instincts saved his life.

I don't subscribe to parenting magazines. I don't read parenting books anymore. Someone gave me a toddler book when Thomas turned one and I still laugh when I read it. It says things like, "Don't make a face or say "ew" when your son has a bowel movement. Or, when he smears it all over his room. Whichever. Just don't make a face.

What?

Shit stinks. Life is full of shit that stinks.

By not saying "ew" and crinkling my nose, am I not being honest with my child? Am I showing him that it is okay to repress my own feelings to protect him from feeling, uh, shitty?

Huh?

The experts in the book also says you should give your children alternatives to the word "no." How about, "never," "not today," and "NOT!" Do those work any better?

What I'm getting at is, life can be shitty. People are going to say no to your children at every age of their lives. Why would you not want them prepared for that? Sure, give your children choices. You want them to grow up confident that they HAVE choices.

For example, let's say you want your little one to go to bed. The experts say to use phrases like, "Would you like teddy or bunny to go to bed with you?"

I say, "Why ain't your chunky ass in bed yet, boy?" in my best Brit-Twit accent, "Now pass me mah Cheetos." Dylan usually laughs, but he goes to bed.

Experts say, "Offer your children a choice of dips in order to get them to eat vegetables and other healthy foods."

I say, "A choice of dips? Do you think this is a restaurant? Eat your dinner for 4 points toward your X-Box." (Dylan has to get to 500 -healthy eating habits should kick in by 500, right?) And Thomas? He will eat ANYFINK.

Experts advocate talking, reasoning and positive reinforcement.

The experts that wrote this crap had robots for children. Or they lied. My guess is the latter.

The experts I know are Mommybloggers. Call them what you will, these women taught me it's okay to yell at your kids, to feel uncontrollable anger during PPD and beyond, to feed them pancakes for dinner, to steal from Thomas' "kiggygank" for a Frappucino, to obsess about constipation, diarrhea, barf, teeth, tummyaches, butt cream and oh so much more.

I have come a long way as a blogger in the last year and a half. And thanks to every Mommyblogger I have ever read, I have become a better mother because of all of your expertise, and very realistic experiences that you have shared. You are very important to us.

Thank you, from my little family, to yours.

Love Karen
xo

To read more by Karen, be sure to visit her personal blog Troll Baby and make sure you stop by Troll Baby Graphics if you are in the market for a blog make-over (because you know you are)!

Posted by mommybloggers at 7:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

Today is the first day I have had all 3 of my children in school. All. Day. For 14 years, I have been a stay at home mom. There has always been a child home with me. Today, they are all in school. From kindergarten to 7th grade. I managed drop off rather well. Until I got to the car. Then I began to sob. In all the brilliance of a teen, my son looked at me and said, "You are just crying because now you have to work all day." (Wonder where he got that smartass attitude?)

So now, I suppose my "official" title is a work at home mom. Does that label matter? Well, yes. And no. Can you tell I am having a bit of an identity crisis? I am a writer. I have a book. I have online sites that I am getting paid for. That is now my job. A work at home mom.

Can I just tell you how uncomfortable that title change makes me feel. How do you go from a job you have had for 14 years to one that signifies so many other things? You know that people will ask, "What do you do?"

I stammer and stumble and mumble something like, "Oh, I write online and stuff." Which usually gets the response, "And you get paid to do that? That is a job?" Well, yes.

How long does it take to "fit" into that new title? How long will it be before I can answer without sounding apologetic or defensive that I am indeed a WORK at home mom? Have I graduated to the "big girl" league of working women? Or have I lost the one job I have always loved and been good at?

Demoted or promoted?

Continue reading "Have I been demoted or promoted?" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

When my parents brought their second child home from the hospital (which happened to be me), they walked up the front steps of our home and found an irrefutably clear statement from my older sister Julie regarding her feelings about being the big sister. Julie pooped in the middle of the front porch. She was only two and a half years old, but had apparently mastered the concept of how to communicate metaphorically. She didn’t use the words “like or “as�, but rather, a giant pile of toddler doodie, to effectively communicate her feelings about sharing her parents. Using the power of fecal sculpture, she said “this is precisely what I think of you people and that ridiculous funny-looking creature you insist on bringing into my house.�

I think she felt a little jilted. I can’t blame her. I didn’t sign up for my place in the family order either. But hey, I am here, and that's a good thing. I think.

When I was young and stupid, as opposed to being grown-up and stupid, I was sure I would end up with a gaggle of kids. As I grew older, reality set in. I had a hard time juggling life before I became a parent. I currently have a hard time juggling life with one child. How on God's green earth am I going to throw another kid into the mix? Who do I think I am anyways? In addition, that whole childbirth thing was really a drag. I came home from the hospital with a third degree tear and crippling baby blues, and said “NEVER AGAIN. One is going to have to be enough.� As my daughter would say: “Aah-dun!� I was glad to be off of that scary ride, thank you very much.

I suspect that any woman who says she loves to be pregnant is lying through her teeth. Either that, or she possesses a gene that I just never got. I am the kind of person who would just as soon skip the pregnancy and childbirth part and start out of the gates with a 6 month-old.

I don’t want to go through it all again. It was exhausting the first time around, and I am 2 years older and more decrepit now.

But there, in the back of my mind, is a niggling that won’t go away. I grew up second in line out of four sisters. I like to say that I got so shortchanged, I even had to share the title of middle child.

However, for every pity-party I threw for having to share resources, money, clothes, and my parents attention (which happened on a near-daily basis), I have thanked heaven about 50 or 60 times for the sisters I have today. By the time I am an old woman, that ratio will likely have quintupled. I would not trade a single one of my sisters for anything. And I mean anything. Not all the tea in China, or all the riches in the world.

Having my three sisters is like having a lifelong membership in a club of mutually insane people. We grew up in the same crazy family, and share the same wacky sense of humor, rife with things like off-color “Little House on the Prairie� innuendos and a fascination with the weird. We are irreverent, off-the-wall, and we find ourselves and each-other endlessly entertaining. We tend to share similar neuroses, though the manifestations vary. They just make me laugh. With them, I always fit in.

My family would have been so different if my parents would have stopped at one. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t be here if they stopped at one. I can’t speak for my older sister Julie, although I hope she agrees that the sacrifices were worth it. Each addition to our family brought another unique child into the mix. I read once that in families with more than one child, every kid essentially grows up in a different family. The family morphs into a new, crazy work of art with the addition of each unique personality. That always made sense to me. I don’t want to know what life would be like without a single one of them.

I am afraid though. I am afraid that I am not a good enough mother to one child. If my time and energy is divided further, how could I possibly keep it together? How can I give my kids their fair share of my time and attention? How can I distribute the love fairly? How could I love another child as much as I love my daughter? Can we afford it? Is it fair to Maggie to have another baby? Is it fair to any of us to risk stretching myself too thin?

I don’t have the answers. I do believe that life takes you where is it is supposed to, when it’s supposed to. It might be time to think about getting back on the scary ride. Perhaps fate will intervene and make the decision for me.

Only time will tell.

If we do have another child, and if Maggie chooses a form of expression similar to that of my older sister Julie, I will explain to her that she can poop on the floor all she wants. It’s okay to feel mad. That sibling is her team-mate for life, and she can make that relationship what she wants. I will tell her that if she is anything like her mother, when she is my age, she will thank her lucky stars for the gift of a sister or brother. Perhaps by then, she will want to save her doodie for other, more important statements.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 4:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | 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)

Tunkie. Bottom. Butt-belly-button. Wee-wee. There are just no good euphemisms for female privates when trying to nonchalantly teach your toddler the appropriate word for her girl-parts.

My seventeen month old daughter’s language development is exploding. She averages at least one new word a day. She has learned the names of animals, foods, and body parts. She points to my eye and proudly utters “eye!� I ask here “Where are Maggie’s fingers?� and she wiggles them with gusto. I can tell she is happy to be an active participant in this whole language thing, which until recently she merely observed. She is pleased as punch to be a part of this new club. You can see it in her eyes when she says something, and I seem to magically understand what she meant. It's priceless.

As a parent, I want Maggie to have a healthy body image. I want her to feel comfortable in her own skin. I have daydreamed about how I will expertly handle discussions about puberty, development and sex. In my mind, I am able to calmly explain to my adolescent daughter how things work, and make suggestions for ways to cope with the general freakiness of pubescent body changes and sexual pressure. I visualize handling this all with aplomb, grace, and most importantly using the precise technical terms. I don’t bat an eye, and certainly don’t give my daughter the impression that her body is anything to be ashamed of. I certainly don’t give her the impression I am the least bit embarrassed.

One word sent all my bravado tumbling down like a flimsy house of cards. During her bath, Maggie discovered her privates, and set forth exploring this new territory with the utmost enthusiasm. I FORCED myself to stammer the correct anatomical noun for her female genitalia and made a very conscious effort to remain matter-of-fact. It’s just another body part, right? Like an arm or a foot. I heard my voice take on a false sing-songy quality. I was talking to a toddler with a limited vocabulary. A toddler who can not yet link words together, and I felt like an idiot. I sat next to the bathtub and cringed at myself. I hoped my husband didn’t hear me stumbling, because if he had, I needed to brace myself for the inevitable impending mockery.

I considered using the term the Home-Visit Nurse used after I had Maggie when she asked if I wanted her to check the healing progress of my third-degree tear. “Would you like me to take a look at your bottom?� she asked.
“Um. No. That’s okay.� I said awkwardly, as I limped and hobbled her towards the door. “I’m sure it’s healing quite nicely, thank you.�

I considered my other options for words to use as a substitute. My nieces used to refer to theirs as “butt bellybuttons�. I will give that one a 4 out of 10. I thought of my my friend’s grandma who used to call it a “tunkie�. When she got her pj’s on her Grandma would tell her “Don’t forget to take off your underpants so your tunkie can breathe!�. I just about fell over laughing when she told me that one. “Wee-wee� sounds too much like a euphemism for boy parts. Nothing seemed to fit. I was stuck using THE WORD.

I ultimately decided to keep trying to utter the correct biological term without shuddering. I hope that if I muddle through the word enough times, it will become a non-event, and I will stop cringing as I say it. Clearly I am not as free from body issues as I had hoped, and clearly this is mommy's issue and not Maggie's. The sweet child had not yet learned to be embarassed by nakedness, and that's a good thing. She has nothing to be ashamed of, and neither should I. And yet.... there it is. THE WORD. I will get through this. I have to. I am suddenly terrified of the prospect of the teenage years. Perhaps when the time comes, I can call in a consultant or coach to help me explain the ins and outs of adolescence and sex. Because clearly, Momma’s gonna have some trouble with THAT one. Oy. Vey.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 5:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

Today at Mommybloggers, we turn the site over to Y, who treats us to a favorite from the archives of Joy Unexpected. Enjoy!

I tried to come up with something original for my guest post, but after sitting here for TWO HOURS, it became clear to me that my brain didn't want to cooperate. My back started to ache, and I started to say The "F" word a lot.

(Oh my GOD, she's a mom and she says THE "F" WORD? The horror!)

As much as I didn't want to do this, as much as I told myself that it's TOTALLY CHEATING to do this, I have decided to use a post from my archives.

I couldn't decide whether to go with ""The Serious", The Cheese or The Master Impersonator. In the end, I decided to go with The Poop.

"Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this"

Gabby's naptime is also known around these parts as Time To Do Everything You Can't Do While She's Awake. That's when I'll shower, do laundry, pay bills, check my email, write something, read something, and occassionally, take a dump.

I say "occassionally" because I'm not very "regular" I can go DAYS people.

Today, I was happy to "feel the urge" and decided that I would make a visit to the bathroom as soon as I layed Gabby down. It didn't work out that way because the urge went away, so I called my sister instead.

Twenty minutes later, The Boss Of Me woke up and instantly, The Urge came back. Dang it!

I couldn't hold it til the next nap, so I was forced to come up with a plan on how to take a dump while the girl was awake.

I decided to set her bouncy seat in the doorway and leave her there whilst I did my business.

I was a little uncomfortable at first, which is weird, considering I shit a little during the birth of all three of my babies. Yeah, that's right, they don't tell you about The Birth Poopie during childbirth classes. I'll never forget that moment as long as I live. Pushing my first baby out and screaming "I THINK I WENT POOP" and the nurse telling me "No, you didn't, keep pushing!" WHILE SHE WAS WIPING MY ASS. I'm so glad we captured that moment on FILM.

I got over my discomfort pretty quickly and proceeded to take my dump while my daughter jumped, laughed and waved "hi" to me. I sat there on the toilet, waving back and clapping all the while doing my business.

The moment went from slightly odd to TOTALLY AWESOME when Gabby got quiet and I heard a huge grunt, followed by a severe fart, followed by another grunt.

MY DAUGHTER WAS TAKING A DUMP WITH ME.

I started kicking my legs and shouting "YAY! GABBY'S POOPING WITH MOMMY! YAAAAAAY!" and she started clapping and saying "AYYYYY".

I wanted to leap off The Pot and squeeze her so freaking hard, but, for the love of an unwiped ass, I didn't. . But as soon as I finished My Business and washed my hands (for 30 seconds, like Oprah said!), I picked her up, ran up and down the hall and kissed her stinky little cheeks until I was all puckered out.

(Of course, I changed her diaper as soon as we were done celebrating Our First Simultaneous Poop)

Read more from our hilarious friend Y at her blog, Joy Unexpected.

Posted by mommybloggers at 8:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | 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)

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)