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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any time I want.

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

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

Posted by Mamacita at 5:54 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

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)

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)

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

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

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

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

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

A parent.

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

*gasp!*

Yes, I did.

And I don't regret it.

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

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

What?

Shit stinks. Life is full of shit that stinks.

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Experts advocate talking, reasoning and positive reinforcement.

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

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

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

Thank you, from my little family, to yours.

Love Karen
xo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Demoted or promoted?

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My thoughts went all panicky and herky-jerky.

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

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

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

I found myself making deals with God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on January 11, 2005

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

My darling girl,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

originally published on Three Kid Circus March 24, 2005

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