Back in 2005 before the first BlogHer conference, two amazing women- Jenny of Three Kid Circus and Meghan of I'm A Bloggin'- were asked to be on a panel about mommyblogging by BlogHer co-founder Elisa. I was honored to be asked by Lisa Stone to join them. We were told it would be a small room and not to feel bad as it may not have many attendees. In fact, I believe the words "mommyblogging" and "passing phase" were used by Elisa. (Yes, we laugh about that now seeing as there was an entire track dedicated to mommybloggers in 2009.) You see, back then mommybloggers were at the very bottom of the blogging food chain. We were just moms writing as a "little hobby." We were not taken seriously. We were not respected. We were the frivolous bloggers who would go away soon enough. During that session, the room was filled to capacity. Not only were other mom bloggers present, but tech bloggers, literary agents, a reporter and others who were just curious to see what we had to say.The main topic of conversation that first year at the first BlogHer during their first mommyblogging session was the phrase "mommyblogger" itself. Was it derogatory? Was it demeaning? Do you we fight it or embrace it? Many opinions were shared that day but the bottom line came down if "they" were going to call us mommybloggers, we were going to make it a phrase to be proud of when we were labeled with it. Many women that day did not want to be labeled at all. Especially not labeled a mommyblogger. At that time it was "uncool" to be a mommyblogger. We did not have respect. We did not have the "power" that other kinds of bloggers had. In fact, it was almost a joke to be called a mommyblogger. We did not have the media clamoring to talk to us about our blogs. There were not agents knocking on our doors for book deals. We certainly did not have marketing representatives or PR professionals coming to us for our opinions.

Alice of Finslippy said it best when she stood up at the closing keynote and declared, "Mommyblogging is a radical act!" And? It was. At that time, to be called a mommyblogger and have a mommyblog was radical. We had to fight for any respect we received. We had to work hard to earn any recognition that was not negative. It was radical to embrace (or even accept) being called a mommyblogger.

What did we walk away with that day? If "they" were going to continue to label us mommybloggers, we would make it a term that was synonymous with respect, integrity and quality writing. The opinions and writing styles represented by the women in that room at that panel were as varied as the writers behind them. It wasn't as if we walked away holding hands and singing Kumbaya. We weren't suddenly some bonded community that adored each other and created a uniform way of mommyblogging. For goodness sakes, some of us didn't even like each other but we did respect the writing represented by each oone of us Regardless of any of our differences, we did agree on one thing: We would no longer sit back and be disrespected for being a mommyblogger. We were not going to sit at the bottom rung of the blogging ladder and be content. As a collective of individual writers, we were taking back the term and demanding respect. Not by telling people to respect us. Not by storming the gates of the media and demand they respect us. No, we gained respect through our writing. Call us what you want--label us what you want-- we were first and foremost writers. Good writers. We just happened to write about our family lives and our children.

Part of embracing the term was starting the site Mommybloggers. I registered it and went to Jenny and Meghan and asked if they wanted to start a site that focused on featured the quality writing of the amazing women who were labeled "mommybloggers." Thus, a we began to shine a light on how amazing these women writers really are.

It was inspiring to see the changes in the perception of mommybloggers after that first year at BlogHer. We mommybloggers proved through our writing that we were a powerful group of bloggers. We showed that the power of our blogs reached much further than our immediate family. We could change the world with our words on our "little mommyblogs."

Many of us that day were blogging long before some of the "big name" mommybloggers of today even had children. Yet, when they became moms and were suddenly labeled mommyblogger, they brought even more respect to our community. Simply because they were popular? No, not exclusively. Because they could write well and they did so with confidence and authority and wouldn't let the label mommyblogger change that. It was an exclamation point on what we were doing. And I admire them immensely.

The fact of the matter is, those of us who were blogging at and around that time were pioneers in the mommyblogging field. We did it with pride, openness and quality. We told the stories of our lives. We shared stories about motherhood honestly and without apology. We took back the term "mommyblogger" and made it synonymous with power, integrity and respect. We worked hard to gain that respect. We fought for it. We earned it. And even those who did not want to be labeled at all could be proud when referred to as a "mommyblogger" because we all made that happen. Together. Individually with our own blogs. Yet together.

In the past year or so a new crop of mommybloggers has popped up. Many women who are a part of this new breed of mommybloggers have come to the scene heralding with much pomp and circumstance a sense of entitlement. They feel they are owed something. They feel just by slapping the label mommyblogger on their blog (blogs where they barely if ever write about their personally lives or families at all), they have earned the same respect as those who are writing quality stories that engage their readers. Do not misunderstand me. I am under no circumstances saying that this includes all new mommybloggers. I don't care if you started blogging 10 days ago or 10 years ago. It is not in the length of time blogging but in the attitude behind it. There are some absolutely amazing mommybloggers who are just starting out who I absolutely respect. It is not about being new. It is about being a part of the "new breed" that is stirring things up.

What do I mean by a " new breed" of mommybloggers? I am talking about the ones who project an air of entitlement because they are a "mommyblogger." I am talking about the ones who shout so loud to marketers that the rest of us can barely be heard above the clamor. I am talking about the ones who behave rudely to PR people who do not give them what they want, complain if someone else got something they did not, or cry foul if they are not the ones sent on a trip that other women took. I am talking about the ones who try to tell others how to make PR work for them and how to get the best things and how they deserve those things. In the midst of all of the noise and self declared importance, where is the quality writing about life and family that actually brought respect to the mommyblogging community?

Now, before you even go there I will say that I do not have a problem with working with the media. (I have done several interviews both in print and on tv.) I do not have a problem working with marketers or PR representatives. (I have great relationships with many, many of them.) I do not have a problem with sending bloggers on trips to teach them more about a product and show them firsthand where it all starts. (I have been on a few of these and have referred many other mommybloggers for these trips when asked.) And finally, I do not have a problem with free products, product reviews or working with a company to test a new product. (I have done all of those more than once.) I do have a problem with assuming you are entitled to it, demanding you receive it and throwing an Internet hissy fit when it doesn't go your way. I have a problem with behaving so poorly and rudely that the term "mommyblogger" is suddenly becoming synonymous with greedy, rude and self important sense of entitlement.

Who do you think brought those marketers and media to your blog? Those of us who fought (and still fight) to bring respect to the term "mommybloggers." Our writing, not our shouting, demanding or grabbing gained us the respect this new breed feels entitled to have.

This weekend I heard bloggers that I admire and respect say things to distance themselves from the term mommyblogger. The always kind and spot on Julie of The Mom Slant saying more than once "Don't call me a mommyblogger!" Kristin of Motherhood Uncensored who never pulls a punch declaring her new motto " Not all bloggers are like that" when referring being called a mommyblogger. Hearing Busy Mom (The Original) --who happens to be one of the most mellow, no-judgemental, pioneers in the mommyblogging community-- refer to all of this as the year shame died which in turn prompted the title of a brilliant post from the amazing blogger, Liz of Mom 101. I heard and experienced all of those last weekend.

And it broke my heart.

These are the women who stood up and earned respect for term "mommyblogger" through their amazing writing, professionalism and pride in what they write about. Even those who resist labels all together wore the mommyblogger label with pride when it was applied to them are now these women want nothing to do with it. Those same women who brought respect to the term and the community are now repulsed by it.

And I am heartbroken.

And I am mad.

It brings to my mind a question that I have been pondering since all of this finally came to a head at BlogHer.

And I want you to think about this long and hard.

If you join an established and respected community, do you owe it anything? Is it your responsibility to respect what has been built with hard work and diligence by the people who consider themselves a part of that community? Especially if it is a community without set rules, guidelines or membership but rather it is merely a community of writers who have worked hard to support each other through their writing and willingness to stand up for each other both on their blogs and in their personal lives?

If you throw on that label, what does that mean? Does it mean anything? Should you respect those who came before you--the pioneers if you will--or do you say to hell with how it has been done or the work they have put into this community, this is how I want to do it?

If a community is built by being open to everyone who identifies with it, respects it and is proud to be a part of it, what happens to that community when just using the label that identifies it throws it into turmoil. When it places someone right smack dab into the middle of this open community and that person has little respect for what it stands for already?

Does self labeling make you are part of a community?

I don't know.

What I do know is my heart broke when I heard amazing writers who have never fought the term mommyblogger and even go as far as bring it respect, not want to be associated with it. Worse? When I was talking to a Susan Getgood, woman I respect immensely, and heard the words, "I don't even want to be called a mommyblogger anymore if this is what is has come down to." come out of my very own mouth, my heart dropped to my feet. The look on her face (and the tears that began rolling down my cheeks) said it all.

But now? You can forget that. Too many amazing mommybloggers fought too hard to walk away from something we brought respect to. Mark my words, we will take back the respect we earned and fought for. Will we do it through screaming, threats, blog attacks or excluding people? No. Absolutely not. That is not what built us up in the first place and it is not what will sustain us through this insanity of poor behavior.

What will we do? We will write the hell out of our blogs and remind people who mommybloggers are and why we earned the respect we have. Just before I left I was handed a fortune cookie. (I was overwhelmed so I cannot remember the link of who gave it to me. Tell me and I will link you!) That fortune cookie says it all for me.

The end looks much like the beginning. Return to what you once knew and many have forgotten along the way.

I have not forgotten. Have you?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 8:21 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

This is an essay by John Taylor, the superintendent of Lancaster County School District in South Carolina. I wish every school board in the States had to hear it read by a parent at the start of every board meeting.

==

My dentist is great! He sends me reminders so I don't forget check-ups. He uses the latest techniques based on research. He never hurts me, and I've got all my teeth, so when I ran into him the other day, I was eager to see if he'd heard about the new state program. I knew he'd think it was great.

"Did you hear about the new state program to measure the effectiveness of dentists with their young patients?" I said.

"No," he said. He didn't seem too thrilled. "How will they do that?"

"It's quite simple," I said. "They will just count the number of cavities each patient has at age 10, 14, and 18 and average that to determine a dentist's rating. Dentists will be rated as Excellent, Good, Average, Below Average, and Unsatisfactory. That way, parents will know which are the best dentists. "It will also encourage the less effective dentists to get better," I said. "Poor dentists who don't improve could lose their licenses to practice in South Carolina."

"That's terrible," he said.

"What? That's not a good attitude," I said. "Don't you think we should try to improve children's dental health in this state?"

"Sure I do," he said, "but that's not a fair way to determine who is practicing good dentistry."

"Why not?" I said. "It makes perfect sense to me."

"Well, it's so obvious," he said. "Don't you see that dentists don't all work with the same clientele. So much depends on things we can't control. For example," he said, "I work in a rural area with a high percentage of patients from deprived homes, while some of my colleagues work in upper middle class neighborhoods. Many of the parents I work with don't bring their children to see me until there is some kind of problem, and I don't get to
do much preventive work.

"Also," he said, "many of the parents I serve let their kids eat way too much candy from an early age, unlike more educated parents who understand the relationship between sugar and decay.".

"To top it all off," he added, "so many of my clients have well water, which is untreated and has no fluoride in it. Do you have any idea how much difference early use of fluoride can make?"

"It sounds like you're making excuses," I said. I couldn't believe my dentist would be so defensive. He does a great job.

"I am not!" he said. "My best patients are as good as anyone's. My work is as good as anyone's, but my average cavity count is going to be higher than a lot of other dentists because I chose to work where I am needed most."

"Don't get touchy," I said.

"Touchy?" he said. His face had turned red and from the way he was clenching and unclenching his jaws, I was afraid he was going to damage his teeth.

"Try furious. In a system like this, I will end up being rated average, below average, or worse. My more educated patients who see these ratings may believe this so-called rating actually is a measure of my ability and proficiency as a dentist. They may leave me, and I'll be left with only the most needy patients. And my cavity average score will get even worse. On top of that, how will I attract good dental hygienists and other excellent dentists to my practice if it is labeled below average?"

"I think you are overreacting," I said. " `Complaining, excuse making and stonewalling won't improve dental health' ... I am quoting from a leading member of the DOC," I noted.

"What's the DOC?" he asked.

"It's the Dental Oversight Committee," I said, "a group made up of mostly laypersons to make sure dentistry in this state gets improved."

"Spare me," he said. "I can't believe this. Reasonable people won't buy it," he said hopefully.

The program sounded reasonable to me, so I asked, "How else would you measure

good dentistry?"

"Come watch me work," he said. "Observe my processes."

"That's too complicated and time consuming," I said. "Cavities are the bottom line, and you can't argue with the bottom line. It's an absolute measure."

"That's what I'm afraid my parents and prospective patients will think. This can't be happening," he said despairingly.

"Now, now," I said, "Don't despair. The state will help you some."

"How?" he said.

"If you're rated poorly, they'll send a dentist who is rated excellent to help straighten you out," I said brightly.

"You mean," he said, "they'll send a dentist with a wealthy clientele to show me how to work on severe juvenile dental problems with which I have probably had much more experience? Big help."

"There you go again," I said. "You aren't acting professionally at all."

"You don't get it," he said. "Doing this would be like grading schools and teachers on an average score on a test of children's progress without regard to influences outside the school: the home, the community served and stuff like that. Why would they do something so unfair to dentists? No one would ever think of doing that to schools."

I just shook my head sadly, but he had brightened. "I'm going to write my representatives and senator," he said. "I'll use the school analogy. Surely they will see the point."

He walked off with that look of hope mixed with fear and suppressed anger that I see in the mirror so often lately.

==

Parents, please don't fall for this; start attending board meetings; become active in the PTA; volunteer in your child's school. Be nosy; you're a tax-payer and the school is obligated to answer legitimate questions. If they tell you ". . . on average. . . ." tell them that you are not concerned about the "average;" you want to know specifically how many children are in your child's third-grade classroom. My daughter's third-grade classroom - in one of the country schools associated with a huge school system - had 37 children in it, while the town schools averaged 18. One of the town schools had three third-grade classrooms, each with 12 students! but "on average" everything looked great. Demand specifics, NOT averages.

No Child Left Behind is an insidious mistake that will not benefit anything or anyone. It's especially horrific for our gifted children.

If you understood how absurd the analogy of the dentist is, then you will understand how outrageously ridiculous NCLB is.

Our children deserve much better than to be regulated and knocked around by legislators, most of whom haven't seen the inside of a public school classroom since the early 1960's.

As long as parents don't darken the schoolhouse doors, though, the administration will do as they darn well please with our kids, and what they darn well please is to spend the least amount of money, put as many children in each classroom as possible, treat the teachers like scheisse, cater to the lowest common denominator, and listen only to those parents who make their voices heard. And heaven help the teacher who tries to do anything to help the students that isn't mandated; he/she will end up in the Rubber Room.

Stand up, parents. Don't put up with this idiocy. Our brightest students are spending most of their school day sitting idly, waiting for the others to catch up. The rest of their time is spent drilling and cramming for standardized tests. Call your child's school today, and ask about art, and music, and recess, and gifted programs, and inclusion policies. Every child is a special child, and No Child Left Behind simply means No Child Advancing Forward.

Posted by Mamacita at 9:15 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

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)

You know me: I just never promote or recommend a product on any of my blogs. But fellow Mommy-Bloggers, I have discovered a website that absolutely rocks, and it's great for homeschoolers and parents as well as your child's teachers.

I am just so EXCITED over this discovery!

Steve Spangler Science takes the experiments into your kitchen or back yard, and encourages your kids to get down and dirty with them. With Steve's advice, freebies, and budget-conscious kits and products, your child will learn that good science doesn't exist within the pages of a dry textbook or even within the four walls of a classroom. Good science is all around us, and when a child is allowed - nay, ENCOURAGED - to make loud noises and blow things up and walk on water and make geysers and create glow-in-the-dark alien goo and lava lamps and potato-shooters (NOT guns!), our children will become enthusiastic and excited and eager to learn more.

I have always believed that a good lesson not only teaches our children something important: it also encourages our children to try and discover MORE and MORE, and to make connections.

I can't begin to tell you how much I am enjoying my discoveries on Steve Spangler Science. And, you can even sign up for a free "Experiment of the Week!" FREE!

Right now, Steve Spangler is running a contest on his blog, and if you enter, you might win TEN DOLLARS' worth of science coolness for your children! It's easy to enter; all you have to do is look at the bees and make a guess.

Bees? Well, you'll just have to go there and check it out. I think it's FANTASTIC.

As parents, we want to help our children think "out of the box," and the kind of science Steve Spangler encourages is perfection plus. Steve's experiments also involve ordinary household things, such as baking soda or cornstarch, that are in the pantry anyway. There isn't much expense with Spangler experiments. It's also good for our children when they see the adults in their lives participating and enjoying.

I've seen Steve Spangler on "Ellen," and he's all over You-Tube. Remember that awesome Mentos/Diet Coke geyser experiment? That's Steve Spangler!

My kids are in their twenties, and my neighbor's children are seven and eleven, and I'm in my, um, anonymous middle years, and I'm not sure who had the most fun doing that in my back yard!

Steve Spangler Science is having a contest! Go enter it right now; maybe you'll win it.

Posted by Mamacita at 6:09 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

When I was a kid, my family used to drive down to Alabama almost every summer. We had relatives down there, and there would be canvas army cots all over the place at night. My Alabama cousins were many years older, and I thought they were adults, I really did. Cool, stylish, trendy adults. I think the cousin closest in years to me might have been twelve.

It is the trip itself that I want to talk about. And traveling peripherals.

This was before the time of the interstate highway, and the drive took us through every little town, middle-sized town, and city in southern Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and half of Alabama. We stopped at the occasional little local restaurant, because this was also before the day of the big chain restaurants. This meant, of course, that most of the time the food was actually good. Our car did not have air conditioning, which meant that we rode with all the windows down. It also meant that Dad had a very sunburned left arm.

There was no such thing as carseats for babies or toddlers, unless you counted those little canvas seats that hooked over the back of the front seat, and when we were on vacation, the car was too full for one of those. There were no seatbelts, either. Two parents, four kids, and a grandmother in one '59 Chevy made a pretty full load.

There was no stereo in the car, either. Not even a radio.

Dad was in charge, and we stopped when HE wanted to stop. And if we needed him to stop, it was of vital importance that we never tell him we needed to stop. It made him mad, and he would drive even farther just to demonstrate that he was in charge. This never bothered me, because I could, even as a small child, "hold it" for hours on end, but it pretty much killed my Other Sister, who generally needed to pee every twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes from our house and she was not only asking if we were there yet, she was already asking to go to the bathroom.

Hub and I could never afford to take our children on a real vacation until the summer between their 3rd and 5th grade. That year, we borrowed my parents' van, mortgaged our financial future for NINE YEARS with a new Discover Card, and went to Disney World.

That's right; it took nine years to pay off Discover. NEVER USE THIS CARD. It has the highest interest in the universe. But I digress.

My point is, all my father and mother had to do to maintain almost perfect order in a vehicle was to turn around and say "You kids sit still and behave." And we did. We weren't buckled in, so sitting still took some real effort, but disobeying our parents was far worse than sitting still. We looked out the windows, and counted cows, and sang, and played word games, and napped. We ate only when Dad stopped at a restaurant, although we did travel with a bushel of fresh peaches; we loved to watch dad toss the pits out of his window.

On that trip to Disney World with my own kids, all we had to do was say "Sit still and behave." and they behaved. We didn't travel with toys, or vcr's. We looked out the windows and counted cows and sang and played games. Sometimes, the kids napped. Really, the only differences between our trip and my parents' trip were the seat belts, the cooler of fruit, the air conditioner, and the fact that we usually stopped when the children said they needed to stop.

Here is what I do not understand at all, not one single little tiny bit: why do modern parents supply their vehicles - and thus their children - with all the comforts of home? Why do families need movies, and toys, and a constant supply of snacks, for a road trip? Why do parents nowadays allow their children to dictate when they stop and where? Why don't parents tell their kids to look out the windows, count the cows, play word games, and sing?

My parents talked to us when we were on the road. A lot of modern parents couldn't talk to their kids if they wanted to, because the kids are watching Disney in the back of the minivan.

Modern kids couldn't tell you about the scenery because they never look at it. They demand the same comforts of a vehicle that they demand at home: television, toys, food, drinks, and their own way.

A lot of modern parents would gasp in horror if they heard another parent say "You kids sit still and behave yourselves."

When did it happen that road trips became such a big deal? Tons of toys. Baskets and boxes of juiceboxes and graham crackers and cheese and bottled water. Always with the water. I don't think most people these days have ever been really thirsty because they're never without a bottle of water.

We never had drinks in the car. We drank when we stopped. We knew what it felt like to be genuinely thirsty and we appreciated those rare drinks very much. There were no sticky spills and no crumbs or wrappers in my parents' car.

When we stopped to eat, we parked and went inside. No food or drinks came back outside with us. We ate and drank in the restaurant. And we appreciated it, for we were hungry. After we ate, we weren't hungry and didn't need any snacks or drinks "for the road."

I do not mean that families should travel without air conditioning, or that the occasional drinkbox is going to make the earth stop turning. But I do believe that with many families, it's gotten completely out of hand. With some families, the children are in charge!

We provide so much stimulation via toys and videos and other OUTSIDE sources that our children are never given the chance to learn how to entertain themselves from WITHIN.

It's certainly easier to just hand the kids a graham cracker and the remote to the DVD player installed in the minivan, than to teach your kids to obey you when you tell them to settle down and behave, and to entertain themselves by looking out of the window, or reading a book, or ANYTHING that doesn't entail bothering his/her siblings. If the means of entertaining himself/herself comes WITHOUT a theme song, so much the better.

And if the kids tell you they're thirsty, tell them they can get a drink at the next stop.

What's the matter with people these days? Let your kids get thirsty. Let them get hungry. Don't anticipate EVERYTHING because when you do, they don't appreciate what they get when they get it.

If they cry or scream for food or toys, etc, tell them to look out the window, and count the cows, and see who can be first to find a blue house. You might also practice turning around and saying, "You kids sit still and behave."

And if they don't obey you, you've got a far bigger problem than you might think.

(Cross-posted at Scheiss Weekly)

Posted by Mamacita at 6:22 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the phone rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I will always remember when he didn't.

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

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

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

What I can't remember are the last times.

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

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

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

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

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

I can't remember any last times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is probably why we don't know.

Posted by Mamacita at 7:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

The preschool enrollment race has begun in my town, and I don't think we are ready. Dawson is three years old and while I know it's time to think about structured playtime and learning opportunities, I'm scared to send my little boy to a classroom for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday.

The school year begins in September, but every education facility is advertising to parents that now is the time to pre-register to reserve a spot for your child to attend their magnificent but definitely over-priced school.

Last year at Dawson's birthday party I mentioned to my husband that maybe Dawson would like to attend St. Bronislava's preschool. We are active members of the parish and I thought it would be a great learning environment for my Doodlebug. He could learn his ABC's as well as the Ten Commandments.

My husband shrugged his shoulders and told me that as long as he wouldn't have to sell any limbs to pay the tuition, all was a go. We promptly forgot about it and stuffed our faces with birthday cake.

Last week a manila envelope appeared in our mailbox filled with information about National Catholic Schools Week. We were invited to tour the St. Bronislava school and learn about the curriculum and activities our son could participate in.

Dawson could learn to read, recite the Lord's Prayer and pray the Rosary. He could make new friends, discover the Bible and be filled with the Grace of God and the Holy Spirit. All of this could be ours for a tuition of $890 plus a $35 non-refundable registration fee.

My Catholic bubble began to burst. Almost a grand for preschool? Are you kidding me?

Sure, they offer tuition assistance and volunteer opportunities to reduce the costs. And yes, payment plans are available. I understand the value of religious education, but I can't believe how expensive it really is.

My husband nearly hit the roof when he discovered the cost. He attended Catholic school for ten years and he has always been skeptical about the price of tuition.

"They want $900 bucks to babysit our kid for two hours, two days a week? Is he gonna learn rocket science?"

"Well, they're not really babysitting, hon. They'll teach him about God and the alphabet, how to count, and maybe some addition."

"Good. Do you think he'll learn to add up to $890 dollars?"

Continue reading "Preschool Selection 2008" »

Posted by Dana at 9:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

How could I not cover the panel on the state of the Momosphere? Of course I will recap. The panelists were an amazing group of women that I deeply respect. Chris Jordan, Catherine Conners and Lena Lotsey with moderator Jory Des Jardins. (We deeply missed Mommy & Family's own editor Nordette, but she was in our thoughts.) It was a standing room only crowd. (Go, Momosphere!)

The discussion came up that at times the momosphere can seem like high school and seem political in nature. Allison of Lemonade Life live-blogged the session. In her coverage she noted this part of the conversation:

For the first part of the conversation, the panelists (Catherine Connors, Lena Lotsey and Chris Jordan) discussed relationships between the newbies and the veteran mommybloggers and the mommybloggers with babies and the mommybloggers with elementary-age and older children. They discussed whether the momosphere was political, and Catherine argued that while it might seem political - or like high school which was the recurring analogy - that the momosphere (and I think the O.C. as well) is more like a party or a salon.

“You make friends, you move, there are bigger groups, they shift and change. But that’s not political, that’s social,� Catherine explained.

Very good points. I think a deeper discussion about what does happen when a mom who has been blogging about her young children grows out of that phase. There are a lot of us out there and we enjoy the social atmosphere and the camaraderie as much as the mothers of young children. We just are facing different issues. There is definitely room for all of us. In my opinion we just need to get the parenting sites to realize that our children do grow up beyond the age of six. They really do!

And what about blogrolls?

Chris Jordan posed the question, “How do you manage a blogroll? How do you do it withoutmaking anyone feel left out?�

There was a bit of discussion on that and when asked who actually dropped their blogrolls, many hands went up. Are blogrolls on their way out and linking within your entries to other bloggers the new way to go? I would love to hear what you think.

Robyn on Silicon Valley Moms Blog wrote about the issue of the commercialization of the momosphere.

There was a civil discussion about the commercialization of the momosphere. Women that spoke about not allowing for a monetization of blogging. Reasons varied from protecting children to it as hobby to trying ads and then removing them later. Opposing agurments were that monetization that it brought validity to her blog. Another stated that she shouldn't be ashamed to receive money from her blog just because she writes about motherhood. The feminist in me totally agrees. We shouldn't be shamed into accepting ads and we shouldn't be shamed from choosing to not have them. Just as our content is personal, this is a personal choice too.

I loved the final sentence there. Just as our content is personal, this is a personal choice too. Have ads. Don't have ads. You have to do what works for you without guilt or feeling like you are corrupting what you are doing. It is personal. I couldn't agree more!

Finally, in a discussion I want to see go well beyond this session and straight to the ears/eyes of marketers:

How can corporate marketers do a better job in marketing to the momosphere? Why are they eliminating moms of color? Where is the diversity?

This issue must be discussed. And discussed. And discussed until it is no longer and issue.

As for the initial topic: The State of the Momosphere: I think this panel did an excellent job of telling where they felt it was and letting the audience tell where they felt it was now and where it may or should go.

Here are a few links I have found of people who either live-blogged it or wrote about it:
Miss Priss.org
Silicon Valley Moms Blog
Lemonade Life

---
Cross posted on BlogHer
---
~Jenn is off to try to figure out the state of her momosphere here at home.~

---

You can find more of my writing at Mommy Needs Coffee, Mommybloggers and Work It, Mom!

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 12:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

(This is part V in a series on starting a mom blog. Cross posted on BlogHer.)

Your blog is ready to go. You have your platform. You've named it. You have decided how much personal information to include and what you want to do about pictures. Good job. The basics are done. Now, the hard part starts. Your blog--ANY blog-- is nothing without good content. You knew I was going to get to it eventually. We have to talk about content. Political blogs will mention politics. Food bloggers will talk about food. Mom bloggers will inevitably talk about their children. Let's face it: they are a never-ending source of entertainment. However, before you type one word about them, you should decide what is yours to share and what is theirs to keep private.

This to me if the most essential decision you can make as a blogger. Once your words are out, they are out. A few years back a journalist made a snide comment about how your children's future prom dates will Google them and read every embarrassing story ever written about them.

And?

My dates didn't have Google. They had my Mom. She had enough stories and pictures to keep me humiliated for life. (The only way to hold her off was to marry my high school sweetheart and never have to worry about it again.) My point is that, yes, your words are out there. And, yes, you have a great potential of embarrassing your children. But it is not just about the things that may make them blush. It is about things that they want to remain private--just between them and their mom. It is about respect. Only you and your children can decide where this line is drawn.

A great example of a mom blogger being called out by her teen is Grace Davis. One day while discussing what her daughter could expect in terms of going to BlogHer last year, her daughter said something that halted Grace and completely altered her way of thinking when it came to blogging about her daughter. (Read the whole entry. It is a great lesson in mom blogging and communication.)

Your blog is really funny, Mom. But, you make me and my friends look stupid."

Stupid. I was devastated. I hastily run through blog entries in my mind. Did this make Moll and her friends appear stupid? Or was it this, or this ? Did this offend her?

What do you do once your child is old enough to read what you are writing about them and their lives? They will have an opinion and it won't always be that they adore your every word. You have now jumped into a new world. The world where your children want to have a say in their own privacy.

Grace handled it with the class she handles everything. She gave her daughter the ultimate position for a child of a mom blogger.

I won't take down the posts, but I will take on Molly as the Official State of Grace Editor for Adolescent Affairs. I'll be showing her any blog entries related to her prior to publishing.

But that is not the only way to go when it comes to mom blogging. It is your space to talk about what you feel impacts you and your life. Being a mom, that will include discussing your children. And our children are not always the brightest ray of light in our lives at all times. Sometimes they are difficult and frustrating and downright crazy-making. Bloggers are writers. Writers write. Mothers vent. It is only natural that you will have a tendency to want to vent about those little people that effect so many (if not all) aspects of your life.

Continue reading "Content and your child's right to privacy" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Originally the topic of this part of the series was going to just focus on posting images on your mom blog. I was going to cover just the basics of "do you" or "don't you" include pictures, but from the comments I have received, I feel it is important to cover the "why's" and "why not's" of posting images of your children and/or your family. It is not just a matter of who sees your pictures. You should also think about how to protect your images as well.

One of the most common questions after whether or not to use real names is whether or not to post images of your children. As with every other aspect of your blog, this is going to have to fall into doing what you feel works best for you and your family. However, there are some issues I will bring up that you should think about. First, when your school (if you have school age children) ask if you give permission for them to use your child's image or likeness for publicity or promotion, do you think about it before agreeing? They may use your child's photo on a website, newspaper or national publication. Yes, blogging is an entirely different game, but you have to remember that your child is not living in a bubble. There are many bloggers who choose to completely leave images of their family off of their blog. Karen of the blog A Deaf Mom Shares Her World chooses to limit images by using back shots or far way images. It is where her current comfort level lies. Then we have bloggers like Liz of This Full House has no hesitation in posting family pictures.

Something important to remember about posting images is that whether or not to post is not just an issue of security. As more than one mom blogger found out the hard way, some people will take images of your children off of your site to use in ways that can be offensive, inappropriate or just in ways that they are not intended to be used. Tracey of Sweetney went through this and let me tell you, it was a hellish experience for her and her family. Hellish because she felt violated by having someone use images of her child on another site without her permission or approval.

Continue reading "Picture this!-- Part IV of the mom blog series" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 1:32 PM | Permalink | 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)

Mommybloggers.com is thrilled to introduce a new feature of our site today. We're known for featuring outstanding individual bloggers, which we adore. Yet, there is a whole community of wonderful collaborative sites written by and for blogging parents that deserve kudos. We're kicking off our first collaborative blogging feature with the Silicon Valley Moms Blog.

Just over a year old, SV Moms Blog has already built an impressive readership and reputation as a go-to source for families in the Silicon Valley area. With over 40 fantastic contributors on board, founders Jill Asher, Tekla Nee, Pamela Miller-Hornik and Beth Blecherman have created an amazing site that has received enthusiastic press and attention, from the very first month.

We asked some of their many contributors to share why they love writing for SV Moms:

Thida, blogger at SVM and Water Owl's Movements finds it a safe haven:

I like blogging for Silicon Valley Moms Blog, because I feel any topic I want to blog about is okay. I can blog about American Idol, or my son's tumor. And yeah American Idol relates to my kids because my son is a big fan of Melinda. ;)

It also feels safe and nice to blog there. People read my posts and respond appropriately. Not always agreement but definitely on topic. I've been blogging for over five years. After my son was born and so sick, I had to stop blogging on Blogspot for months, because every time I'd post about my son's feeding issues, I'd get comment spam about dieting. So painful when your child is on a feeding tube.

Also if things get busy or rough and I stop writing posts, after a while, I get these sweet little email nudges from Jill. :) Are you still with us? Yes!

Stephanie fo Adventures In Babywearing, a new SVM contributor and soon to be Chicago Moms blog writer.

Everyone at SVM has been so welcoming and encouraging to us new soon-to-be Chicago Moms bloggers. We are excited to be part of the sister blog to SVMs.

Katie Roper loves the ease of participation:

Jill, Beth, Tekla, and Pamela make it so easy to contribute! They are a joy to work with - giving us just the right amount of both prodding and encouragement. I had always wondered about Blogging, and I'm so glad now I can do it, in a way that fits into my working & parenting schedule.

Jen at One Plus Two likes the local aspect:

I enjoy participating in the SVMoms blog because it offers a local perspective, well balanced in humor and honesty, reflecting personal challenges and rewards to parenting and living in the Silicon Valley. The diversity of voices makes it clear we are all not cut from the same cloth, but it's the fabric that binds us together as we all raise our kids in our community.

Glennia Campbell of The Silent I and Kimchi Mamas is NOT a sucker:

When Jill and Pamela asked if I wanted to write for the SV Moms Blog, I had no idea exactly what that meant, or how a collaborative blog worked. If you haven't had the pleasure of meeting them, just let me say that it is impossible to "just say no" to either one of them and when they team up, they are an unstoppable force of nature.
Ultimately, I guess you could say that I succumbed to peer pressure Next thing you know, the two of them will be egging me on to try Twitter or Facebook some other Web 2.0 crack. I am such a sucker.

I think the appeal of the blog is that we try to show our commonality as women and mothers, as people who think and dream and create. There are times when the blog is controversial and other times when we hit on truths that transcend our differences. There are stories that you can relate to and some things you just can't imagine. To paraphrase Forrest Gump, "[The Silicon Valley Moms Blog] is like a box of chocolates. You just never know what your gonna get." It's been a privilege to be a part of this group.

"I'm so happy to have had the opportunity to blog with SV Moms. It's not only given me something to do with all my free time as a working mommy, I can now fill my days reading other blogs as well. Actually, I am unbelievably impressed with how quickly this has taken off, thanks to the skills of Jill, Pam, Tekla and Beth, and I feel lucky to be part of all these hot mommy bloggers."

Check back with us this afternoon, as we sit down with the founders for a little Q&A! You won't want to miss this one!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Sleep. In our house it is something to be treasured. Something to be fought for. Something that you would move heaven and earth for just a little bit more of. Oh sure, I am not completely sleep deprived like say a friend with a newborn is, but I am tired. I mean, at least women with newborns have a good reason for it. They have little adorable babies. Nevertheless, their sleep deprivation makes mine look completely insignificant. I admit that much. However, I am so tired it makes me crazy.

The last time I got a good (and I really mean good) night's sleep was back in 1992. I wasn't pregnant and had no children. We all know that pregnancy sleeping isn't real sleeping. If you aren't awakened by having to pee every other hour, then your belly is in the way or your heartburn keeps you awake. You pray for the day that baby is out because you just want to lie on your stomach and sleep. Get real! You will never sleep again!

After your children are born, forget sleep. I mean it. Forget sleep like you have ever known it before. You will never, ever sleep like that again. Oh sure, the babies grow up and start sleeping through the night. You think "Aha! I have it made." Sure, in comparison you do. Compared to the newborn phase, yes, you will "sleep". However, the days of just closing your eyes and falling flat out into deep, coma-like, slobber-sleeping are over. You've just moved up the sleep ladder a rung to "sleeping with children in the house". You will forever have a subconscious ear listening for children to cry out, puke or begin wandering around a dark house. Even though you appear to be sleeping, you are not completely sleeping.

"But what about when the kids are older and sleep away from the house?" Don't bother dreaming. Even when that happens you are stuck with one of two scenarios: Either they have siblings thus eliminating the "child-free" home or you have that ear listening for the phone to ring in the middle of the night "just in case".

So you can see why I am tired. I haven't had a good night's sleep since 1992. That is a helluva long time to be tired.

Which is why sleeping in, naps and going to bed early are things that we will fight for. We use it as a bargaining tool.

"If I let you sleep in today, then tomorrow you have to get up and deal with the kids."

or

"I am going to take a nap now. Yes, I know you have to go work, but you did sleep in an hour and a half later than I did, so added up over the past 3 days, I am entitled to 4 1/2 hours of sleep. I have it banked. I am cashing in 3 of them."

Then of course there is the favorite:

"Well, okay, I'll do that, but I am going to note the time I lost in sleep and tack it on to tomorrow morning and you have to get up when the alarm goes off."

You'd think we were talking about money or something. But no. Anyone can get money. People with kids know that sleep is a rare, rare thing.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

This past weekend I began to notice the tell tale signs that my 5-year old daughter might have a bladder infection. So, I did what any net savvy Mom would do. I logged onto the Internet and began to search her symptoms, causes and a possible diagnosis. It took about 30 minutes before I was completely freaked out. By 7:00am Monday morning I was emailing other Moms asking for advice about everything from what kind of doctor to call to their own personal experiences. What I needed was not several random sites to freak me out, but one central place I could go to get advice, talk to other Moms who may have advice or talk to a nurse before trying to decide what to do.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was honored to be one of the women on a call with Steve Case. (You know Steve Case? The co-founder of AOL, who led the charge to make the Internet an essential part of everyday life. Yes, that Steve Case!) The call was set up by the amazing and always supportive Cynthia. She arranged this call with Steve for me and a few other Moms. ( Sarah from Sarah and the Goon Squad, Kelly of Mocha Mama, and Jenny of Three Kid Circus-- and of course here!. Sadly, we missed our good friends and fellow Mommy bloggers Mary Tsao and Grace Davis who were supposed to be on the call but had schedule conflicts. They would have added even more to this amazing phone call.)

So how do these things tie in? Yesterday Steve launched RevolutionHealth.comâ„¢ which is a free online service which will help families take action to manage their health care and achieve their healthy living goals. In addition Revolution Healthâ„¢ membership gives members "access to premium health services now only enjoyed by a few." You can read all about it in the press release here.

Continue reading "Steve Case launches Revolution Health just in time for this mommyblogger" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | 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)

This is Tanner. He is the nephew of one of our featured mommy bloggers, Catherine of Her Bad Mother. And he has Duchenne's Muscular Dystrophy. What exactly is Duchenne's MD? Well, in short it boils down to the fact that all muscle tissue eventually dies and is replaced by connective tissue, which means that he will need assistance with mobility, then with respiration, and eventually his heart will no longer be able to function. Life expectancy is thirties at best.

Let that sink in a minute.

It breaks your heart, doesn't it? Well, you can help. You are not helpless when you hear about this boy. There are two ways you can help. And we ask from the bottom of our heart that you choose to help in one way or another.

First, you can go to Her Bad Auction. Here is an explanation of the auction and how you can participate. (FYI, Mommybloggers has something to bid on. You know you want a piece of us!) All proceeds will go to MD Canada.*

This is a series of raffles in order to raise money for Muscular Dystrophy Research. You pick which item(s) you want to win and we'll draw one winner at random for each item. The more tickets you buy (by sending a secure payment via paypal) the more chances you have to win. Place as many tickets as you wish to purchase on as many items (or just one or a few for a better chance at winning) as you'd like to win.

But there is another way that you can also get your kids involved. There is a letter writing campaign that will mean the world to Tanner. What child doesn't love to get mail? Especially a child who feels so isolated and different from his peers. Here is how you and your children can make this time of year extra special for Tanner.

This year, while your children are writing their letters to Santa, have them write a letter or draw a picture for Tanner, too. They can tell Tanner a little bit about themselves, like what grade they’re in or what their favourite subjects are in school. They can tell him about their favourite cartoons and movies or share with him a funny joke – they could even pick out a sheet or two of stickers to send along. This holiday season, let’s show our kids that while the best part of Christmas may be ripping open the carefully wrapped presents from under the tree, putting a smile on a little boy’s face is pretty special, too.

You can send letters to:

Letters for Tanner

1518 Queen Street West

Toronto, ON

M6R 1A4

Canada

…and when you do, know you are making one little boy’s world a little brighter.

We certainly love having fun here and being silly. Rarely do we ask you anything of you. Today we are asking for your help for this little boy. Anyone of us can write a letter. Would you please help Tanner? If our plea doesn't do it, maybe the words of Tanner's mother will. She emailed Catherine after seeing the auction site. This is a portion of the email.

I am blown away… it brings me to my knees in gratitude that this kind of kindness exists - for Tanner's sake. He is one hell of a little kid... ...

I cherish this little boy and every moment he is on this earth and I know you do too. Try not to be sad, but to watch him in wonder and learn from him too. We take a lot of things for granted in this day and age; to see and feel what Tanner and other children or people like him have to face is quite humbling, but that is good, the world needs it.

WE can forget how to love and cherish. All you have to do is look at Tanner or other children who are sick and open your heart, and not forget.

I would love for you to send a big heartfelt THANK YOU to your blogging buddies.
Love,

Continue reading "Show your love" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I’m not always a good sleeper. Actually, I am a great sleeper when I can actually get to sleep. It is the getting there that I struggle with the most. More nights than I care to recall have been spent watching the clock. Minutes slowly changing into hours until I am convinced my clock must be broken for time to be moving so slowly. Surely, sixty seconds cannot last that long.

So I lay there and toss and turn unable to get comfortable. I kick off the covers for about five minutes until my feet get cold then I pull them back up and try to snuggle into them only to repeat the process moments later.

Tonight as I tossed and turned and kicked at the covers and sighed at the obviously broken clock, I realized I probably couldn’t sleep because I was so overdressed. I had not taken off my many outfits from the day. You know the ones we as women wear that overlap in so many layers that we become a fashion “Don’t.� One outfit on top of the other which layers on top of even more because in one day we need each ot them all at one time or another. Therefore, we have to wear each of them. Sometimes at the same time. Every day.

The play clothes of the mommy that have a smell somewhere between Play Dough and spit-up. The outfit that most certainly has finger paint stains left behind from the loving hands of one of our children.

The business suit we don complete with strangling pantyhose and high heeled shoes that are meant to merely torture us. The uniform we wear when we must dress for success to be seen as the competent and confident business women we must become from nine to five.

The outfit of the friend who hangs out with you and laughs with you over a cup of coffee or just shares the latest news in her life. Those comfortable sweats we throw on that say “I am here for you, so be free to be yourself.� . This outfit says it is okay to cry on my shoulder or laugh until we wet our pants.

And we shouldn’t forget the professional yet reassuring outfit of the local psychologist that we play to our family, friends and that woman in the grocery store who actually thought about buying the gossip magazine that claims Aliens have Elvis living among them.

Then there is the lingerie for the sex kitten we once remember being for our spouses so long ago. Sometimes-- to be perfectly honest with you-- that “outfit� doesn’t come out of the back of the dresser drawer for days or even weeks at a time. That is just as well, though. Naked serves the same purpose and is more comfortable.

Oh, and of course we must not forget the casual Capri’s and button down shirt that says “Put together Mom who volunteers at the school and could not possible make a mistake in the raising of her children.� (Complete with sensible, yet fashionable shoes.)

Then –much to my exhaustion-- there is the maid uniform. It’s nothing sexy or worth fantasizing about. It smells like bleach and pine. It has many pockets usually stuffed with cleaning supplies or a stray Lego or Matchbox car. It is the ugliest outfit of them all, but the one we put on every day more times than I want to count.

Continue reading "Too many outfits, not enough sleep" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 7:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Have you ever heard or read something and thought, "I wish I had said that! That is so what I have been trying to say!"? I have recently been reading...actually devouring... Arianna Huffington's book On Becoming Fearless. In one of the first chapters she quotes actress Rosanna Arquette in what I think is one of the most brilliant statements I have read in a while. After reaching out to other during the process of producing a film called Searching for Debra Winger, she states (and here is where it gets good):

"It set me on my path to stay positive...to connect with other women, my tribe. We have to cut out competition, because we are all on the same path of fearlessness, to be truly who we are, and this is our birthright! It's time we support and love each other in what we want to do in life so we can look at each other and know we are safe. Let's celebrate each other's individuality, blessings--and cellulite."

Yes! Exactly! Now, in the book she was being quoted in a chapter on Fear About the Body, but is that not exactly what we all would love to happen. Especially with people shoving the Mommy Wars down our throat?

Continue reading "Ladies, welcome to your tribe" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 12:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I cannot even begin to tell you about the amazing things that blogging has brought my way. Friends. Life lessons. Support. Encouragement. Jobs. Agents. Old college roommates. The list goes on and on. The doors that have been opened to me by being a mommy blogger have astounded me. I have been given opportunities that I never would have dreamed of a few years ago. One of the greatest doors that has been opened is this site and the women I have met through it.

Mommybloggers.com has been so blessed to have been able to interview many amazing women. Each of them with stories to tell. Each of them sharing some things in common, yet enough variation that we all learn from each other. The time may never come when we all meet face to face and drink coffee as we share our stories of motherhood. But through this site, in a way, we have been able to do just that through the cyber world.

If you are new to the site, I recommend you read through our guests and their interviews and essays. They each have had amazing things to say. Each of them inspirational, encouraging and beautiful.

Here are just a few of the faces of mommybloggers. We are diverse. We are powerful. And we are a community that can give not only to each other, but to the world.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | 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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When first meeting someone, what is the first thing they say to you? (Unless of course your fly is undone or you have a trail of toilet paper stuck to your shoe!) Usually they say something along the lines of "Tell me about yourself."

Quick. Don't think. Answer that. Tell me who you are.

I could answer that in my sleep. Me? Oh, I am a wife of 16 years to Clint and have been a homemaker and stay-at-home to my three kids for 13 years.

Bam! Four labels in one sentence. And I am the one who answered.

1) Wife
2) Homemaker
3) Mom
4) Stay at home mom (non-career woman)

What do you know about me that you wouldn't know about a thousand other women? Nothing. Now what if I said, "Tell me about yourself and don't use labels but descriptive words."

I could answer: "I am a passionate person who throws herself into things she believes in and can be a bit obsessive about it, but that comes with the passion! I love being a writer and being with my children and husband."

Have you learned more about me? Do you feel you know me better? And no labels!

This time you learned I am:

1) A writer
2) A wife
3) A mom
4) Passionate
5) Can be obsessive
6) Happy with my family

Which answer do you prefer? Which type of answer would you prefer people give to you when you ask to tell you about themselves? What happens when our "labels" change and we find it awkward to use them to describe ourselves? Should it really be that hard to describe ourselves to others?

Take for instance my initial answer. I am technically a work at home mother. If you add up the total time I spend on the blogs I am paid to write and the total time I spend on the other blogs that are also bringing in an income, plus other writing gigs I have that are paid, they all average out to be about five 8-hour days a week. That is a full time job. At home. So, technically, I am a woman who works full time at home. I am also a mom who is at home with her 3 children. Hmmm, stay at home mom? Work at home mom? Oh the horror of not knowing the CORRECT LABEL!

I for one would love to meet people and have them tell me WHO they are not the LABEL that has been slapped on their forehead by either others or themselves. So tell me. Tell me here or tell me on you blog and link back to this post so that we can REALLY meet you.

Because honestly, I want to get to know you. Not a label maker.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I've learned a lot about motherhood in the past year. It seems as if I have mothering from prior to when my Mom got sick and mothering after. Trust me on this one. It changed. It had to. My eyes were opened to so many things that-- like it or not-- I cannot protect, fix or change for my children. Big things happen in their lives that as their mother, I am helpless to shield them from. Life changing things.

You see your family going down a road. You think you know where it is going. Everything fits as it should and everyone has their niche. I will admit, while we were no Leave it to Beaver family, we had a good groove going. Then the unthinkable happened.

Mom got sick. So sick that suddenly I became torn between the intense and primal need to be with my Mom and the instinctual need to take care of my children. As my mother became sicker, the need to be with her began to over shadow my instincts to protect my children. To be there for every little thing. Sadly, I must admit, I was not much of a mother to them in the 6 months that my mother was in such critical condition. I knew more about the lives and the comings and goings of her ICU nurses than I did my own children. Those times I made it back to my own home, I was confused as to the simpliest things such as "what exactly are our local radio stations and tv channels?" Everything was upside down and inside out. Home was now where ever my Mom was. The house was where my kids and husband were. And trust me, there were many times I would wake up so very confused as to where I was that morning.

That to say, I wasn't the most attentive of mothers. Things slipped by me unnoticed. My children suffered in ways I never saw. School events that would have seen me there every time came and went without my being there. Whether I was in Houston with Mom or at home trying to sleep or catch up on life, I just wasn't where I would have normally been. Involved with my children.

The last day of school I clung to my younger son's teacher and wept. I thanked her. Surely I never would have been able to make it through the year without her help.

When Mom died, a part of me did as well. I was in a fog. Lost. Unable to figure out who I was. Being a mother felt so hard and so time consuming and so HARD! I didn't have the desire to be the Mom. All I wanted was to be the kid again. With my own Mom still alive. Needless to say, there has not been anyone knocking on my door offering me my Mother Of The Year Award.

And slowly, I am learning to forgive myself.

In the last couple of weeks I finally saw through my fog and was able to see the wreckage that was all around me. And I realized that now is not the time for super mom. Now is not the time to feel guilty for the time I had not spent with my kids. Now was certainly not the time to wonder where I could've made things better for them. Now is the time to let go of trying to be the perfect parent and just hold on as tight as I can to be the good-enough Mom. Being an available Mom.

I am starting to see the effects the past year has had on my children. One of them is having super intense anxiety issues. Intense as in life threatening. One is acting out with an attitude that makes Simon Cowell on a bad day look like Mary Poppins at her sugary best. An attitude that I know is covering up pain and insecurity. And finally, one who is regressing and wants no one but her mommy all day, every day.

I see irrational fears. I see acting out for attention. I have seen the worst that stress and anguish can do to a person. And I have seen it in my babies. That hurts. Knowing that perhaps I might've made things different is a question I am forced to push aside on a daily basis as it taunts me.

We are picking up the pieces. We are out of school and praying for a summer that is relaxing and one that can heal us. I am doing all I can to be the Mom they have missed the passed year while still trying to heal myself. But I have learned. Oh, how I have learned.

1- You cannot shield your children from the harshest realities of life. One day, death will touch them and sting their souls. The best you can hope for is that you are there to help heal the wounds.

2- You cannot always make it better. Sometimes, it just sucks. Period.

3- There is no right or wrong way to parent. There is just one way. The way that works best for you and your kids.

4- Moms are human. (I am still working on letting myself be okay with that.) Moms hurt. Moms grieve. Moms can cry at night, scared of the dark because of the images that loom in the night.

5- Kids are stronger than you may give them credit for....

6- Kids need to know it is okay to be weaker than they may think you expect them to be.

7- Sometimes, you just have to navigate the toughest of waters in motherhood without a map. This is where you have to learn to trust YOUR instinct. Your gut. And your intuition.

8- Finally, it is okay to screw up. Did you hear that, Moms? It is OKAY to screw up now and then. Do you know what that makes us? Human. Get used to it.

Face, it Moms, we don't really have the answers. And let me bust this myth right out of the water as well: Neither do the "experts" because in the case of Motherhood, you really do know best.

So, if you ask me, the best we can all hope for is to get through this the best we can and help each other along the way. Then, and only then, will we be able to do this mothering more successfully and with less guilt. Just doing the best we can.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 11:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

With Mother's Day coming up this weekend, we have a something special going on this weekend for you lovely readers. So, today I am giving you early Mother's Day wishes. (Now, if you are just now remembering it is Mother's Day here in American this Sunday, I am doing you a favor by giving you time to do something special for a Mother you love.)

Here are my Mother's Day wishes for you:

For those of you who are Moms, I wish you a happy day. I hope you get the adoration you deserve. The solitude you probably crave. The love returned that you so selflessly give to your family.

For those of you who are not yet Moms but hope to be, I wish you luck in your quest to become a Mom. I hope you get that baby you so desperately want. The sleep you will so desperately need. The fertility you are probably praying for.

For those of you who are not Moms and cannot become Moms, I wish you peace. I hope that you have happiness and joy that you cannot even imagine. Laughter that fills the room. Love that will fill your hearts to overflowing.

For those of you who are not Moms and do not want to be Moms, I wish you nights filled with fun and sleep. Friends that are more like family. Fun times that keep you sane. Love that keeps you happy.

For those of you who love a Mom, I wish you understanding in how much she does for you. Compassion in your heart for her when she is worn out. Gratitude for the little things she does that you probably don’t even think twice about.

For those of you who are Moms, but have lost your own Mom, you have a special place in my heart this year as it will be my first year without my own Mom. I wish you peace to get through the day with as few tears as possible. Memories to make you smile. And love from family, friends and children to help you get through this day.

Mostly, I wish all of you women a Happy Mother’s Day. Whether you are a Mom or not, I guarantee there is at least one woman in your life who is like a Mom to you. If not, maybe you are that woman to someone else.

Go tell a Mom you love her. Show her now. You just never know who needs to hear it this year.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 7:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The following essay was written especially for Mommybloggers by Kris of WonderMom.

My oldest child, Ben, turns 6 years old in two weeks. Six! I can't believe how big he's gotten, and how smart. He knows, for instance, that girls wear lipstick but boys don't (usually), the best guns shoot blades (sharp ones), and if he climbs up the shelves to steal candy one more time today, mommy's head will pop off (he's seen it happen).

So what have I learned in the past six years? I've learned that I still have a lot to learn. My youngest, Ava, is 10 month old, so I've got at least 17 more years of hardcore parental schooling ahead of me to figure it all out. For now, though, just as Ben's still a small boy, in many ways, I'm still a green mom.

Except with the baby. This is my third time mothering a baby and I have to say, I have changed a lot in six years. I may not be smarter but, in many situations, I seem to have gained some perspective.

Situation: Sun shines in the baby's face.

Then: Panic. Immediately do anything necessary to stop said sun from accosting my baby's eyeballs further, including throwing myself on top of her; covering her stroller in a large blanket turning it into a traveling, sweltering tent; or pinning blankets over the car windows.

Now: See that she has tightly closed her eyes and feel proud that she's learned to work her eyelids.

Situation: Nap time.

Then: Become a Nap Nazi, ensuring total silence throughout the house and, in fact, the neighborhood. Refuse to close kitchen cabinets, hurl myself on the ringing telephone, contact the neighbor to request that her son not play basketball between 1 and 4 pm, and knock on the window of any parked car playing loud music within 200 yards of my house. (One woman was so mortified that she brought me flowers the next day.)

Now: Find myself putting her clothes away while she sleeps two feet away in her crib. Forget where I am and yell to the boys while still in her room, so that she startles awake and emits screams of sheer terror.

Situation: Fussy baby.

Then: Carry him all over the house, in the sling, on my hip, in the Baby Bjorn, even if that means the laundry doesn't get done and dinner doesn't get cooked.

Now: Well, I still do that. Although I put her down long enough to make PB&Js for the boys and wash a load of urine-soaked bed sheets.

Situation: I'm in the bathroom, and the baby starts crying in the other room.

Then: Wipe as fast as I can and run to her, buttoning my pants on the way.

Now: Finish up, wash my hands, dry them, check myself in the mirror, pull squash out of my eyebrow. Go see why she's crying.

Situation: Mealtime.

Then: Steam and mill each entree by hand. At least three times a day, get down on my hands and knees to clean every crumb off the floor and wipe every speck of sludge off the high chair.

Now: Clean the floor once a day. However, sometimes I forget and realize I could feed a small village, or an army of 12 billion ants, with the contents of my dining room floor. The high chair? When we took it out of the basement for baby No. 3, it had food on it from baby No. 2. What does that tell you about how it looks right this minute?

Situation: Separation anxiety.

Then: Feel happy that my baby loves me the best. Buy into the Dr. Sears' claims and carry him everywhere, leaving him when necessary with my mother. When Brian and I go to the movies, have palpable anxiety over his well-being and struggle to not call my mother for the eighth time in two hours.

Now: Feel a twinge of fear when I see that my baby loves me best. Remember how Dr. Sears' betrayed my trust. Leave the baby with trusted friends and family at every opportunity. Realize six hours into a date with my husband that I forgot to leave any expressed milk behind. Oops!

Situation: Brian and I relax while watching some prime time television. The baby's shrieks come piercing through the monitor.

Then: Feel my blood pressure rise as I climb the stairs. Pick the baby up and pace the floor, singing, rocking and eventually, always, nursing.

Now: Brian's blood pressure rises as he runs upstairs. I get myself a beer and sprawl out on the couch with the newspaper or Tivo remote. Reaching my arm over to the coffee table, I nudge the volume down on the monitor.

Posted by mommybloggers at 12:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

Today was back-to-school day after Spring Break. I should have been clicking my heels together and pirouetting down the street in joy. Instead, I rose an hour before waking the kids, made pancakes, selected outfits. Finally, I entered my bedroom and stood beside my king-sized bed, looking down at the flushed, sleeping faces of my three babies.

More often than not, shortly before dawn, the kids will migrate into our room for a few snuggles before the start of the day. It can be crowded, but there is something very secure and peaceful about hearing their breathing, and seeing them heaped into the middle of the bed like a tangle of puppies, bracketed by my husband on one side, me on the other. At seven, five and three, they are surely old enough to sleep all night in their own beds. That last hour before dawn, well...it is a nice way to wake up, being kissed and cuddled by your kids.

Feeling like Suzie Homemaker, I kissed and singsonged them awake. "Get Up! La la la! It's a lovely day! Tra la la!" I shooed them toward the table, where they sat, grumpy, in front of plates stacked with little towers of pancakes, a perfectly square pat of butter melting on top. (Tra la la la laaaaaa!)

"Eat up, my dears!" I made a sweeping, spokesmodel gesture at the table as I put the syrup down with a flourish. "I made these pancakes for you!"

"Grumble mumble bumble."
"I'm not really hungry, Mommy."

"Ooh, my goodness! How about just one, and some juice... orange juice! Mmmmmm!" I toyed with the idea of claiming that it was freshly squeezed orange juice, but come on. That's pushing it.

My eyes landed on my youngest, who was slapping her syrup-coated plate with open palms.

"Oh! No! Oh! Um..." I grabbed a wet paper towel and pushed the plate away as I wiped her hands.

CRASH! I whipped around to see a glass of orange juice tipped over, puddling on the table, running town the leg and pooling on the floor! "Oh! Um! Oh! No!" I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels and did a quick mop up while the kids offered encouragement.

"You missed some, Mommy!"
"My shirt is wet, Mommy!"
"Wookit Meeeee!"

This last interjection from my youngest announced her successful reaquisition of her syrup covered plate, and her application of silver-dollar pancakes to her cheeks. Syrup ran down her neck and she beamed at me as my eyes rolled up in my head and my hair turned gray.

After a hasty clean-up and re-wardrobing, we headed out the door to walk to school. I was fuming. Here I got up early, made a hot breakfast, had a good head start, and the little monsters were unappreciative. Striding through the cool, foggy mist, I pushed the stroller ahead of me like a battering ram. My eyes focused sharply on my older two as they whizzed along on scooters.

"Watch out for the driveway! Stop at the corner! Hey, wait up!" The entire way to school, I was in a low-grade panic. Finally, I kissed them, tucked the scooters away in the stroller, and turned back towards home. My daughter was chanting some little song about syrup and worms, and I let myself breathe as I walked back into the mist.

After the first few blocks, I mellowed out. The manic pancake episode was suddenly funny. The fact that my daughter can't just ride her scooter, no, she has to do arabesques and other tricks, that was funny too. Watching my son expend three times the effort to scoot than he does to walk was adorable. I found myself enjoying them, and enjoying myself in the process. I decided that I'm a much better mother when the children are asleep. Nevertheless, even on the days when my best intentions get trampled, I still find myself laughing. Not in victory at my successes, but rather, at my failures, and the surprising outcomes that living with three unpredictable gnomes bring to any activity.

I'd like to believe that if I were more consistant with the early rising, and the tra la la ing, that my youngest wouldn't create body art with every meal, and that my children would wake with a song in their hearts and a hearty appetite. I'd like to believe that orange juice won't be spilled if I serve it with panache. No matter how I prepare, it seems that life around here is never going to be a well-scripted drama. Alas, we are all improvisational, experiemental theatre, all the time. Truth be told, I like it that way.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | 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 admit it. I am not the most conventional mom out there. Stories such as this and this will prove that if there is any doubt. I love my children more than anything in this world, but I have no problem messing with their minds every now and then. (Don’t judge. We all need our forms of entertainment!) But here is one for you where I can guarantee I am not alone.

My boys—especially on the weekends—are like little badgers or raccoons. I usually hit the bed earlier than they do on the weekend, so they have time to forage in our kitchen. I am never surprised when I wake up in the morning to see traces of my little badgers’ night-time scavenging for food in the kitchen. Wrappers here. Crumbs there. Tell tale signs of chocolate on their adorable (ahem) mouths. I know when they have found the mother-load by the lack of treats left the next morning. If they have taken the trash out, I don’t even want to know what they consumed.

So I had to resort to drastic measures.

Just last Saturday night I thought I was alone in the kitchen and reached for a box of Cheerios.

“Mom, can I have some of those?� asked my 12 year old.

“No. These are mine. You cannot have them. Go have some of that sugary cereal over there.�

“But I am in the mood for Cheerios, Mom.�

“Ummmm, well….you can’t have them.� I stammered. “Seriously, look at all of that sugary goodness in that pantry! Yummmm,� I said licking my lips and rubbing my stomach. "That should keep you wired all night. Besides, I don't eat that other stuff. You kids do."

"Yes you do! You totally do, Mom!�

"Well, tonight Mom wants and needs her Cheerios. Choose the sugary goodness, son, or nothing at all."

Confused, my son left the kitchen without a snack probably wondering why his mother was pushing sugar on him rather than a healthier alternative.

Let me let you in on a secret. That box no more had Cheerios in it than I am the Queen of the PTA. Stashed inside that box were my Girl Scout cookies. Thin Mints to be exact. AND a box in Pepperidge Farm Milanos. (Indulgence in a bag!)

Yes, I hide the good stuff in the healthy food boxes knowing there is no way my children would forage for such a healthy snack without the watchful eyes of Mom on them. In fact, that box of Oatmeal front and center on the second shelf? Nope. My favorite chips. The flour container? Please. As if I back from scratch. That has the bite size Snickers in it. But wait, let’s move to the freezer. Right there in plain site is the store brand ice cream. Whatever flavor they want. But see that bag of frozen vegetables? Totally not veggies. Ben & Jerry’s Everything But The… pint sized is stuffed in there. (This rocks until I go to cook dinner and really NEED vegetables. But I get over it fast when I realize I get Ben & Jerry’s after the kids go to bed during the week.)

And let me just tell you about the guilt.

There is none.

The way I see it, those little buggers will snag up anything they can get their hands on after hours when Mom is in bed or when Mom is out running errands.

I am considering moving the Thin Mints, though. He was too curious about my intense need for Cheerios. I am thinking a box of Shredded Wheat should do it. Neither one of them would go near that unless forced to or paid to do so.

So call me selfish or call me a hoarder, just don’t call me when I am reaching for the veggies, because chances are I will be hiding in my closet devouring their forbidden fruit!

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)

We've been busy behind the scenes these last few weeks. We've got new interviews coming up, new guest essays and we'll be announcing the details for our "send a Mommyblogger to BlogHer 2006" scholarship contest. We've also added a donate button over there on the sidebar - all funds will go directly toward the scholarship.

We're also continuing to tweak the site design (which is slow going, because we're novices) and looking forward to adding some new features to the site.

It's time for another Mommybloggers Q&A roundup, too. If you would like to participate in this round, tell us!

We thank you all for your enthusiasm and support as we continue to grow!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:24 AM | Permalink | 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)

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)

Just over a year ago while BlogHer '05 was being planned by the amazing trio of Lisa Stone, Jory Des Jardins, and Elisa Camahort, there were three strangers watching the planning and trying to make a decision to go. Each of us in different places in our blogging lives and our personal lives. Then an amazing thing happened. BlogHer announced it would be a conference where the attendees would be able to create their own sessions. Imagine that! The next thing I knew there was a Room of Your Own (ROYO, because that is much more fun to say!) about Mommyblogging. Mommyblogging? Who the hell would go to that? Oh sure, we may talk about our kids, but we are not mommybloggers. Didn't you see that article slamming us in the NYT? Did you not hear that our blogs were referred to as "an online shrine to parental self-absorption"? No thanks.

But the three of us, strangers at the time, thought it would be the perfect time and place to discuss that very issue. And so many more. Jenny, Meghan and I were unsure if anyone would show and if they did, would they be open or hostile about it? We pushed on and took that ROYO (still fun to say). And let me tell you, the people who came made it one of the breakout sessions of BlogHer '05. It was lively and engaging and thought provoking. (In fact, the topic and discussions about mommyblogging was such a hit because of the passion of the people who took part in the session and opened up about how they feel about mommyblogging, this year they are having a session on "Mommyblogging as a radical act" as one of the first sessions on day two! Check out this amazing panel who will be helping lead the discussion on Mommyblogging this year.)

Anyway, the conversations didn't stop after BlogHer. The term mommyblogger continued to be debated. The issue of our children's privacy continued to be debated. In short, the discussion continued. And thus a site was born and now you find yourself here at Mommybloggers where we continue to introduce you to new mommybloggers each week and let the discussion go on.

I shouldn't speak for Jenny and Meghan, but I will. BlogHer '05 had a huge impact on us. It changed us. Not only did it bring us together, it brought this site together and brought many women out of the woodwork as mommybloggers who, although many still shudder at the term, are proud to be mommybloggers. BlogHer made a difference to us.

I cannot imagine what would happen if I had not gone last year. Here is a quote I made shortly after returning from the conference last year:

As I write this, I struggle to find the right words. Words that let them know (and let you know) how much I appreciate them. I sit here with tears streaming down my face as I think of how I arrived a broken and rather shattered woman and left with a soul that had been healed. I needed to be there. I needed to meet every woman I met. They each gave me something I can hold onto forever. I found sisterhood, friendship and warmth in so many of them.

It wasn't just the panel. It wasn't just the sessions. It was the people I met that changed me. Jenny, Meghan and I have all talked about this. We know that there are women out there who read about BlogHer and want to be a part of it. Women who would go if they could, but they just cannot not swing the conference fee. I know there are more than a few women who were only able to go to BlogHer '05 because of the kindness of virtual strangers. People who saw how badly someone wanted to experience this but they just could not do it on their own, so they stepped up and donated to help out. That is part of the spirit of BlogHer. Getting women there who really want to be there.

We know that with the conference becoming a 2-day event and many more activities being added, it could place a blogger in a financial hardship to try to go. Which is why we here at Mommybloggers.com are going to sponsor a blogger to go to BlogHer '06. We are raising money to purchase a full 2-day pass for the conference. (As much as we would love to throw in airfare and hotels, we are new and we are limited and can just swing the conference. Unless of course you people go nuts with your donations and we are overloaded with money.)

If you will notice to the left we have a link to t-shirts we are selling. (That is only one design. We will rotate through them, but if you go to the shop, you can see them all.) All of the proceeds are going to the Mommbloggers Send a Blogger to BlogHer fund. In addition, both Jenny and I have BlogAds on our personal sites. All proceeds from those ads from now until BlogHer will be going to this fund as well. We are passionate about BlogHer and we do not want to see someone who wants to be there be forced to stay at home because they cannot afford the conference.

So, why don't you go on over to our shirt shop and pick yourself one to proudly flaunt. All the while knowing that you are helping another blogger (or maybe even yourself) be a part of the amazing BlogHer '06!

Continue reading "We want YOU to go to BlogHer '06!" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 11:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

When I became a first time mom, I'll admit it, I devoured the parenting how-to books. I am pretty sure I had all of the most popular titles as well as quite a few of the lesser known as well. I read whenever I could. While I was pregnant, I went to Childbirth Education Classes and a How to Breastfeed Class every week for about 6 weeks. I surrounded myself with the tools and advice of the self-proclaimed experts. I wanted to make sure I did this "mothering" thing well. I looked to the experts and those who had gone before me to reassure me that I was capable of raising this little person without causing too much harm to his psyche. I bought the latest in nursery decorations that were sure to stimulate my baby's brain. I listened to classical music as I read to my baby in utero. I researched all of the "right" ways to burp, change and rock a baby. I was ready. I was armed with knowledge. I am mother hear me roar!

When I became pregnant with my second son, I bypassed the Childbirth Classes and the Breastfeeding Classes. I settled for a 1 hour seminar on sibling rivalry and how to best handle it. I was down to buying just two books that basically covered how to prepare your child for their new sibling. I think I got through the introduction and skimmed the rest before actually having my son. (Besides, who had time to read anymore? I had a 2 year old and a newborn to deal with. Read? I wish! I was just hoping to take a shower before they went off to kindergarten.) I didn't worry about how to burp, change or rock a baby this time around. I knew that he would burp when he needed to (usually in a crowded room when it was quiet) and changing diapers was not rocket science. As for rocking a baby? Please! Everyone knows that the very instant you sit down with a drowsy or sleeping baby, they will wake up with a start as if you laid them down on a bed of nails. The real skill is in knowing when they have hit the point in their sleep when the "bed of nails" phenomenon is no longer a threat. I had been here before. I was ready. I am mother hear me meow!

By the time I became pregnant with my daughter, I was so over the experts and the advice of the pros. The real pros are the moms that I met at the playground, on the soccer field and in the McD's playplace. As I reached the final week of my pregnancy, I glanced at the titles of the books in the parenting section of my favorite bookstore. I laughed. They really should divide the parenting section into subcategories.

--First Time Parents.
--Having Another?
--Been There, Done That Again!
--Are You Kidding Me??

You see, that time around I wanted a book that dealt with a completely different set of issues than the ones the first time moms deal with. I wanted a book that dealt with the things that a mom of 2+ deals with. I needed chapter titles that read something like:

--Successful Strategies for Breastfeeding Your Newborn While Playing Soccer
--How to Find Something To Entertain 3 Children Ranging in Age From 2-10 That They All Will Enjoy
--Sleeping With Your Eyes Open For Beginners
--Have a 'Pre-pregnancy Jeans Burning Party' Without The Tears
--10 Surefire Ways to Call Your Child By His Correct Name Every time
--How to Convince Your Youngest Child That Hand-Me-Downs Are Cool
--How To Embrace Those Last 10 Pounds That You Will Never Lose And Make Others Envy You For It
--5 Ways to Convince Your Husband That The Vasectomy Was His Idea
--Going to the Store Alone--A Dream You Too Can Achieve
--Drinking-It's Not Just For Happy Hour Anymore

I mean, seriously, this has Bestseller written all over it! You tell me if you wouldn't snag that book up after you've already been through the parenthood thing more than once. See my point? I know that I am a good mother when it comes to the basics. I have been down this road more than once. I know how to do the mechanics of childrearing. I needed something different the third time around. I was ready! I am mother, hear me snore!

In fact, the more I think about this real life parenting book, the more I like it! Who wants to sign up for advanced copies?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | 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)

When I was 5 years old, I threatened to run away. Some horrific injustice had been done to me and I just could not stand for it a moment longer. It was my duty as a child to fix this by running away. That would teach my parents the ultimate lesson: Mess with me and I am so out of here! (Thinking back, I am pretty sure this "grave injustice" involved cowboy boots, a mini-skirt with fringe, a tube top and 30 degree weather. See?! They were just wrong to not let me go to school in that.)

I packed my bag with essentials. My teddy bear, my favorite shoes, a box of cookies, my Donny and Marie album, and lots and lots of clean underwear. (Because really, do you want to be in an accident and NOT have on clean underwear? By 5 I knew this lesson well.) I was ready to hit the road. Get the heck out of Dodge. Damn the man.

I wrote a note that was both eloquent and precise. It went something along the lines of "You are mean. I am running away. You are so mean. You will learn not to be so very mean!" (You can totally see the inner future writer coming out in me!)

I left. Defiant and determined. (I am sure not only were my parents watching from a window, but every parent along the street we lived on was sneaking peeks at this little runaway.) I walked down the driveway onto the sidewalk. I walked until I hit a stop sign. I had 2 choices. Go around the block or stand there. I was not allowed to cross the street alone yet. I chose walking around the block. Before I knew it, I was back at my own driveway. Frustrated. My box of cookies gone and the underwear and Donny and Marie doing me no good whatsoever. I decided to try again. When I reached the stop sign one more time, I stood there and wondered if I should tempt fate and cross the forbidden zone. Dare to go where I knew I should not go. Where I knew it was not safe.

I chose one more trip around the block. By this time the suitcase was annoying. The teddy bear was out and no longer feeling so comforting and Donny and Marie with their sick smiles were just bugging me. When I reached my driveway I marched up defiantly to my Mom standing there smiling.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Mommy. Have you learned your lesson?"

She smiled and bent down to hug me. "I certainly have."

"Good. Then I am going to come home now. But, seriously, Mom, let's think these things through in the future."

She supressed a laugh and took me and my things inside to a warm home with no judgment on my Big Adventure.

I am 36 years old with 3 kids. If you think there are days that I am not in the mood to run away, you are crazy! Especially now. I would love to run away to the comfort and non-judgment of my Dad's home where Mom's love is still everywhere and teach the big bad world a lesson in hurting me.

But I find myself in the same predicament. There is a huge stop sign and I know better than to cross the street alone. The stop sign in this case would be my family here. My babies. My husband. I could break the rules and run away. But it wouldn't work. So, I will just take my teddy bear and my many pairs of clean underwear and walk around the block a few times until the world learns its lesson. And one day, I will walk up the driveway to my waiting Mom who will have missed me and welcome me Home with open arms.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

"We believe you're the best parent for your child."

When I first read those words, I blinked hard, and read them again. My six-week old daughter lay in my arms, and I remember sitting up straight, and taking my hand off the mouse. I touched my little girl's nose, and smiled.

My eyes returned to the monitor. "We believe you're the best parent for your child."

"Huh," I thought. "Am I?"

The first few weeks at home with my newborn daughter were a blow to my ego. I had read all the books and magazines. I took the classes offered by my hospital, and I had a nursery full of baby clothes and educational toys. It was pretty clear to me that I was going to be the best mother ever. EVER.

Then I brought my baby home.

I put on a brave face through sleep deprivation, through breastfeeding struggles, through well-meant advice offered by well-meaning loved ones that contradicted my idealized parenting experience. As I struggled through a horrible thrush infection, I kept my upper lip stiff. I was prepared to nurse my baby until she was a year, and if I was in horrific pain the entire year, it wouldn't matter, because it was the plan. My plan. The plan made by the best mother ever.

A moment came where I stood next to my infant daughter's crib, sobbing with my head on the side of her crib rather than picking her up. My breasts were so sore that I had to carefully lift her and center her between my breasts to carry her. Any movement was excruciating, yet I insisted that it would be fine. I was fine. FINE. That day, sobbing along with my baby, I knew I needed to let go of my idealistic visions and start learning to mother in the real world.

I called the lactation consultant at the hospital, and after my appointment, I came home with orders to pump for a week to allow my infection to heal, and then breastfeeding should be fine. I did, and it was, but for a week, I surfed the internet, and pumped. And pumped, and surfed the internet. I stumbled across a little site, just launched. From their front page, the words jumped out at me. "We believe you're the best parent for your child."

Amazing how an anonymous vote of confidence on the internet could mean so much to my fragile ego. I took a shuddering breath and let the bravado go. I was in pain, exhausted, slightly hysterical and completely irrational. But these people obviously thought I was capable of parenting my own child, in the best way FOR MY CHILD. Never mind the fact that everyone in my life had been telling me the same thing for weeks. What did they know? They had never set out to be the best mother ever. They had lower standards, which could not be applied to the likes of me. Reading this simple sentiment on the homepage of One Hot Mama was what Oprah calls "a lightbulb moment."

I sat there with my mouth moving, reading over and over. (I was sleep deprived, cut me some slack. Heh.)

" I, Jenny, am already, I already am the BEST parent for my own child. This child right here. My own child, which I am struggling to parent, but still, I know her better than anyone, so I guess I am the best at reading her and knowing what she needs...the best. I'm the best mother! For this here child! Maybe not the best ever, but in her ever, I'm the best. Woo hoo!"

I told my sleeping daughter, "Hey! I'm your best mama." She farted and sighed in her sleep. I stage-whispered to my husband, "Hey! I'm the best mama for our baby!" He rolled his eyes. "We're attachment parents!" I stage-whispered to no one in particular. "Woo hoo!"

I clicked over into the discussion boards, and met a circle of friends that is with me still, seven years later. I've had the privilege of watching my fellow mothers grow in confidence as our families grow in size. The original babies from seven years ago have been joined by many siblings. I wonder if parents that are attracted to attachment parenting practices tend to be larger than average? I was recently asked if I had always planned on having such a large family. "Is three kids large?" I asked.

Looking around at my local friends, my family with three children is a rarity. Two children is most common, with single children only slightly less so. In fact, watching me wrangle my three houligans in public parks and malls is probably keeping many local families from adding a third to the equation. That being said, I am friends with many mothers with families larger than mine. My questioner was surprised that I could name more than two or three families with five or more children. "The internet," I explained. "We don't all live in the same town."

While the years spent posting on discussion boards were truly wonderful, the community remained constant. The general philosophy of parenting was similar. Now that my youngest is three, I find I have less interest in whether I am "AP" or not. I've developed my own parenting style, for better or worse. My style is very much a product of my own temperment, my children's personalities, and the wisdom from my wonderful online friends. From that first visit, these women were my ace up my sleeve. I could always count on the Hot Mamas for a teething remedy, to know what to do when my toddler refused to eat, to encourage me as I approached my due date, to provide a laugh after a rough day. This shared wisdom, sometimes advice, sometimes an anecdote, provided a sense of security, an archive of information from in-the-trenches mothers who had been there and done that.

Mommyblogging expands on this sense of community. Far from a homogenous group of mothers, the bloggers documenting motherhood online are changing the way I see myself. I feel the disappointment of watching a pre-teen lose a school election. I see myself in a new mother's chatty posts about her new baby. I hear the echos of my own voice in the weary posts of an overdue pregnant woman. I catch glimpses of my future as I read the poignant words of mothers watching their grown children soar outside their nest.

Beyond the mechanics of raising a family, in blogging about her family, the woman is revealed. Sometimes I see myself. More often, I see a stranger. Our experiences as women inform our parenting. We want to raise our children differently than our parents did. We want to do it the same. We want to do it better. Pride, fear, longing and joy bubble up from these blogs. I devour all these experiences, and add them to my archives of been-there, done-that parenting knowledge.

It may not make me a better parent, but it comforts me to know that other mothers struggle. Other mothers laugh and cry at the wrong times. Other mothers parent differently, and they are the best mothers for their own children. Rather than judging, I always seem to find something useful and beautiful to take away from these little snapshots of other's lives.

The good, the bad, the ugly and the amazingly beautiful...all of it just a click away.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 5:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

The alarm clock sprang to life at 6:15 this morning, heralding the return of our regular schedule. I burrowed under the covers, only emerging after the fourth slap of the snooze bar. The rest of my family was already up, eating breakfast and watching television. It was a very educational program, nothing like Spongebob. I've held true to my pre-child ideals of no commercial influences. Yes, my children are low-brow comedy prodigies, discovering wedgies and slapstick violence through my readings of Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, as well as The Little Princess and other classics for children that contain the word "little" in the title.

Coffee in hand, I scrubbed my fingers through my hair and frowned at the calendar. January 2nd. On the date, I had carefully applied a "back to school!" sticker at the beginning of the school year. I checked the handout from the school. Winter Break ends on December 31st. Barely surpressing an upwelling of glee, I marched to the closet and started selecting outfits for my little monsters, who, by this point, were doing some sort of chicken dance alternating with patting their butts and screeching while karate chopping the couch. That Laura Ingalls Wilder. She was a wild'un.

As I pulled socks from the drawer, I got a little carried away.

"You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!"

They got into their outfits. I packed lunches, and after grooming them until they sparkled, I kissed them both and shoved them out the door after my husband. They skulked down the walk, and I stood in the door, waving and blowing kisses and offering up little nuggets of love. "Bye-bye! Love you! Have a great day! Cover your cough!"

Can't you see the bluebirds circling my head, and my freshly starched apron, pearls shining around my neck?

Actually, I cracked my knuckles and plopped down in front of the computer, coffee cooling in my favorite mug. My three year old was curled up on the couch with her abacus and other educational toys, totally not watching Dora the Explorer. I contemplated the screen for a moment, and typed a few sentences. Then I erased them. And then I retyped them. Yes! I was on a roll!

With a bang, the front door swung open, sending a cold gust of air rushing through the kitchen. With excited voices, my children announced that I was mistaken. Oh-ho! Today was a school holiday! The husband, also off from work! Things? Totally not back to normal!

Well, great.

After showing my disbelieving husband that the school handout DID NOT mention the holiday status of today, he insisted that I should have jumped onto the district's website to find out from the primary source. He sat down in front of google and typed in the name of the district. And then he tried the name of the school. And then he tried a few other combinations. Ten minutes of trying, he finally finds the calendar, which indicates that yes, today is a holiday.

Just, nuh-uh. I am not going to verify all school handouts to the district's website.

I was rousted from my warm bed, filled with hope of a little peace, a little accomplishment. Instead, I get another day of 'vacation' with my children and husband. Perhaps we will fill the day with educational worksheets and a knitting lesson. Perhaps we'll read more about Half-Pint and the gang.

Or maybe, I'll let them watch Spongebob and rot their little brains. It is vacation, after all.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

There was a time I believed that parents had pet names for their children as a sign of affection. A term of endearment. I thought it was sweet and strengthened that parental bond. I have since learned that is not always the case.

It is because parents cannot actually remember their child’s name. Now don’t look at me like I am horrible. I happen to know for a fact that I am not the only mom to do this. My own parents were guilty of it. They still are! I grew up known as Michelle-Chris-Jennifer or some variation of that. I would answer to all three names or any combination of them, usually offering a correction as to my real identity if I was so inclined. Unless of course there was trouble. Then I kept silent and let the wrong name sink into my parents’ subconscious hoping that it would give my brother or sister a karmic demerit somehow and earn me a free ticket when I most needed it. The truth is, it all evened out in the end.

Even today, I am occasionally referred to by my sister’s name. As a defense mechanism, my sister and I have added 5 grandchildren to the list of names my parent’s can choose from when talking to us. I am quite confident that within a few years I will just been known as The Youngest Daughter with the Most Kids. (I plan to sign things simply: Younger. It is kind of catchy.)

Now that I have three children of my own, I find myself getting their names mixed up. (Though I swore I would never do that. Just like I swore I would never hide the good cookies while giving the kids the multi-pack of the cheap brand. And like I swore I would never tell my children that when I was their age, I would never have [fill in the blank].) I, too, have resorted to giving my children cute pet names. Out of affection? Sure. But mainly because I just really can’t remember their names at the drop of a hat. I tried to come up with nicknames that might trigger my brain into remembering who they are before anyone catches on that their real names have escaped me. When I look at them, I can see their nickname. Let me just tell you, it has saved me more than once when I draw a blank. In a fit of frustration or when put on the spot, I cannot be expected to know their names. It just isn’t possible when I have things floating around up there like ATM pins, phone numbers to the quickest pizza delivery place and way too many urls to count. I can say, however, that I have become more efficient than my parents were. My kids at least get partial names—BranZarGab-- when I become stuck rather than the full treatment. That should count for something.

I was ahead. I should have known better than to add to the mix. I should have known that I was maxed out on information, but I got cocky.

The other day my oldest son was acting, well, like a tween acts. I had enough. In a fit of frustration I blurt out, “Harley! Knock! It! Off!!�

I was immediately aware of the silence.

“Harley?� my son asked in astonishment. "Harley?! Mom, for crying out loud, you just called me by our dog’s name!�

“Yeah, well...� I stammered. “Stop acting like an animal then. And just to be safe, no talking back, kiddo, or when your dad, Mr. Man, gets home, you are in big trouble.�

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (1)

We've got an exciting week planned for Mommybloggers! Our next featured blogger interview will be up tomorrow... we know that you'll be excited by what she has to say. Be sure to check back on Wednesday, too, when we turn over the site to our fantastic guest.

We laughed ourselves silly over the responses to our latest weekend Q&A. Want to participate in the next Q&A roundup? Send us an email!

We are still accepting submissions for our Carnival of Cruddy Gifts...for those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of blogging carnivals:

Carnivals are a great way to showcase your writing, and have new readers find you. Participants write a themed essay on their personal blog, and send us an email with a link to their entry. We'll gather all the links in one place, and then readers can enjoy entry after entry, all on the same general theme.

Our topic: Cruddy Gifts. Write about the worst gift (for any occasion) that you've received. Or heck, the most awful gift that you've given. Everyone has a story - we want to hear yours! We're accepting submissions through Sunday, December 18.

Finally, we want to thank everyone for your enthusiastic response, your thoughtful suggestions and your continued support. We're thrilled to be part of such a vocal, vibrant community of mommybloggers.

Posted by mommybloggers at 3:52 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

We at Mommybloggers have been discussing the holidays. It didn't take long for the discussion to go from the frantic antics of trying to come up with the MUST HAVE gift for your children to the For The Love of All Things Crappy, Please Don't Buy That For Me gifts. We've all received these gifts. You know the ones I am talking about. The ones that makes you stand there with your mouth agape not sure what exactly you should say but knowing that vomiting on your gift would probably not be the correct response?

We want to hear about these from you! We all have cruddy gift stories. (Remind me to tell you about my Epilady disaster!)

Oh sure, we could talk about the hottest toys, the safest toys, the toys all children should have. We could talk about the most luxurious gifts, most extravagent gifts or most appreciated gifts. We could even steal Oprah's Favorite Things List. But seriously, where is the funny in that? (And yes, I meant to say funny and not fun.) Therefore, it is with great excitement that I announce to you the *When-annual Carnival of Cruddy Gifts.

If you are interested in participating, this is what we need from you:

Scamper to your blog and post a tale of Cruddy Gift woe. Don't limit yourself to the winter holidays - no... any gifting occasion has the potential for receiving gifts that make you want to go "Huh?"

Gather the following information for us:

* The title of your post.
* The author of your post.
* The blog on which the post is posted.
* The permalink of the post.
* The Trackback URL of the post.
* A brief summary of the post.

Once you have all of these things together, e-mail them to mommybloggers@gmail.com and please indicate in the subject that it is Cruddy Gift related and we will work to include your amazing...err, rather cruddy gift stories into the Carnival.

Continue reading "Call for Submissions" »

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

The following essay has been written especially for Mommybloggers by Busy Mom. We want to thank her for hanging out and playing with the Mommybloggers this week.

For the longest time, I philosophically resisted the custom of decorating for Christmas immediately after Thanksgiving, but, especially since I’ve had kids, I’ve since subscribed to the “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em� philosophy. I will admit, however, that the act of actually doing the decorating lags behind my philosphy, somewhat. I look at it as having 3 “levels� and we may implement a different level each year. In descending order of effort required, here they are:

Level III: “Full-Out Home Magazine� Mode:

We actually own more Christmas decorations than any one household should, thanks to the year we participated in a Holiday Tour of Homes (long story) and the fact that we used to host Busy Dad’s work party. We were decorating fools, and, no, it didn’t involve random placement of gingerbread men standing watch over the Baby Jesus in the manger in the front yard (not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m just sayin’…). We ended up spending the equivalent of the GNP of a small country and way more time in a craft store than I’m comfortable with. This “over the top� decorating level included festive swags of real pine with red bows adorning the stair railings and we even decorated the upstairs, where there are, for the most part, only bedrooms and baths. Though it didn’t actually match my lofty vision created by overpriced, shiny magazines, it turned out fairly well and was most enjoyable. But, since it took nearly a month to complete and we had to bribe friends to come help us do it, it’s not practical to repeat that one very often. Friends, they have long memories, you know, and, apparently, my chili isn’t worth the manual labor. (Note to self: find new friends that weren’t involved the first time around)

Level II: “ Let’s Put Stuff in Strategic Areas Causing the Casual Observer to Think We’ve Gone All-Out� Mode:

This stage is implemented during bouts of excessive Christmas cheer but lacking the time to do anything about it. The most-used entrance to our house is the kitchen door, so we usually have the best decorated kitchen, ever, complete with lights and pine swags, etc. People never seem to leave my kitchen even when I want them to, anyway. Done properly, the kitchen decor gives the guest a first impression that we are ever so ready for Christmas to come. A smelly candle of some sort or some decoy potpourri cements the illusion and they assume that the rest of the house is the same. On the rare occasion we let people beyind the kitchen, they are escorted straight to the living room where we have implemented a rather large tree that is meant to be so fetching that you need not look around the rest of the room. This level is good because it can be rapidly executed and receives much fanfare if cdone correctly.

Level I : “I Put a Bow on the Mailbox, DoYou Think We Need To Get a Tree, Too?�:

Yes, there have been years we’ve only made it to Level I, but that was before kids. Kids make it all different and you might oughta (and you want to) do a little more.
Now that Busy Girl is older, she’s wanting to decorate beyond the boundaries and it may force me to declare some sort of new level if she passes my inspection (Control Issues: The Holiday Edition). But maybe that’s not so bad, she gets a kick out of doing it. However, I’ve been unsuccessful in my efforts to get her to specialize in the “Undecorating� Level since it’s not my favorite part. If you’re good, maybe I’ll tell you about the year we had a “St. Patrick’s Tree�.

Read more about Busy Mom and the adventure of the Busy Family on her personal blog Busy Mom

Posted by mommybloggers at 12:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

It's Monday. You know what that means here at Mommybloggers. A new featured blogger! This week's blogger is none other than the one and only Busy Mom! Her name says it all. Her writing can be both witty and touching. Her kindness knows no limits. In fact, many bloggers tell us that she is one of the first bloggers they read who made them feel welcomed and appreciated.

Whether she is writing about soccer or singing at work, the Busy Van or life as part of the Sandwich Generation, she has appeal that reaches far and wide. We put a call out for Busy Mom testimonials and were overwhelmed with the response. We wanted to share all of them, but there is no way we could. Without a doubt, our suspicions were confirmed: Busy Mom is definitely a well-loved blogger. An admired woman for sure. But enough about what we think about her. This is what a few of her readers had to share with about her:

Buzz the blogger formerly known as Buzz from Buzzstuff.net was thrilled to come out of the depths on the non-blogging world to praise our beloved Busy Mom. When asked about her, he eagerly replied:

BusyMom is one of the special ones. She is one of those bloggers who can make you feel like you've known her all your life. Funny, insightful, wise, and most importantly to us loyal readers, interesting. What do you like to read when you visit someone's site? Super-secret family stuff? Yeah, she's got that. A funny observation on the state of the world? Yeah, she's got that. A silly joke or two? Yeah, she's got that. Tips on how to get the most out of your shopping dollars at Target? Yep, she's even got that. And on top of all this, she's nice. I mean genuinely nice. And like I said before, I feel like I've known her all my life. And I'm richer for it.

Karen of Four Kids and a Dog immediately raised her hand to tell the mommybloggers of her devotion and adoration of Busy Mom:

BusyMom makes me laugh. I first ran across her when I began my blog last year and surfed BlogExplosion. When I tired of BE, BusyMom was one of the few blogs from there that I kept on my reading list. I can always count on her for something that makes me smile or wonder if she's planted a bug in my house somewhere.

Even though we had to wait until after he went to see Harry Potter, we were very excited to get the scoop on Busy Mom from Solonor , a blogger who has actually experienced his very own in-person Busy Mom sighting. He had this to share with us:

When I finally met her in person last April, I recognized her instantly (and not just from the "soccer mom" sticker on the back of her van). We went to see "Kicking and Screaming", because if there's one thing she doesn't get enough of, it's kicking and screaming. After that, we went to dinner with a couple of my co-workers who thought we must be related (or at least had known each other for years). I think this was mostly because of the deep respect we showed to one another ("Ow! Quit hitting! You started it!").

Busy Mom is exactly the same person in person that she presents to the blogging world in third person. She is funny (and not just looking), and she is one of the bestest people I have ever attempted to call friend.

Lauren of Life is Just Ducky couldn't wait to tell us why she adores Busy Mom:

She never fails to find the positive in any situation. Her outlook on life in general is hilarious. Yet, even when life throws her a fast curve she is right there with her wit and her humor to get through it. I can't tell you how long I have been reading her because I have been reading her for that long. She is a joy to read and I make sure to check her blog at least once a day. In short, she is a great read and I absolutely love reading her blog.

The infamous mommy known in the blogosphere only as cmhl of the ever popular Crouching Mommy, Hidden Laundry shared with us part of the reason she admires Busy Mom and keeps coming back for more:

Busymom is one of my daily reads, if for no other reason than to see if any more trees have fallen on Vanna White! She is an excellent writer, and always humorous and inspiring--- plus, I love her hometown...

A relatively new kid on the block, Scott Goldblatt Home of the Parental Olympian, made a great move when he sought out another parent blogger trying to manage their way through this crazy parental jungle and found Busy Mom. He shares this with us:

Busy Mom, what's to say, except that she's busy, busy, busy - with keeping us entertained at our house on a daily basis. I "met" Busy Mom only a few months ago. While being broken into this game called parenting, I decided to find other bloggers who were in the same situation. There was Busy Mom to save the day. Whether the topic is about her family, current events, humor, or anything else she may come up with (though sometimes there are only 84 of them). Day in and day out, she keeps us laughing. I thank her for that as she is an inspiration.

These are just a few of the things Busy Mom's readers had to say about her. We wish we could feature every comment. But, we know you want to hear from Busy Mom herself. So, be sure to check back here later today for our interview with her. It was fun to to kick back and dish with her. She is has a wit that makes you want to keep coming back for more! So, y'all come on back!

Posted by mommybloggers at 5:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Today has been a busy behind the scenes day at Mommybloggers. We are in the process of changing to a new server at a new host site. We will have our very own dedicated server now. The old server just couldn't handle the intense number of hits we had coming our way so suddenly. (I think we caused it to have a nervous breakdown and now it holds a grudge!) We will now be able to handle the traffic and the fun without even a mere hiccup! (Totally knocking on wood here.) Not to mention we will be physically closer to our host site so that we can get right up in their face if there is a crash. And, really, that can be rather scary!

Thanks for your support of Mommybloggers!

Posted by mommybloggers at 6:23 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

Last night one of my partners in crime and I were deep into discussions about major issues in the media and debating the finer merits of modern literature over the classics, when..…Yeah, right!. I totally couldn’t keep that one going with a straight face. We were totally dishing about life and motherhood. It was then we stumbled upon why we both love the television show Lost. For the two or three of you out there who have not seen the show Lost, this might not make sense. But for those who are familiar with the show and are parents—especially of teens—there are many correlations between that show and the real life drama of parenthood.

We (the parents) have been thrown onto the Island of Parenthood without any idea of the “right way� to survive. We quickly learn that the best way to handle the entire situation is to band together. And much like the castaways of Lost, many of us would probably not have met each other had we not been put in these same circumstances at the same time. Together we are doing the best we can to make keep Parental Island a peaceful and safe place to inhabit.

The beloved Teens? They are the Others. You can hear them, but you never actually see them. Their mumbled taunts and silent grumbles make your stomach tighten up a bit in fear, but you aren’t even sure what they are saying. And let’s be honest, they can certainly make you feel like you are crazy. It is not unheard of for one of the Parents to frantically grab another and anxiously question: “Does yours roll his eyes? Have you ever heard her say that? Could they possibly eat that much food? How big DO they get? What do they want?� And that whole having to push a button at regular intervals in order to prevent the end of the world? We refer to it as the ATM.

In order for The Others and The Parents to inhabit Parental Island, there are rules that should followed. They aren’t law, but it is definitely recommended to abide by them. A few of them include the following:

Find a buddy and stick with them when traveling in this new territory. Do not go into the area inhabited by The Others after dark. Never underestimate the power of the Others. Whatever you do, do NOT get caught alone in a group of The Others. There is no guarantee you will survive or not be traumatized.

I am sure that the day will come on Lost when all will be revealed regarding the secret of The Others. I heard that day will come with teens. I am doubtful. Very doubtful.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 3:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

The following essay has been written especially for Mommybloggers by our featured blogger of the week, Mir. (At the request of her fans, we did let her out of time-out for crashing our server.)

I'm sure this comes as a huge shock to anyone who actually knows me or has read me for more than, say, 4 seconds, but I'm sort of a perfectionist. I hide it so well, don't I?

I've been told that my standards are impossibly high. I've been told that I have some internal barometer of RIGHTNESS that is prohibitive when dealing with the real world. I've been told to just CHILL OUT and have a cookie already.

It's all true. Especially because I can always use a cookie.

Me, I'm sort of a swirling package of lofty ideals, wrapped up in cynical paper, trimmed with a brightly-colored and highly neurotic ribbon. WHY more people don't rush to unwrap me is a MYSTERY FOR THE AGES.

The truth is that--to a greater or lesser extent--I've always been this way. I believe I'm more flexible and adaptive now than I used to be, but no one is going to accuse me of being easy-going. Really the only way someone is going to speak "mellow" in my general direction is if it is preceded by "marsh" and in the context of cocoa.

In many ways I've made my peace with the various demanding demons I channel. There are ways in which I am still struggling for greater balance, and ways in which I accept that awareness is the most control I'll be exerting. There's always room for improvement and at the rate I'm going I'm certain I'll attain my goals around age 183. No worries!

The most difficult challenge to my perfection-addled brain right now? Modeling healthy behavior for my children. Specifically, modeling healthy interpersonal interaction such that I can feel confident that they'll grow up to have as little emotional baggage as possible when it comes to relating to other humans.

It's not like I have the market cornered on worrying about this. I'm sure that all parents do. But as a single parent, I worry that I'm already behind the ball. I feel that I'm always on alert for the tacit and explicit messages my kids are receiving about what it means to be in a relationship; what behavior is acceptable and when commitment is healthy and when it is counterproductive. What are they learning? What are they learning from ME?

My kids are young; it's not like we're having in-depth discussions about a lot of this stuff. Maybe someday we will (and then I'll have a new set of worries to entertain, like how much do I tell them about the divorce?), but right now it's a constant state of juggling what they see and what they don't.

For example: I have introduced my children to exactly one man since I divorced. It was (I thought) a well-thought-out decision, after the relationship was fairly well along. I told the kids he was a friend. They immediately figured out that he was a boyfriend. They had questions. I tried my best to answer them appropriately. The meeting went off without a hitch; everyone got along famously. And then I was quite unexpectedly dumped, and my kids wanted to know what was up.

I think: Well, kids, some people are terrified of feelings.
I say: We decided not to see each other any more.

I think: I am fantasizing about performing an unmedicated castration because being angry is all that keeps me from succumbing to feeling completely unlovable.
I say: I am sad that we won't see each other again.

I think: This was a unilateral, unfair decision, born of issues having little to do with me.
I say: We can't control what other people decide to do.

I think: I never want to date again and fear that I will never find someone with whom to share my life as equals.
I say: After a while I'm sure I'll meet someone else, but if I don't, that's okay, too.

I think: I want you, my darling daughter, to grow up strong and confident and knowing how to give fully of yourself without compromising your own needs, without leaving yourself at risk for excessive hurt. I want you, my loving son, to grow up and stay that way--without buying into the idea that men don't or shouldn't feel, or that baubles or chest-beating declarations are a substitute for the work of building true bonds. I want you both to know that it's okay to be alone, it's okay to take a break to regroup, but eventually you try again if that's what you need... and someday, I want you to see a relationship that works, because my mate and I have made it a priority and are unafraid to weather the storms. I want to find a way to adjust my assholeometer not only for myself, but for you two. Because you are happiest when I am happy. Because I want you to know how to love and how to make yourselves happy.
I say: How about we make some cookies?

And I make smiley faces out of chocolate chips. And put some more money in the therapy fund. And pray that I can sometimes manage to set an example worth following.

Read more by Mir on her personal blog Woulda Coulda Shoulda.

Posted by mommybloggers at 6:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (35) | TrackBacks (1)

Our featured blogger this week is Mir of Woulda Coulda Shoulda. Grab a beverage of choice and enjoy our interview as we talk candidly with Mir.

Mommybloggers: Mir, we are so excited to have you join the Mommybloggers as our featured blogger this week. Let’s not waste time here. I need to get one thing clear before we go any further. M-I-R. You must correct me on how you pronounce that. Mir as in Mirror, Mire, or Mercy?
(Sidenote: Do you know how hard it is to ask that question on the phone without mispronouncing the name you are trying to pronounce? I’m just saying.)

Mir: Mir as in the Mir space station.

Mommmybloggers: Ahhhh, so you are comparable to a celestial being? Cool!

*crickets chirping*

Mommybloggers: Do people in your "real life" know about and read your blog? Has it caused problems? Do they fear the Wrath of the Blog?

Mir: Some do and some don't. I have friends who know about it and choose not to read it. I have others who use it to keep up with me. On the whole I'd say the reaction has been very favorable, with a few notable exceptions. My ex has grumbled more than once about what he feels is my misrepresentation of him on my blog. (To which I lovingly replied, "Oh well!")

Look, I never claimed to be writing the God's honest truth as set in stone. What I AM writing is my perception of things. Generally speaking, I try to tread carefully and not upset anyone.

I get a chuckle out of the fact that in 100% of cases where people felt the need to give me crap about what I'd written, they were all folks who'd formerly congratulated me on my honesty. Apparently sometimes the truth does hurt.

Mommybloggers: You have a big fan base. One of the reasons we at mommybloggers love you is that you are not afraid to laugh at yourself or the things in your life that may seem embarrassing. You don’t seem to pull back when it comes to doing that. Are you like that in person or is it a blog thing?

Mir: It is who I am. As for the blog, if I make the first strike, it takes away the power of those who want to beat me to it.

Mommybloggers: What are the ages of your children? Where do you fall in the birth order of your own family? Do you relate to the child that has the same order in your family as you held in yours growing up?

Mir: My daughter is 7.5 and my son will be 6 in a few months. I am the youngest of 2 children (I have a brother who is 3 years older than I am).

I often find Monkey easier to just flat-out love on, but I think that's a combination of 1) his being the youngest, 2) his being a boy, and 3) his (very demonstrative) personality. I identify much more readily with Chickadee, who is so like me that I'm already planning on the Witness Protection Program for myself when she becomes a teen.

Mommybloggers: You and I both know the term “mommyblogger� has cause riots, floods and famine across the globe. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but some people don't like the term and yet some embrace it. What do you personally think about the term 'mommyblogger'?

Mir: I don't have a problem with the term as long as it's not being used as a definitive categorization. I'm a mom. I blog. That makes me a mommyblogger. But I blog about more than just my kids, and I think that's true of 95% of the so-called mommybloggers out there.

But for women who rail against the mommyblogger term... I dunno. For one thing, I don't see a huge point in battling semantics. For another, I'm very proud to be a mom. Why would I fight people labeling me that way?

Mommybloggers: So, from reading your blog and talking to you, I have learned that you-- how do I put this delicately-- do not have the most laid back mothering style. In fact, someone close to you--you, as a matter of fact-- said you were a mini-drill sargeant. Is that different from how you were raised?

Mir: I said mini drill sargeant? Uh oh.... Hmmm, let's see. I was raised by one very strict parent and one very laid-back parent. I think ideally you go with something more in the middle. I strive for balance, but my Type-A personality definitely prefers more order to less. I do tend to be quite strict. But I also love to be silly with my kids, when the stuff that I have to crack down on is out of the way.

Mommybloggers:Do you feel you are more rigid because you are a single mom or because that is just who you are as a person?

Mir: Some of that comes from being a single mom, I'm sure, but a lot of that is just the way I am.

Mommybloggers: Will I go to timeout for getting this interview off to a late start?

Mir: You can avoid a time out by handing over the chocolate.

Mommyblogger: You are great about updating your own blog daily. You're a professional freelance writer and a copy editor. AND you blog professionally. Not to mention you are also a single mom. Have you been able to find more than 24 housr in one day that the rest of us don't know about? Care to share your secret?

Mir: My only secret is that I don't exercise enough and/or have enough other hobbies. I'm sure I should be spending some of my blogging/writing time doing something else. But there are so few activities I love this much that allow me to snack and watch TV at the same time....

Ooops, I've said too much! I mean, YES, I never sleep, my house is spotless, I work out 7 days a week, and pay no attention to how long my nose has grown during this last sentence.

Mommyblogger: Tell us about online friends. We know you have become very close to some friends online. What would you tell people just starting out blogging or are new to the Internet? I mean, it can get ugly out there!

Mir: Heh. Yeah, I've certainly tasted both the good and the bad. I've made some wonderful connections where I fully expect the friendships to last, and I suppose it's just like face-to-face friendships: you discover you have common interests and outlooks, and the relationship grows from there. It's no secret that I've forged love affairs with Joshilyn and Kira, two wonderful women I never would've met without blogging. Both of them have not only proven wonderful support on a personal, let-me-weep-on-your-shoulder sort of way, but they both inspire me (and occasionally push me!) to write. Where could I have met two such amazing authors in my little podunk town? At Dunkin Donuts?

I don't know that I have advice for anyone beyond what you'd heed in "regular" life. There are jerks on the internet just like there are jerks at the supermarket. The trick is in figuring it out.

Mommybloggers: Writing online not only puts you out there in terms of vulnerability, but puts your kids out there. Do you worry about saying things that are funny now, but will humiliate your kids later? Where do you draw the line about how much you share on your blog about your children?

Mir: I'm pretty sure I humiliate my kids on a daily basis. I consider it a right of parenting.

I do share quite a bit about my kids, but I stick to a few rules which I'm hoping will keep them from killing me in my sleep: 1) I don't post their pictures, which is a decision I made from the start (and while I certainly LOVE seeing other folks' pictures and acknowledge my choice is not necessarily the right one for everyone, it works for me), 2) I use pseudonyms for them, and 3) if I think it's something which would truly embarrass them, I refrain.

As with anything else, there's plenty that doesn't get posted. Of the stuff that does, I hope that even in my most frustrated moments it's clear to my kids at every moment that I love them. If it's not, I'm doing something wrong.

Mommybloggers: What is one myth about mommyblogging that you would like to dispel right now?

Mir: I think that when men bitch about fatherhood people think it's funny, and when women bitch about motherhood people evenly split into two camps of either cheering "TELL IT, GIRLFRIEND!" or "You horrible woman! You don't deserve to have children!"

Look, parenting is hard. I am a huge lover of honesty. I adore the blogs where fellow moms acknowledge that--cheesy army-themed music aside--it's the toughest job you'll ever love. My kids drive me crazy. And they are everything to me. They drive me crazy BECAUSE they are everything to me! But the so-called mommy blogs that are 100% "I hate this, it's too hard, I'm lousy at it, I miss my life" make me cringe. There's a balance to be struck, otherwise you're just King Midas whining that you want more gold.

Mommybloggers: I know you wanted to be an actress. You may still be discovered one day, but if that is delayed and your life is made into a movie, what actress would play you in the movie of your life? What man would come sweep you off your feet and become your leading man? And you cannot have Matthew McConaughey. He belongs to Jenn!

Mir: Wait, I thought part of this deal was that you were sending an agent over to my house...?

Oh, the movie of my life... that'll be interesting. Let's see. If we're going for the older me, like, the future me, we'll have to cast Sigourney Weaver. For the young me... hmmm... you know, I think we'd have to do a special casting call to find an unknown. I wouldn't want a "name" to do it.

My leading man? How about Viggo Mortensen? Nah, that's too predictable. Wait, you know who I really want? Mark Dacascos. (Here is where I both enlighten you and shame myself: He is the Chairman for the American version of Iron Chef. Yum, on several levels.)

Mommybloggers: You have no problem talking about your vagina, so let's not be shy here. If you were asked to be in the Vagina Monologues, would you do that?

Mir: Lord, my poor father.

Mommybloggers: Where shall I send the sedation medication to your parents since i asked that question?

Mir: I would be in the Vagina Monologues in a heartbeat.

Mommybloggers: In an episode of Sex & the City, Charlotte had a depressed vagina. Have you experienced a depressed vagina, Mir?

Mir: I'm pretty sure my vagina--despite its many trials and travails--has never actually been depressed. It does experience periodic bouts of social anxiety, however. (Please send the smelling salts to my dad.)

Mommybloggers: And here are the questions we subject all of our featured bloggers to: (*With apologies to Bernard Pivot and Inside the Actor's Studio)

1. What is your favorite parent related word?

Snacks. It makes every mom an instant hero.

2. What is your least favorite parent related word?

Whiiiiiiiiiining. As in, PLEASE STOP BEFORE MY HEAD EXPLODES.

3. What is your favorite creative censored curse word used around children?

I don't actually have one. Either I slip up and (loudly) take the Lord's name in vain (and, occasionally, on a popsicle stick!), or I just sputter wordlessly while the children admire the wisps of smoke curling out of my ears.

4. What is your favorite hiding place within your home when you need to get away from it all?

My favorite place to unwind when the kids are asleep is in a hot bath, but that's impractical for during the day; both because I'd turn into a shrivelled prune and because I'd be too easy to find. If I'm really losing it, I go out to "get the mail." My driveway is just long enough that I can simmer down but can remain reasonably confident that everyone will still be alive when I get back.

5. What hiding place have you been found in too often and can no longer use?

The basement. I used to go down there, but the door has a little cat-flap door thing (previous owners) and now if I go downstairs they know it and there are suddenly arms and legs waving through the cat door.

6. If Oprah exists, what would you like to hear her say when you arrive at the Oprah Winfrey show when she features the Mommybloggers?

"I realize now how pointless and self-absorbed my life is without children. You've opened my eyes." (Bwahahahaha... right after she says that, Xenu lands there in the studio, by the way.)

Mommybloggers: Mir, you rock our world. Thanks for being here with us and sharing yourself so openly. Please apologize to you father for us. We will gladly accept the bill for his smelling salts and/or sedation medication.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (1)

When I became a first time mom, I'll admit it, I devoured the parenting how-to books. I am pretty sure I had all of the most popular titles as well as quite a few of the lesser known as well. I read whenever I could. While I was pregnant, I went to Childbirth Education Classes and a How to Breastfeed Class every week for about 6 weeks. I surrounded myself with the tools and advice of the self-proclaimed experts. I wanted to make sure I did this "mothering" thing well. I looked to the experts and those who had gone before me to reassure me that I was capable of raising this little person without causing too much harm to his psyche. I researched all of the "right" ways to burp, change and rock a baby. I was ready. I was armed with knowledge. I am mother hear me roar!

As my children aged, the books changed. As they went from one phase to the next, the books became fewer; the parenting from the hip style became more apparent. The books have also become more focused on one or two aspects of parenting rather than covering entire phases. Welcome to the teens; you’re on your own! The experts have left the building. (Unless of course you count the true experts. The parents. We are the ones standing on the sidelines of our teens' lives looking perplexed and a bit overwhelmed.) What I need is a book with practical advice on getting through this. Something with chapter titles like these:

“How to Make Yourself Invisible When Dropping Off Your Teen Anywhere, Anytime.� Because let’s face it, your teen will need you to drop him off many times at various places but really wishes you didn’t actual exist. I have discovered that singing “It’s Getting Hot in Herre� is not appropriate drop-off behavior. Which of course, means I do it more often when he give me attitude!

“My Teen Only Writes In IM-Net Lingo…Will He Ever Get Into College?� With the ever increasing popularity of Instant Messages, most teens have created their own language. AAMOF, U need the 411 if u have POS, KWIM? (Translation: As a matter of fact, you need this information if you have your parents over your shoulder. If you know what I mean.) See? I don’t see Harvard all over that essay.

“Getting Your Teen to Speak To You: Going Beyond Whatever, Huh? And The Four Syllable Version of the Word Mom� How often have you tried to speak with your teen about his day or his social life only to be rewarded with a riveting “Whatever, Mooooooom!� There must be a way to have a conversation with more than one word responses that do not involve the words “I need� and “money�.

“Toilet Training Made Me Mental But Teen Training Just Might Kill Me!� There was a time I couldn’t wait until my children were old enough to do things for themselves. Now, all they want to do is to do things for themselves. By themselves. With nothing but my money to aid them. Certainly, there is a middle ground in there somewhere. Show it to me.

"Convincing Yourself That Eyerolling Really Does Mean ‘I Love You� My children have always been masters at eyerolling. Masters. But honestly, I believe there must be a secret class taught in middle school that helps them to bring this skill to a mastery level. I have yet to see a teen who is not the master of the eyeroll.

But as I said, I have yet to see this book. Have you? What chapters would you add if you could?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 4:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (0)

"It’s the new Meghan Townsend!" I proclaimed as I donned a new, huge afro wig and strutted my stuff all the way into the school dance. My High School peers jaws gaped down to their polo oxfords, which were tucked neatly into their tapered Girbaud jeans. They all fell silent. The only noise to be heard was Cris Cross’s “Jump!� blasting through the gym. They began whispering to one another and pointing. Oh no. Not again. In my effort to distinguish myself from my siblings I had made a mockery of myself AGAIN. Why were people always laughing AT me and not WITH me? Why wouldn’t anyone sit next to me on the School bus? Why did I feel compelled to eat my school lunch burrito sitting alone in a stall in the girls restroom? Why did that social service worker keep calling to ask about the cats gone missing from the neighborhood?

I guess it wasn’t THAT bad. But I was a middle child. Technically the second of four girls. I like to say that my sister Molly and I got shafted so badly that we even had to share the title of middle child. Just like we had to share everything else we ever got, from fruit roll-ups to chicken pox and head lice.

Middle Child Syndrome. The words conjure up images of a desperate, needy, neurotic Jan Brady-type. A clingy “me-too! Hey! Remember me? Hey! Wait up guys! Come on! Wait up!� kind of a kid. In a way, I suppose that is part of who I am. A person hates to admit that. But yeah, I am an annoying pesky middle child at heart. I feel it in my center. The need to be included. The desire for approval. Loathe the thought of being left out of anything. Like a dagger through my heart.

I have a distinct memory of asking my mother for ketchup on my bologna sandwich. I was about 4 years old. I did this because my sister Julie had asked for mustard on hers. What’s the opposite of mustard? Ketchup! I shall have ketchup on my bologna sandwich! My mother must have thought I was nuts, or at least lacked any sense of taste. But that is the way I thought it was supposed to be. My choices, even then, were dictated by someone else’s. I thought I had to be the exact opposite of my older sister. Not that any one ever told me that, mind you. It was an underlying assumption on my part. Four years old and already making an ass of u and me.

For much of my life, I had an underdeveloped sense of identity. If asked the question “So, who IS Meghan?� I probably would have stammered a bit and responded with “ummm... I don’t know. What do you think?�. This lack of self-definement is characteristic of middle children. I measured myself through the eyes of others. I watched for clues and gauged how I was doing by carefully monitoring the facial expressions and body language of the people around me.

I had a couple of “jail break� boyfriends. Guys I went out with because they had cars and could drive me places. They could drive me away from my house and my family. I also belonged to a gang of girls. We weren't a “Gang� like the kind that wear bandanas and flash signs. But we were a gang of girls in a sense. We were so close back then, we really kind of raised each other. At least through the teenage years. Most of those girls are my closest friends to this day.

I read on the Dr. Spock website that “Middle children...often learn non-aggressive strategies to get what they want, such as negotiation, cooperation, or seeking parental intervention�. I don’t remember beating my younger sisters up per se, but I do remember implementing tactics of full-on psychological torture. I would hide my sisters security blanket just to watch her sob in bereft agony. I would literally sit and watch my parents, exhausted from long days at work, as they searched high and low for her beloved dingy piece of fabric so they could put Molly to bed once and for all. I watched them frantically tearing the house apart, and envisioned her blanket, folded and hidden carefully under the cushion of my father’s favorite armchair. I watched them and chuckled demonically.

Deviant and sick? Why yes! That’s me! Deep rooted feelings of anger for not getting enough attention? Yes! And that is why I derived pleasure from watching my little sister shudder and weep in her suffering. MAN that is twisted. Molly, if you are reading this: I AM SORRY!!!! You were an innocent victim. My middle child comrade. I had Jan Brady syndrome, but with more sociopathic tendencies thrown in. I always ended up giving the darn blanket back, though. And surprising as it may be, I seem to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy as an adult. You might not have predicted that back then.

But I guess it’s not all bad. Apparently most middle children possess a well developed sense of empathy (aforementioned story of sibling torture clearly an anomaly, perhaps I will donate my brain to research). We make great diplomats. We are used to getting a bit lost in the shuffle. I also read on www.DrSpock.com that “Middle children take a general interest in getting to know other people...Middle children are often quiet about their needs; they may be more likely to withdraw than to make a fuss� (or perhaps resort to deviant behavior, which apparently was the case with me). So if I had learned to clearly express my needs (NEED LOTS OF ATTENTION!) I may not have had to work out my feelings of juvenile rage through insensitive sibling torture. I was doing the best I could with the resources I had at the time. So was everyone in my family.

Being our only child so far, Maggie will be spared the title of "middle child". If we are lucky enough to have another child, or even two or three more, Maggie will be the oldest. According to Dr. Spock, eldest children have their own unique neuroses. Overzealous parents, without other siblings to tend to in the early years, tend to focus more attention on the oldest child. Oldest children learn how to please their parents, and they do it well (subsequent children apparently learn to not give a hoot what their frazzled parents think). "Ironically, their very success often leads to anxiety: If being special hinges on performing up to high standards, what happens if they fail? To protect against this disaster, many firstborn children set even higher standards for themselves than their parents do, and, as a result, are rarely satisfied."

I do hope that Maggie grows up to be okay with who she is. I hate to think of her berating herself for not measuring up to some unattainable standard. To offer Maggie the best of both worlds (as a parent with only one child to focus my crazy on) I think I will introduce Maggie to her imaginary older sister. That way she can be both an oldest and a middle. Maggie, meet you sister Sara. She's real bossy, and she might beat on you every now and then, but she will take all the pressure off. Maggie, my love, you are now free to go through life as an empathetic, diplomatic middle child slacker.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 4:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

Ah, Saturday. Truly, the one day of the week where I can stay snuggled into bed until I drift awake, rested and at peace.

*screeeeeeeeech*

When my first kid popped awake at 5:15 am, I pulled her into my bed, hoping to snuggle her into submission. Her happy cries of "Up! Mama! Get up get up get up!" woke the other two, and by 5:20 am, I had all three kids jockeying for position in my bed.

My husband did the sensible thing, and got up to make coffee. I stayed in bed, dodging the knees and elbows of three gangly kids, wishing for a magic cloud of sleeping dust to appear overhead. After feigning sleep for another few minutes, I tried shooing the kids out of my room.

"Hey! Everybody out! Go on now! This is a sleeping place!"

No dice. My son gave me a baleful glance and said "Wah wah wah I can't hee-uh you." Elmer Fudd the smart-aleck. The kids wrestled like puppies, giggling and occasionally yelping.

If I couldn't get them to stop, I figured I'd leave them to it. I slipped out from under the warmth of my blankets and shuffled out to the kitchen for my own cup of coffee. The kids trailed behind, peppering my back with a hail of questions. We made quite a ragtag parade, me in my shlumpy sweats, my oldest already bedecked in extra scarves and jewelry over her pajamas, my son muttering random dinosaur facts, clad in only his pajama top and a pair of underpants, and my youngest, hair like a lion's mane, chirping "Yay! Mommy! Yay! You got up!"

Yay. Yay, indeed.

While the kids twittered around the house, tra la la la la-ing about the joy of being awake early on a Saturday morning, I sat glaring into my mug, longing for a few more hours of sleep. I slapped my cup down on the counter and stalked back to my bed. I threw my body back down, pulled the covers up to my chin, and laid very still, eyes squinted shut. Hah! I was a parody of my children at bedtime.

Opening one eye, I looked over at the clock. 5:35 am. Oy. I snapped my eyelid closed, and willed my brain to relax. Muffled outside my bedroom, I could hear the kids engaged in some sort of drama. Unable to relax, I stood back up, marched back to the kitchen in a major snit. I grabbed at my coffee cup and sloshed the lukewarm brew down the front of my sweatshirt.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I stomped across the kitchen to let the dog out. As the door slid open, the cold morning air slapped me in the face, causing me to inhale sharply. My lungs burned from the temperature difference, but my brain cleared. My foul mood evaporated as I noticed the first light creeping over my back fence, turning the dew on my deck to a silvery sheen. The dog slipped past my legs into the warmth of the kitchen, but I stood there, dragon-breath billowing into the still-dark yard.

In the next room, I could hear my children. Their voices fell to stage whispers, and rose to shouts as they acted out a story about a Queen, an Animal Researcher and a Baby Jaguar. I continued to gulp lungfuls of bracing air, feeling the tension leaving my body. I slid the door closed, and felt a small hand on my back.

"Mommy? Whatcha doing?" My three year old beamed up at me from behind her unruly hair.

"I'm breathing, baby." She thrust her arms up at me, and I settled her on my hip. We stood together, our foreheads resting on the cool glass of the sliding door.

"Mommy?" She whispered near my cheek. "I breathing, too."

"Do you see that the sun is almost awake?" I turned my body so that her chubby face pointed in the direction of the sunrise.

"Up came the sun and dried up all the rain..." she sang to me.

She read my mind.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 9:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (40) | TrackBacks (0)

The goal of our site, Mommybloggers, is to expose the diversity of the writers who commonly fall under the label "mommyblogger". This site is set up to be an inclusive experience for our readers, both for parents and non-parents alike. We will feature women who will share how their experiences in motherhood effect the many various aspects of her life in humorous, supportive and informative ways. Mommybloggers are making a real difference in this world. Mommybloggers.com wants to introduce you, our readers, to these amazing women.

Mommybloggers is not about linking to other news sites or product promotions. Our goal is to entertain our readers with personal stories from other moms as well as to introduce our readers to these women in a more personal, intimate way that they may not have seen before. Our featured mommybloggers are wonderful moms and writers from a wide variety of backgrounds.

Mommybloggers will keep our content focused on the personal side of mommyblogging. We have each individually built readerships by sharing compelling content from our own lives. Mommybloggers are personal bloggers. The stories told are at once new and familiar.

Mommybloggers does not intend to create a flawless polished image of what a perfect mother looks like. Many mothers, for fear of seeming like bad mothers, hesitate to share their disasters, mishaps and insecurities. We will not perpetuate judgements about what is and what is not good mothering. We want to share humor, insights, fears, joys and frustrations through our stories-- your stories-- as we learn more about the power of mommyblogging.

Mommybloggers wants to open eyes and change minds about the writers who call themselves "Mommyblogger" or those who have been called --or marginalized into the category of-- Mommybloggers.

Love the term or hate it, Mommybloggers are here to stay. And mom by mom, we are changing our world!

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 12:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (94) | TrackBacks (2)

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My thoughts went all panicky and herky-jerky.

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

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

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

I found myself making deals with God.

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

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

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

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

Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:42 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)

Blame it on the wine. Or on the strawberries and whipped cream. The husband and I were feeling a little amorous last night. We snuggled while we sipped our wine. We played footsie and I got my backrub. Things were looking, uh, up. Canoodling was on the agenda.

"Mama!" called my oldest. "Sssh! Maybe she'll go back to sleep," said my husband, sotto voce. "MY PANTS ARE WET! WAAAAAH!" came the cry from behind our locked door. "Hold that thought," I said with a sultry glance over my shoulder. I grabbed a beach towel and a clean pair of pajamas, and got my daughter calmed down, dry and back in bed.

Whew! As I turned the lock on our bedroom door, I heard a plaintive wail building from the baby's room. Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"Sssh! Maybe SHE'LL go back to sleep," said my husband. Hope springs eternal in Husbandland.

"You're so good at getting her to settle, babe. You try," I whispered. He stood up and moments later reappeared with my howling
youngest, who had bubbling green snot and a full diaper. A new diaper, new pajamas, a face washing and a dose of decongestant later, she passed out on my husband's shoulder. He quickly returned her to the crib and jogged back to our room.

"So, where were we?" he winked. At this point, I had passed over the good wine buzz, and was feeling deflated. As my husband reached to foot of the bed, we heard the dog scratching on our bedroom door. "Go away, Donna!" we both ordered in a stage whisper. We sat side by side on the end of the mattress, straining our ears into the quiet of our house.

After a tense minute, my husband turned to give me a kiss. With our lips mere millimeters apart, we started to laugh. And we kept laughing, through my son's midnight quest for water, and my baby's second and third waking of the night.

I guess this is what they call Natural Family Planning.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on August 20, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on October 13, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on January 11, 2005

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

My darling girl,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

originally published on Three Kid Circus March 24, 2005

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

Sometimes in a family of 5, you need to sit the kids down and have a Very Serious Talk about attitude. (This week on a very special episode of Family of Five, the family pulls together for a Very Serious Talk about attitude. A must see episode for the entire family.) Of course for the children it is best if you can do this as a group. You are more likely to not be the only one taking the heat. We as parents know this. Which is why we did it one on one. Or rather two against one. (Seriously, did my parents derive this much giddiness from watching The Squirm that the kid on the hot seat does? Sick bastards we are!)

So we call in the oldest and start talking. We have this rule when we have these talks. You can say anything. As long as you are being constructive and not just trying to get some digs in and being ugly. If you are mad, let us know. If you feel like it is unfair, let us know. Say Anything.

Well, it can get tense when you have these talks. Especially when you are feeling like you are on the hot seat and getting the lecture. I am not one to do well with super tense scenes. My sarcasm and dry wit tend to overcome me before I am even aware of it happening. So I look at my son and say with a perfectly straight face, "So, would you like to talk about sex now? I know the word penis and I'm not afraid to use it."

*Cue shocked and appalled look from my son. He replies to me in a very preteen, angsty way, "Mooommmmmm!"

Seeing that I have pushed a button, demon mom kicks in.

"Seriously. Shall we talk scrotum? Which, by the way, is the plural of scrotum scrotums? Scrotumeses? Scroti?....."

*Shocked look from my son who is actually looking for something sharp to jam into his eardrums, but realizes he is stuck with nothing but his own fingernails that were trimmed that morning and would never work.*

"...I am sure it is probably scrotums. But don't you think that scroti sounds more scientific? For example, 'In our family we have a ratio or 3 boys to 2 girls. Therefore, we have a plethora of scroti in our home.' See? It just sounds more official and scientific."

At this point my son is writhing in agony on the couch praying for death or a psychologically freaked out induced coma to get out of this situation and never have to hear his mother say the word scrotum again.

Then I get The Stare. A glazed over look was behind The Stare. But nevertheless I know that the stares means, "Mom. You've gone too far. You can no longer shock me. Give it your best shot."

If you know me, you know that I just do not have the ability to walk away from such a challenge. Especially from one of my children. I stared back. Then, in my most perplexed and inquisitive manner, I looked at my son and asked, in all seriousness, "Speaking of this, I was wondering, since you are Mr Science, do flies have scrotum? I mean seriously. I guess that depends on whether they have a penis or not. Do you know?"

At that my son gets up, rolls his eyes and says, "I think this talk is over now, Mom. I mean really!" He walks out of the room. Only to hear his father scream from the living room, "Son, are you looking it up. Fly. Scrotum. Google it."

Yeah, I am pretty sure we are going to parental hell for this one. But damn it was funny!

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on November 15, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

When the geek movement first arrived in my life, I did try to resist it. When my husband Clint had a BBS before we got married, I still vowed to love him in spite of the geek factor being blown off the scale.

I resisted becoming a geek.

Oh sure, I logged on, got a great user name and chatted with the other users, but I was NOT a geek. Honest. And yes, I did go with him to the sysop get togethers. (But man, those geeks can drink!)

Yet, I resisited becoming a geek.

After Zarek was born in 1995 I became a full fledged insomniac. Clint's answer? Show me the internet. Teach me how to navigate the World Wide Web. Our conversations went something like this:

Me: What do you mean I can find a website on anything I want?"

Clint: "Just type anything you want to know in that box and it will take you to that website."

Me: *typing* 'anything I want to know' *SMACK to the forehead* "Ohhh, you mean type the TOPIC of what I want to know?? Like if I type 'coffee' I can read all about the different brews?"

Not only did I find coffee related sites, I found PARENTING sites! And JOURNALS! And CHAT sites! (I could suddenly chat with anyone, anytime!) I really did have something new to do with those middle of the night sleepless hours. I was going to like this new Internet thing. (Thanks so much, Al Gore. I heart the Internet!)

Yet, I resisted becoming a geek.

Years passed. I set up a few different websites of my own. I discovered IRC and went to real live get- togethers with these people that I met in *gasp* a chat room. I joined an awesome online Moms groups when Gabriella was a newborn. Even starting my very own blog in 2003 didn't bring me to the realm of full fledged geek. It didn't matter that I wrote on the internet. Or that I actually learned HTML. Even the fact that I knew what people were talking about when they spoke geek. I wasn't there yet.

That moment arrived a week or so ago. It was in that moment that I realized not only had I arrived in the World of Geek, I just may have to try to be their queen.

Clint was in the family room with his laptop doing something geeky online. I was in the bedroom getting ready to call it a night when I had a moment of inspiration. I grabbed my laptop and (giggling like I am being a bad girl) sent him a very suggestive instant message asking him to meet me in the bedroom.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Perhaps my IM was too suggestive and not blunt enough. Fine. I can do blunt. So, I decide to send him a steamy IM that was in no way shape or form questionable about what I was talking about. Dirty words and all.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Nothing.

My first thought is, 'Oh my god! What if I IM'ed that to a friend or worse my Dad?!' In a panic I double checked and was relived to see that I had not propositioned either.

Then I got pissed. What the hell is wrong with me that my own husband isn't responding to a very blatant invitation? It then dawned on me that maybe it wasn't his fault.

I grabbed a robe, stormed into the family room hand on my hips and demanded, "Do you or do you not have porn blocking on your instant messenger?"

Stammering, he replied that he did and then proceeded to try to figure out why he was in trouble for NOT having porn on his laptop.

"Nevermind," I sighed turning on my heal and leaving with a pout.

Back in the bedroom, I gave it one more shot. This time it worked.

Can I just share something with you about propositioning your spouse through IM, though? It really does lose something when all of the "dirty" words are spelled with an asterick smack in the mid*dle of them.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on January 29, 2005

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally appeared on Mommy Needs Coffee on April 07, 2004

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

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

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

There. I said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is okay to admit that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

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

I am changing. I'm not sure I am a big fan of it. Physically, you can see it. Those tiny lines around my eyes are not so tiny anymore. The dark circles under my eyes are darker. My face just looks different. Older. Wiser? I'm not sure. But definitely older. The past two months are taking their toll on me.

But it isn't the physical changes that bother me. It is the deeper, hidden changes I feel that I am fighting. I want to slam on the brakes and stop this. Other people, older people face the death of a parent. Not me. I am certainly not mature enough to handle something this hard. This heartbreaking. This life changing. I don't want to be that person.

There is a bond between a mother and daughter. Something that binds them together in a way that no other relationship can. Many women identify who they are as women and mothers by their own mothers. Whether they are trying to not "become" their mother or if they are trying to mimic the one woman they identify the most with. A deep part of who they are comes from their Mom.

What do I do when my Mom dies? Who do I become? Even though my mom has not been "my Mom" for years due to her MS and the way it robbed her of so much, I need her. Right now, she is still there. I can talk to her. I can hug her. I have always been "Sandy's daughter." It makes me proud. She is a very loved woman. If you have ever thought I was funny, trust me, I am nothing compared to my Mom. She has always been the funniest woman you will ever meet. Even now, she will crack a joke or laugh at her own expense. She sees humor in any situation. When I get in one of my silly moods or hit super sarcasm mode, the common refrain is "She is her mother's daughter."

And I am. I am my mother's daughter. And my mother is dying. A huge part of who I am is dying. And I just can't wrap my mind or my heart around that. I am not ready. I am just not ready.

Little things that seemed so important suddenly have lost so much of their power. My home is a wreck? So what. My Mom is dying. What's for dinner? Who cares! My Mom is dying. What have you written today? Nothing. My Mom is dying. When the grocery store clerk asks me if I have found everything I needed and how I am doing, I struggle with "Fine" but I want to shout, "I am in non-stop turmoil and want to just not feel this way. Do you have a product to make me better??!" Where I used to be hyper involved with my kids' schools, now I can barely muster the interest to pick them up after school, let alone know what is going on during the day or when they have tests, programs or special days. I feel like I am moving under water while the rest of the world is flowing in the fast lane.

I know I am depressed. Who can blame me? I know that. But in all honesty, how do you not feel anguish as you watch your very own flesh and blood, your hero, lying in ICU suffering? How do you not let it take over every emotion you feel (or try not to feel)?

I am grateful I was able to spend so much time with her when I was in the hospital during their lock down. I was there around the clock to be able to cool her with a rag when her fever rose. I was able to hold her hand when she got dialysis. I tried so hard to comfort her when she told me she was scared. She asked me if I was scared too. How do you answer that? How? So, I looked into her eyes, and with all of the strength I could muster, I lied to her. I told her that I was not scared and that I was there for her. I told her to take my strength and know that she is not alone. When she fell asleep I whispered, "Yes, Mommy. I am very scared. I want my Mommy. But you should not be scared. I don't want you to be scared. Forgive me for lying."

I'm changing. And I don't like it.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on September 29, 2005

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

There is something so utterly ironic and frustrating about being sleep deprived on a regular basis due to your four toothed cheese eating crawling roving smiling 10-month old, only to have your husband thrash around at 3:00 a.m., get up to go to the bathroom, heave his 200 pound frame back into bed so hard that your 5 foot 9 inch frame literally BOUNCES off the bed. Then he pulls all the covers off you, leaving you awake and shivering. You spend the next 60 minutes thinking about evey person you ever slighted, every shameful thing you have done, every decision you regret, and you analyze all of these events and wonder if you were just truly manifesting your own shameful dysfunction, or if all of this was just part of what led you on the path you are on. Who the Hell knows? The path may just end up leading to elightenment. Hell if I know.

I have cut people out of my life because they disappointed me. Because they made me feel small and ahsamed. I have cut people out of my life for my own self-serving purposes. My load was lighter without them. I am thinking back on a particular time when I was careening through life, gooning wine like I was being chased by someone who was going to take it away. Trying so hard to make things feel right. And Failing. I was doing things that were damaging to me, and to other people and feeling terrible and ashamed.

I wonder where that all came from. How long it built up in me. I wonder if I am really done with that dark stuff. I sat in bed for an hour, staring at the clock and feeling the shame over me like a pall. Now that it's written into actual words, I see that perhaps it's not as huge and crushing as it felt an hour ago. I think maybe I can roll that huge boulder a little to the left and pull my squashed, pulpy mangled soul out from underneath it. I would really like to put my pulpy soul back to bed where it can go back to sleep and let go of this horrendous guilt and self-inflicted angst.

While I am at it, I hope to take that little voice in my head that tells me "you are a goddamned idiot" behind the house, put it out of its everlasting misery and bury it for good.

My therapist told me the reason I was feeling more keenly emotional about things was because I am writing more. I suppose that can't be a bad thing. I am just afraid of what rotting carcasses I might find as I clean my mental house and clear away the newspapers, take-out boxes and beer cans that have been cluttering my landscape and hiding all the monsters that I can't see, but can hear. They make creepy rustling noises. I am scared to see what they look like. It makes me think of the time I was babysitting my younger sisters and Betsy, the youngest and probably six years old at the time, came upstairs from the basement TV room looking pale and scared out of her mind. She told me there was something moving aound under her chair and she didn't know what it was. I went downstairs and there WAS something under there, making a huge racket. I didn't know what kind of scary creature was lurking there, but I just squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the chair away. A blackbird flew out from under it. We started shrieking and laughing and running around. After it flew upstairs, we closed all the drapes and opened the front door to guide it out. It flew right out the front door to freedom, never to be seen again.

Originally posted on I'm Ablogging on June 28, 2005

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 12:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | 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)

Dear Mrs. Bevans,

I am not sure if you remember me after all this time, but I hope you do. I have meant to write this letter for years. It's embarrassing that it has taken me this long, but here it is.

I was in your 5th Grade class at Lyndale Elementary. I was the one with a bad haircut who wore the same pair of jeans every day. I got in trouble for reading in class. I read in class most of the time.

I was very into Betsy Byers books, and "Where the Red Fern Grows", and "Summer of the Monkeys" and about a million other books. It must have driven you batty, but you were always certain to let me know you supported my READING, just not when I was supposed to be listening to how to add fractions. You made it seem like my pretty darn near obsessive compulsion for reading was a GOOD thing. You would suggest books for me and I usually loved them. You checked my eyes for tears when I finished "Where the Red Fern Grows" in class. When I got to that ending that tore your heart out. That was so bittersweet. It makes me sigh to this very day, thinking of those hound dogs, and the boy who saved his pennies in a coffee can in his barn, and the love that Dan and little Ann had for each other and for their boy master.

I have lovely warm memories of your classroom that year. The rest of my life at the time, not so warm and lovely. The 5th grade was a difficult time for me. My mom had gone back to work, and I was pretty much saddled with the child care responsibilities which meant I had to be home every day after school to watch my sisters. No play dates. Not that I had many. My best friends were my cousin Tiffany and Jenny, and Tiffany went to private Catholic school and that was the year Jenny decided she liked Amy Kibler better. I was friendless. And NO ONE wants to be friendless in the 5th grade. NO ONE.

Amy Kibler and my former best friend Jenny would terrorize me on the school bus. One afternoon they went up and down every aisle, whispering behind a "Fame" l.p. record. They would look at me and whisper presumably mean awful things about me to every single kid on the entire bus, all the way down the aisle. They probably said that I wore the same pair of jeans every day because they were the only pair I had. I tried so hard not to cry. SO HARD. But my tears betrayed me and let them know they had done it. They had hurt me. They had humiliated me and made me cry. There was a boy named Matt who was popular. He sat down next to me and said "Don't pay any attention to them. They're just being mean."

I still think of the kindness of that boy, and the compassion and bravery he displayed risking that. It could have been his social death. It could have made him the pariah of the school bus, sitting next to the dork that was getting her 5th grade ass handed to her in the popular wars on the school bus. God I hated that bus ride. Straight home on the bus every afternoon. 30 minutes of being on the losing end of 5th grade class warfare with that God Awful nasty Nancy Parsons, who along with Amy Kibler, seemed to have taken my friend to the other side.

I was so alone, and every day I had to face that bus ride home to take care of my sisters who didn't even care about my stupid bus nightmares. THEY had pants. Ungrateful brats. They got pants and they never had to ever DO anything but eat oreos and watch Little House on the Prairie in the dark of our basement. If my parents had paid me for my hours of latch-key services I may have been able to buy some fucking pants so I could stop being teased, but the needs of my siblings always seemed to trump mine. Someone always needed some fucking dumb-ass glasses or something. Stupid sisters. I wished so many times that I was an only child (and yes, I now realize that my sisters are the greatest asset I have in this life but at the time, hey, we were working for the same limited resources).

I was on the losing end of our own household trickle-down economics. Trickle my ass. There may have been a fine mist, but all I know is I never got my fucking new pants, which in turn led to the social impalement I received on a daily basis.

My bus torture continued. So did my long afternoons with my sisters. I tended to take out my frustration on them, and tortured them in turn. Then my mom would get home and yell about the mess I had made and something about how sick of kids she was after teaching the ungrateful urchins herself all day (she was a teacher too) and she was tired and yada yada yada.... There was not a whole lotta love in the afternoons at my house.

But that was the bus, that was at home, not your classroom, Mrs. Bevans. You didn't allow that bullshit in your classroom, and you called the ringleaders of social torture on their crap and I loved you for it. I am not sure how you cracked the code. But what you did was create an environment where I could actually learn. They should implement a special Maslow's Pyramid for 5th graders. Somewhere between self actualization and basic physical needs there should be a "not being tortured for having only one pair of pants" and that would be just under "learning fractions".

You met with my parents and came up with a set schedule of times when it was acceptable for me to bury my head in a book. You sat me down and pulled out my test scores (high) and laid it next to me homework scores (low and spotty) and pointed out the disparity. I wasn't stupid! I was just lazy! And you called me on it. You were one of the first people I recall telling me that I was smart. I so needed to hear that. I needed someone to notice me. And you did Mrs. Bevans. Thank you for noticing me. Thank you for encouraging my love of books and for convincing me that not only was I not dumb, but I was actually smarter than most of the kids in my class.

That was the year I started developing just a wee tiny little bit of self esteem. YOU seemed to like me after all. You were everybody's favorite teacher and you LIKED me. You made me feel like you even liked me a little better than Nancy Parsons and her minions, the instruments of pre-adolescent social impalement.

Thank you Mrs. Bevans. That spark you gave me lit a little fire that I still have burning today. I was in such desperate need of that little spark. Of all the teachers I have had, you had the largest impact on me. Thank you for caring. Thank you for being so good at your job. Thank you for not allowing social torture in your classroom. You are truly the best teacher I ever had. I know you lost your husband years ago and I was so sorry for your loss. I hope you have a lovely life because you deserve to have a lovely life. You made a difference in my life and I will always be grateful for that. You are a gifted teacher. I was lucky to be your student. My life is better because I was your student. Thank you.

Meghan

p.s. I have lots of pants now.

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

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 12:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)