Motherhood Uncensored

The Beautiful Flower Dance

Didn't you know that flowers wear poodle skirts on their heads?

(This post is brought to you by this fantastic contest. If only we could enter!)

The Cone

Check out the archives --> Yes. Over the in the right side. Listen while you surf. Just make sure the kids aren't near by.

It's not just for ice cream anymore.

I'm rounding up the hot mominatrixes across the interwebs. Check out this mama and get one of your own!

And tonight from 9-10pm EST, the Mominatrix hits the airwaves chatting about sex toys. Own them? Use them? Want some. Special guest Racy Red!

We've got tons of prizes courtesy of Nexus Range and Toys in Babeland, all up for grabs for those of you brave enough to call in! (646) 915-8634. If you can't listen live, you can download via iTunes. And make sure to subscribe to my feed.

And finally, if your kid needs new shoes (um, who doesn't like free shoes!?), or you want a good excuse to post pics/video of your kiddo, enter our Blog Blast all day today (scroll down for instructions). Lots of Stride Rite shoes up for grabs just for sharing pics or video of your little one shaking his/her groove thang courtesy of Baby Loves Disco's Best Little Dancer in America Contest. Be forewarned. If you check out the round-up post today, your ovaries may hurt. Use caution.

Shake Your Groove Thing!

What?! You can't see the picture of my daughter shaking her bootie thanks to this fantastic new game we got?

Yeah, that's because I didn't take it yet.

Sorry. Drew got his shots on Tuesday and has had a fever and cranky-baby-mommy-hold-me-all-the-time since Wednesday morning.

I'm still wearing the same clothes I wore on Tuesday. I haven't showered since Tuesday. I'm starting to get a little worried. It's not a huge fever, but he's never had a reaction before. And did I mention he's cranky. And tired. And won't let me put him down.

All 22 lbs of him!

So... If you have a kid who gets a fever while teething, how long did it last? If you have a kid who gets a fever after vaccinations, how long did it last?

I'm tired of taking his temperature and feeling his head. And I want to PUT HIM DOWN!

And, if you'd be so kind, post pics of your OWN kid dancing (or video too) [scroll down the link for directions on how to participate -- it's easy, trust me!]. You could win some free Stride Rite Shoes courtesy of this very cool contest (supports charity too, people!). We're giving away like 12 pairs or something ridiculous. So, go now.

And take a shower for me, will you?

Oh... and I'll be on the radio tonight. So long as I can put my kid down. Definitely check it out or call in (646) 915-8634. I'm giving away some free *ahem* toys. Special guest: Racy Red and this cool thing. 

We've Become That Family

We had just mastered the art of eating out before Drew arrived. It was almost like watching a choreographed ballet. I'd whip out the restaurant trifecta -- books, stickers, and crayons. He'd order appetizers so once she tired of them, we'd be able to shove mozzarella sticks down her gullet. And when our food arrived, she'd be coloring with one greasy hand and covering the table in stickers with the other. We saved the sugar packet train tracks and creamer blocks for dessert. And if the restaurant actually provided some type of crayon/placemat combination, we might even have enjoyed an after dinner drink.

Cue applause.

That was until we became a family of four and cornered the market on every cliche, stereotype, and stigma of a family eating out.

Let's face it. Crayons are great so long as your three-year-old colors on actual paper and doesn't hand them off to the baby as an appetizer. And sugar packets are only mildly entertaining until they are used weapons.

Have you ever been hit in the head with a splenda packet? What the fuck do they make that stuff out of?

But when your toddler turns into Veruca Salt without the accent (and the penchant for geese that lay golden eggs but rather knives, forks, and salt/pepper shakers) and your son is the living version of the Hungry Hippo game, you have become that family.

The one that has to take their kid out of the restaurant for a "time out" after not so quietly threatening them with leaving if "they-don't-behave-because-this-is-a-public-place-and-this-is-not-how-mommy-taught-you-how-to-behave-and-you-want-to-go-to-the-pool-don't-you-so-you-better-eat-your-dinner."

The one who is handing their baby anything and everything that they can to occupy them long enough to shove one morsel of food in their mouth except then they grab a steak knife and you curse out loud.

Yeah. That curse.

And the one who tries to sneak quickly out of the restaurant with their heads down while holding screaming child so as not to call attention to the table that looks like a national disaster area.

Yep. That's us.

It hit us this afternoon when we met the huz at a restaurant near the airport during a long layover. Quinlan had just used her ice cream spoon as a stamper on his arm after throwing a tantrum-ette, and Drew was attempting to eat an entire series of paper napkins. And the tiny bit of food we had actually eaten we had swallowed whole.

"We're that family, aren't we?" he said, sort of laughing, sort of not.

"Totally," I sighed, swiping the 14th tiny piece of paper out of Drew's mouth with my finger.

"Let's not eat out again for a really long time..." he replied. "At least not with the kids."

"Okay" I agreed. Plus it's not like I'm eating anything anyway which for the the "Last of the 20 Pregnancy Pounds" isn't so bad...

"But *gulp* what the hell are we going to do when we have to fly?"

What makes your family that family?

And If That's Not Motherhood, I Don't Know What Is

I made it through half a day with a pair of my daughter's underpants stuffed into my nursing tank as a makeshift, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-leaky-boob breast pad.

I didn't realize it until I went to nurse my son.

At the pediatrician's office.

At least they were clean.

I vowed to not become the sacrificial mother. But with two under three and my husband gone almost the whole week, it's hard not to give up some of the luxuries of life.

Or at least, what have become luxuries.

I'm embarrassed to say that I do not shower as often as I should. I haven't worn make up in a very long time. Considering I just put my closet and drawers together, I basically just grab whatever I can find and throw it on.

And my toenails? Oh my poor poor toenails.

But I'm making it through the day (barely). I've been cooking dinner, getting things unpacked, and entertaining my kids without having to use my fire baton, tap shoes, and Ethel Merman impression.

[On bad days, I do all three at the same time]

I'm looking forward to when our schedule settles. When we've finished unpacking and find our daily routine.

And when my son starts to sleep at night (hello, WTF? people!).

Until then, it's a few less showers. And apparently underpants as breastpads.

What do you sacrifice on a daily basis? And what do you refuse to give up?

Georgia Mystery of the Week

Teenage boy walking his BMX bike on the side of a country road in 95 degree heat wearing a black hoodie carrying a french bread loaf in a bag (ala baguette).

Any Southern folks, Georgians, or Experts in the art of carrying a baguette on a bike care to enlighten me?

The Sisterhood of the Saggy Pants

It seems that it's not Ted Turner and Coca Cola that run this town.

It's belts. The big bad belt companies.

At least that's the only logical explanation for the amendment that Atlanta city councilman C.T. Martin is trying to pass that bans saggy pants.

Apparently he's worried that with kids being "half-dressed," they're not thinking about their future.

And I sort of agree. I mean, as a suffering prego, I knew all about saggy pants and I was clearly not thinking about my future.

I was thinking about suspenders.

And really, there's no resolution once you have the baby. If you're like me, your round ass turned into a roly belly, thus forcing you into belt wearing.

I'm clearly not the tucked-in-shirt-belt-wearing kind of girl. But the pants half off my ass with one hand holding them up at my crotch isn't really my style either.

Plus, it's really hard to breastfeed when you're holding up your pants with one hand.

And so, if your underpants are showing here in the ATL, you'll get fined.

So much for Britney ever coming to Atlanta.

DAMN.

But really, I'm sort of in the camp that it's not such a bad thing to see underpants, because at least that means they're being worn. It's like my rationale for deoderant stains. Sure they suck, but then at least people know you're wearing it.

But now I fear there will be way too many Atlantians walk around commando. And that makes this not an issue of racial profiling, but more an issue of public health.

I can see the sign now: "Welcome to Atlanta: Where It's Too Hot and Expensive to Wear Underpants."

I fear the stench already.

And if that's not enough, he's banning bra straps and sports bras too. Because apparently if you're a woman and you work out, you're to keep it a secret. But if you're a man, feel free to walk around with your big nasty nipples, man boobs, and sparse chest hair flapping about. 

And honestly, I could think of way worse things than wearing a shirt with a bra strap showing. In fact, I've worn them -- hypercolor shirts, peg-leg jeans, and those studded belts that wrap around twice.

I'm afraid to think how much those would have cost me.

But I suppose those are considered harmless and not perpetuating the "gangster" lifestyle. When really, the low pants originated in prison as a sign that the men were "available." I'm pretty sure most of the kids dragging their pants along the street didn't know that.

So what's next? Clearly the sagging pants and sports bras are not the best fashion choice, but I'd like to think there's a way better way to focus energy.

How about the fucking Atlanta traffic for starters?

Until then I guess instead of burning bras in protest, we'll have to wear them.

Too Cool For School

I wonder what my daughter will remember when she's old enough to blog.

heh.

God help us (or me, really).

I've had enough trying to be a specific kind of mom. I figure, if you have to try, then it's probably not natural. I'm certainly not for labels, or attempting to fit myself into a box. But I think we all want to be memorable, at least in a good way.

We all have memories about our childhoods. That mean bully from across the street. The time we fell off our bike and scraped our knee.

And the Snow White lunchbox with the game on the back.

I remember that lunchbox like it was still in my hand. I proudly carried it to school everyday, packed full of the most disgusting health food lunches (hello, carob balls). My mom searched high and low for it. And I remember seeing it for the first time and just holding it like it was the most precious thing I had ever seen.

But the best part was this cool spin the wheel game on the back. Everyone thought it was the bee's knees. They'd come around the table and play.

I was the girl with the cool lunchbox.

Sometimes stuff doesn't matter. It's the experiences in life. But sometimes, stuff can be pretty cool.

You just never know what your kid will remember. So pick well, my friends. Pick well.

What's your favorite "thing" from your childhood? I had a kickass pair of sneaks that I swear made me run faster.

Baby Boot Camp

Because Not Every Moment Has to Be a Teaching Moment

As if mothers don't have enough to worry about, like granny panty wedgies and remembering to pack our Prep H wipes along with the baby ones, we now must be concerned as to whether we are providing as much educational stimulation as possible.

And it starts even before they are born.

But you knew that, right? Apparently every moment must be a teaching moment. I mean, if Baby Einstein had their way, we'd all be purchasing their color coded dinner ware. Clearly, my son needs to have a spoon and bowl that spells out the color of it otherwise he will be sorely behind all his peers of the same age. Soon we'll be dressing our babies in onesies that say "BLUE," you know, in case our babies can see their onesie, read it, and learn the color before the kid down the block could and beat his little ass out of the last open spot at Princeton, Class of 2025.

And because I don't buy into that shit, my friends, makes me incredibly careless. Or at least that's what all these toy makers would have us think.

The same goes for the "super baby" classes -- baby yoga, cirque du sol-baby, and all the 200 other classes that tout advanced developmental learning for your child who can barely see past his own nose let alone move rhythmically to the music. And while I've taught and enjoyed mommy-baby music classes, it's never been to ensure my daughter's status of Concertmaster of the Philadelphia Orchestra. It's more because I think they can be valuable as a social and musical experience, let alone allowing you to interact with them over more than just a screaming match. That's worth the $150 for 10 weeks right there. Or, at least you subtract that amount from their therapy later in life. 

But what about television? Since our basic cable doesn't afford us Noggin privileges (I know. I nearly cried to the cable guy), I've been researching some new shows, one of which is called "Word World" and will be airing soon on PBS. And as you might have guessed from the title, all the cute creatures and their surroundings (for the most part) are made out of words.

It's not as scary as it sounds. The narrator, however, is scary. William H. Macy he is not.

But really, it's a lovely concept. The characters are adorable, the music is tolerable, and the scenery is well, wordy. Well, everything is wordy. And for the most part, it makes sense, except for the BEAR who is tall and therefore spells RAEB unless you tilt your head over. And hey, my daughter can spell BOX because they show the picture, spell it out, and sing it a few thousand times.

B-O-X BOX! B-O-X BOX!

Okay. We get it.

But when it comes down to it, I wonder if it's just a bit much -- if we're inundating our three year olds (the bottom target age for this show) with way too "educational" information. We've got the toys that talk, whistle, and now apparently poison us. And we've got the classes and the preschools with application processes longer than college. So do we really need another show that helps our three-year-olds read?

Of course my daughter enjoyed the show. She asks to watch it several times a day, and considering we're still mourning the loss of The Backyardigans, I'll happily let her. But instead of giving in every time she asks, I direct her to the huge pile of blocks, legos, and other toys that she can play with to her heart's content.

Plus, we live in the South. No one here knows how to read anyway.

(Ha)

But seriously. Have we gone a bit too far with this? Or do you owe your reading 14 month old to Baby Einstein?

If you're feeling ranty today, write a post in honor of this mom and all those damn nasty trolls out there.

And once you're done with all that, check out this cool blog blast today. Have you seen this new service yet? I'm going to reco my car just on the fact that the backseat is roomy enough to have sex in (although not anymore with those damn carseats). The prizes (5) rock. Post anytime today to be entered.

An Open Letter to my 2003 Chevorlet Trailblazer

Dear Car That Has No Name Because I Don't Name My Cars -

We fought long and hard for you with a very stinky Southern gentleman, and dare I say it was worth every whiff.

And it's not just the 0% financing (although that does help. a lot).

I know you used to be a glorified gig mobile, lugging instruments to and from the local Mississippi bar. You lived the high life, parked up front, cute girls and hot guys breezing by you.

We took you to New Orleans. But what happens on the way to New Orleans, stays somewhere on highway 45, right?

*ahem*

But now, you're a kid mobile. It's not your fault. With two kids, two car seats, and too many toys, you've lost a bit of your sex appeal.

Okay. All of it. I mean you're riding around with a freaking high chair germ cover in your trunk for goodness sakes.

But I still love you. We all still love you. Even your piss poor gas mileage.

Because no matter how you look at it, you're not a minivan.

And that's a very good thing.

--

Tell us about your car and win a chance at five of these freaking awesome bags ($160 value). Just write your post sometime today, send it here, and you're entered! Seriously, someone has to win, so it might as well be you!

Plus, you can also enter Car Blabber's promotion (just sign up and rant about your car) and win a bunch of other cool car stuff too. (Cool car stuff being technical terms, of course).

Loose Bandits. And No, Not My Children. *Now with updates

I leisurely went out my unlocked front door in glasses, day-after pool hair, nursing bra, and pajama pants this morning to check my mail when my neighborhood representative called to me from across the street.

"Mrs. Chase," he called, coming towards me. "There's a manhunt going on right now."

I looked up from my mail.

"There are four fugitives that headed towards this subdivision on foot. Just stay in your house and lock the doors."

Um. Okay. Thanks for that. I suppose I should have been less concerned with my dryer not working and more so with purchasing a hand gun.

Even though I live in the sticks, I'm still pretty paranoid. But I double checked all the locks, brought the dogs upstairs, and stared out the window at the screaming sirens and helicopters circling overhead.

We made a quick run to the neighbor's house for a little bit of company. Apparently, they were driving down the road behind my house, jumped out of their vehicle, and started running -- over the siderail, through the woods, and probably past my house. Perhaps my large sun-drying underpants scared them off.

They're still loose. I'm bunkered up.

And honestly. I know I just got to Georgia and I do need to focus on the unpacking, but what about a nice party, balloons, or hell, a stripper?

Some fucking welcome, Atlanta.

*The word on the street is that they're still loose, so they've got unmarked and marked cars everywhere in the neighborhood. I'm trying not to obsessively look out the windows but rather occupy myself with other things. Oh. Like my children.

The good thing is that no one will recognize me because I just got my hair cut. By my 3-year-old. Not on purpose. Apparently we were playing beauty salon. With real scissors.

Mommy. I'm too smart to cut my own hair. So I'll just do yours.

Oh well. I guess I was due for a change.

My New House

My mom says that's a closet. I call it "Favorite Hiding Place #45."

That's the potty. Enough said.

Every day is a picnic. Except with air conditioning. And less bugs, unless you count my brother.

My mom tries to tell me to clean up my room. Please mom. Your secret is out.

That's the big gigantic television that doesn't play Noggin. I'm still trying to figure out how to fix that.

I call this "Highchair with a View." I'm still planning what kind of artwork to do on the wall there.

Hey. There's our bathtub. Ha. Just kidding.

Ugh. That's my little brother.

He's always cramping my style.

That's my mom. Come to think of it, she's always cramping my style too.

And this is me, Quinlan. I want to paint my room pink and purple. And I love my new house. I hope you do too.

Because Without You I'd Be Destitute. Okay, Not Really, But Doesn't That Make You Feel Wanted?

Problem 1: I need to create a budget. Granted we just moved so expenses are a bit higher than usual (seriously, that first grocery bill is a killer), but I'm thinking I need to just get on it. If you use a budget, how do you do it (Quicken? Excel? Back of your kid's coloring books?) and if so, how the hell do you stop from having to go to the supermarket three times a week? (I know. Meal planning. I loathe it. But am willing to do it. Just need help).

Problem 2: I need to lose 20lbs. I realize this may not happen because I just moved and I'm running around like a nut with no working dryer yet (it's plugged in but all it does is toss my wet clothes around). There's a gym in my neighborhood that has a kid's room -- so I can actually go, use the treadmill, and they can play! When it's not so hot, I can walk outside as well. And I know I'll have to put down the ice cream, just drink water, you know, all that crap wonderful lose weight stuff. Any other suggestions?

Problem 3: So, I'm feeling the ovarian rumblings. I don't remember these from my daughter. I've been tired, cranky, bloated, gassy, exhausted, weirdly hungry, icky, and bitchy. I got my period back with her the night before her first birthday party. At the beach. TOTALLY no warning.

Before we moved, I took a pregnancy test because, you know, why not spend $14 on a stick, right? and it was negative. But now I'm wondering if it's possible that I'm pregnant or my body is getting ready to have my blessed period again. My boobs don't hurt, my son is nursing fine again, and I haven't had any weird nose or gum bleeds (typically a sign for me). BUT, I have been peeing a lot and did I mention I'm tired. Of course, my son isn't sleeping that great either. And yes, I know. Test again. I will. But let's have fun and speculate til we're blue in the face, shall we?

So, care to bestow your wisdom upon me?

A Family

My husband does not have a way with words. This is less of a character flaw and more of poor genetics.

It's almost disease-like in that you almost can't blame him.

Almost.

"We'll need to organize around here," he said upon returning home from a four-day trip, standing in the middle of the kitchen I had just spent countless hours, um, organizing.

I scoured our disgusting moldy fridge for an entire day, only for him to tell me how great it looked after he "finished it up." This was after I heard him moving all my carefully lined up glasses to another cabinet when he thought I wasn't in listening distance "just to make it easier for me to find."

It's hard not to lash out and remind him that he won't be here to find the glasses, or that while he only got two hours of sleep the night before, his head flops down on a fancy hotel pillow -- the only sounds being the passing traffic or his trusty alarm.

Doesn't he know that I'm the one who will need to find the glasses, the pots, the pans, and the dishes that I so obsessively put in my brand new kitchen cabinets? Doesn't he remember that I'm the one awoken every few hours by a hungry, teething baby?

My daughter is no longer smitten with him upon his return every few days. She has become angry and vengeful, choosing me for stories, bedtime, and anything else he might typically do with her. His departures combined with the new house are hard on her.

"I like when we're all together," she whispered to me last night after her bedtime story. "A family."

"So do I, sweet girl." I replied.

So do I. 

I Love Some Swedish Meatballs on a Hot Sunday Afternoon

The family and I made our way to Ikea this afternoon. With a few boxes put away and some design ideas in our heads (something to put the freaking toys in and cover our windows so we don't have to run and hide after we take a shower), we decided Ikea might be a good place to start -- you know, because it's small, manageable, and not a popular place to go on a Sunday.

Heh.

I can go either way when it comes to Ikea. I'm a fan of the modern design, and I think if you've got kids and you want stuff that looks great that you don't so much care if they cover in crayons and peanut butter, then it's a good place to go.

But if you've got a husband who has a crush on Ethan Allen, and a toddler who just wants to sample every single bed display, it's really not the greatest place. And if you're like me and get way to overstimulated and overwhelmed and instead of buying everything just want to run and buy nothing, I'd say pick another place.

Like the catalog.

But alas. We were determined to go out as a family and brave the "one-way only" rectangle that is Ikea. My husband complained that everything looked too "Northern European." (Good one, honey). My daughter just wanted to get food, mainly because there was a television with old Mickey Mouse reruns on. And I just wanted to go home because every single textile I picked out my husband would say "you really like that?"

Yes. I really like that. I have just never had an excuse to take more than 10 minutes to decorate anything. And now I can. So there.

pthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

See what the flourescent lights do to a perfectly sane (okay, maybe half sane -- no sleep does that) mother?

Needless to say, I enjoyed my 50 cent hot dog and cinnamon bun.

Well worth the trip, wouldn't you say?

7 months

Hooray for great friends who live in Atlanta and take amazing pictures.

I Won't Tell You What Kind of Sick I Am

"Mommy. I can't pick up all the blocks by myself. I'll get block sick."

Love in an Elevator. Sex on a Beach.

Just not in the bed.

Condoms included.

A Wrench in the Wheel

When it comes to affording a preschool, that's certainly not going to be an issue.

Try $75 a month.

A MONTH!

I'm afraid to see what they do over there, but apparently, it comes recommended by a neighbor who is known for being "research mom." It's always good to have one of those around.

And fortunately, preschool doesn't start until after Labor Day, so I have time to find the protective bubble figure out what I'm doing. But the main issue is that I live in the suburbs. Okay the stix. It's only 20 minutes outside of the city, but chances are, my child will be one of many white children.

I'm okay with that at the basic level. Mainly my concerns are safety, attention, and cleanliness. But at the same time, the reason why I'm sending her to preschool is that she can meet other children. Other children includes children of different ethnicities.

But not so much here in Stix, GA.

I'm still torn about what to do. Of course I won't rely on her 2-day/week 3-hour per day preschool to expose her to different cultures. But it would certainly be nice.

I guess I shouldn't expect that much for $75/day. Or should I?

Your thoughts? 

Southern Hospitality

The large truck pulled up to my house at exactly 9:27 yesterday morning. I know this because I looked at the clock after getting my son to sleep for his morning nap.

Perfect timing.

Apparently we had 183 boxes of household goods.

183?

I thought we'd have around 50. Of course, the dryer counted as two.

Don't ask. I spent the whole day trying to figure it out and I have a headache.

Or maybe that's from my moldy fridge.

I nearly fell over dead after opening it. It was like a bad chemistry lab. Or Erin Brockovitch's house.

Regardless, our house is now full of shit. Ha. Full of our shit. The shit that my daughter has no memory of, so every box of toys is like a whole new world. And thank goodness they packed that empty bottle of baby food. And the two nasty kitchen rugs that reek of dog. And the 14,932 toys I could have sworn I threw out.

Note to self: Never leave your husband with the packers.

And it's so great that the movers clearly mark all the boxes -- like the one that said "hats." Try "helmets." Or the one that said "toys." Try "chairs." (not even close there).

I was really hoping the one marked "Boos" was accurate.

Yeah. No such luck on that one.

So just when I couldn't scrub another spot of mold, a friendly neighbor drove by.

"Can I bring you dinner?" she asked.

"Absolutely," I said, not even thinking twice about being demure and waving her off with a kind word of thanks. I've been eating Hormel meals for the last four days and I'm tired of everything tasting like soup. It still scares me that they require no refrigeration. How is that possible?

I digress.

And so she arrived later this evening with scrumptious pesto pasta, a salad, homemade cookies, and beer.

I nearly cried.

We talked about our kids, the weather, the neighborhood, and our work. She's a writer. So am I. She's a culture and arts writer. So am I. Well, if you call dildos culture and arts.

We hit it off, and vowed to meet again for a playdate. "Come over and have some wine," she said.

Indeed I will, I thought.

Maybe Southern hospitality isn't a myth afterall.

Except they're from Philly.

Feelin' Racy?

Click here to hear the show. I apologize for the variance in volume level. Stick with it -- it's well worth it.

Who knew a post about the annoying charming Southern drawl could get so many hot and sexy, yet clearly uncomfortable panties in a wad?

Well, I suppose you are right. There are way more things to pick on the South about, so why not leave the drawl alone and go for the things that are really annoying -- like how gay folks can't adopt children in Mississippi or how many Southern high schools still allow segregated proms.

Yeah. The drawl thing was way funnier.

But it's all quite appropo, since this topic of race, ethnicity, and culture as it relates to blogging has been circling the blogosphere for the last few weeks. The thoughtful posts* have discussed not only the obvious imbalance in numbers between blogs written by folks of color and those written by white-identified folks, but also how the PR/Marketing contingency has overlooked this subset of bloggers.

I'll be speaking with Jason from Daddy in a Strange Land and Rice Daddies, and Glennia from Silent I and Kimchi Mamas about their experiences as bloggers of color, and the issues surrounding their perception of inclusion/exclusion in the blogosphere. I'll also be joined by Kelly from Mocha Momma, who will also be sharing her experiences, most significantly regarding the PR/Marketing debacle.

I'd love to hear your comments and questions as they relate to this topic:

Are you a blogger of color and if so, do you think this affects your readership (who reads you and who you read), as well as other aspects of the blogging community (including PR pitches for fantastic products like blueberry juice and granola bars)? Are you a white-identified blogger and if so, how do you feel about the imbalance of bloggers of minority culture?

Feel free to call in during the live show tonight**: 9-10pm EST (646) 915-8634 and/or download the show via iTunes at any time (Motherhood Uncensored). Get updates by subscribing to my feed. And if you prefer, leave a comment/question here or via email.

*Roxana linked up all the posts, so I'm just linking here. I encourage you to visit and read through the posts. You know, when you have an extra 14,000 minutes. But truly, they are excellent reads.

**It's my first show from the new house. The new house where I have no babysitter or husband, and where the movers will have probably just finished up leaving all my wordly belongings all over my house.

A Portrait of a Mother

The extra lines, darker circles, and protruding gray hairs aren't there by accident. The grimace. The wrinkled brow.

I'm stretched thin.

I've come to learn that there aren't enough hours in a day. I was always busy. With kid now kids, with blog now blogs, and with life now lives.

All alone. Too much for one person.

--

She jumps on my back and climbs in my lap. Her handprints are all over the DVD player. Her books and crayons strewn about, sometimes thrown at me if I don't look up quick enough. She covers me with a blanket when we play pretend sleeping.

But I fall asleep for real.

--

My singing has become scolding. My playing has become punishing. My wishes have become worries. And she knows it. I know she does.

Oh Q. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I just want a moment to myself, that become moments, that become memories... of the mother that was here, but not all there.

--

Through the eyes of my daugther (literally, with this picture), I wonder what picture am I painting for my daughter? What kind of mother does she see? 

What portrait are you painting?

Frat House Livin' in the ATL

You know things are bad when you ask your three-year-old how she likes the house and she tells you that "we need some chairs and couches."

Heck kid. I'd like a pan. Or pot.

A pot, I meant. Seriously.

It's Family Living, fraternity style here in Atlanta except with way less free blow jobs, toga parties, or beer pong. Try breast pumps, tantrums, and nipple biting.

God I'm old and boring.

Until the folks in Mississippi who have been kahndlay holding our worldly possessions for the last year can figure out when our stuff will arrive, we're enjoying the floor, which is great when you're a kid, but not so great when you're taller than three feet and it takes you way to long to get up off the floor.

It is a nice floor, though. And all mine, I might add.

Apparently our stuff is packed, but they don't have a truck available. And so, it has to arrive by the 20th (military orders), but other than that, we're just shit out of luck.

And refrigerator. Bed. Washer. Sanity.

We're cutting with plastic forks, not-sleeping on blow-up mattresses, and watching way too many Dora dvds. And my husband just left for a trip that won't bring him back here until Friday afternoon.

But thank goodness we have every single toy known to man because what would a child do without every lego set, wooden block configuration, and 6002 coloring books?

Damn in-laws.

We've been working feverishly to get as much of our initial items unpacked and somewhat organized before the shitload of what could possibly be a large pile of "Melted Plastic on Stinky Couch" arrives, most certainly when my husband is away.

Meanwhile I'm trying to figure out how to get across town in a timely manner (don't laugh), meet-up with some bloggers, readers, and all around cool people who take amazing pics of my son and let me wash my dirty underpants. And I'm trying to find a preschool where no one has southern accents or germs.

Is strep worse than a drawl? I can't decide.

Yep. It's just great to be bay-yack, y'all.

--

Postscript: Other than the fact that all my wordly possessions are strewn about my empty home and/or on a truck driven by a man with three first names, I am trying to read your blogs. However, a little bird told me that I'm one of the last women on earth who uses IE and apparently IE and Blogger don't like each other very much. And so, instead of wait 14 minutes for your blog to load, I've been skipping over a few of my blogger pals as of late. I'm not sure how to remedy this situation.

Might I suggest you use typepad? Heh.

And That's About All They've Got Going For Them

Mommy. I miss Grandma and Grandpop...

because they have a tv that works.

If TV Before Three is Bad, Then I Must Be a Bad Mother

As if there wasn't anything else more important for us to worry about (war, crime, kidnappings, when to start solids), we're forced to listen to "the experts" tell us that television for kids before three is bad. Even Elizabeth Edwards mentioned how bad it was in her closing session at BlogHer.

Terribly horrible. Stop immediately. Proceed to entertain your children with toys mothers since you have no need to get anything done in the house or need any time to yourself.

Whatever. I'm over it. So are these people. (Finally!)

My kid isn't staring at the screen all day long, nor is she watching any questionable material (although on some days I'd like to throw Elmo through the window - with tender love, of course). 

And honestly, many moms that I have spoken with agree with me.

Just don't put a DVD player in your car.

Then the crap hits the fan.

I have to say the first thing I thought of when I knew we would be driving to Atlanta was a portable DVD player. And since we'll be doing a bit of flying, I'm pretty sure it would work well then too. But OH the stigma.

It seems people use every excuse to yell "lazy parent" these days. Kid leashes = lazy. DVDs in cars = lazy.

And while I can see an argument with having a DVD running non-stop in your car, for a long trip I think it's genius. Particularly this one. (How's that for strategic product placement?). But clearly, there are a few things that I wanted.

*Non-slip so I could put it on the center console so she could watch hands free and hopefully sleep.

*Swivel screen (just because it's cool)

*Remote control so I could restart it while driving, talking on the phone, and eating french fries.

Add a car charger, easy operating system, and a clear screen and you've got one perfect traveling dvd player.

We did have a little trouble with the overzealous play memory, but if that's the only issue, then I'm perfectly happy recommending it to everyone and anyone who wants to know about it.

And I will proudly say that the Insignia Personal DVD Player saved my sanity during this trip. Now if they only made a portable vacuum cleaner.  

So, what say you? Do you have a DVD player in your car? Short trips, long trips, or both? And what's your rationale?

Nursing Strike? Teething? You Decide.

Amidst all this crazy moving stuff (I'm here! Hello Atlanta!), my son has decided he doesn't like to nurse.

In the sling.

On the bed.

(Cue bad parody of Green Eggs and Ham)

Prior to moving he'd eat before his nap. I'd nurse him on the bed and if he fell asleep, I'd leave him and if he didn't, I'd put him in the crib and let him cry a bit and he'd fall asleep.

But since we left for the trip it's been terribly inconsistent and hot. So nursing in the sling at a rest stop was almost insane. And nursing before a nap laying down was impossible.

So he didn't really nurse. He wasn't upset or miserable or even hungry. I'd hand express into a sippy and he'd drink a bit of it, but nothing ravenous. I even bought formula and tried that. But that didn't work either.

Now that we're here, he's still refusing most opportunities to eat, even before naps. He will eat regular food (peas, green beans, rice cereal).

And of course he nurses fine before going to bed at night. And the other 3-4 times during the night (thought honestly, it's not as excessive as I think -- I often hear him roll around and try to latch him on and he just rolls over and goes back to sleep).

So can someone tell me what's going on? And what I need to do? He did this before when his teeth were coming in (two are in on the bottom). So, I'm thinking that might be it. And he's not starving. Nor is he unhappy.

But the worried mom in me just keeps saying EAT!

Payback for Way Too Many Hours in the Car is a Bitch

Almost as painful as the hemmorhoids. But definitely way cuter.

Hotel Bathroom Lights Should Be Outlawed & Other Tales From The Road *Now with Shorter Nose Hairs*

*Edited below*

I made two disconcerting discoveries so far on this trip.

1. I don't like driving in a car with two children and a dog.

2. I have long nose hairs.

And honestly, I think the long nose hair revelation is worse. I mean, how shitty of a deal can women get? Push the kid out of the vagina, breastfeed until the boobs look like demented pancakces, and then long nose hairs.

I'm blaming the damn bathroom mirror with those bright flourescent lights that are the bane of every mom's existence. I thought I had done a fabulous job plucking and tweezing but low and behold, I'm a fucking hairy beast according to the LaQuinta Inn. And I have long nose hairs.

But really, what do they know? They serve microwaveable sausage sandwiches in a bag, for crissakes.

I ate 4.

So me, my long nose hairs, and two kids have made it about half way. It doesn't help that it's 4503 degrees outside. And apparently my baby doesn't like to nurse in a sling in hell-like temperatures. Thus led me to hand express milk into a sippy cup at several rest stops in Virginia.

Hellooooo Virginia. Me and my milky boob salute you.

I even tried the evil formula.

He spit it out.

(Smart kid)

(heh)

Amidst our long ass drive, we had the pleasure of meeting this lovely blogger for ice cream and this lovely blogger and his family for dinner.

Who knew Cynical Dad was a black market dealer in princess crowns.

Of course we travel with princess costumes! Don't you?

Needless to say, we're off to our final destination. Here's hoping to a speedy arrival, a son who will eat something, and nose hair trimmers.

Sunuvabitch.

--

There's nothing like Atlanta rush hour to put the cherry on top of a heinously long trip. But we're here. With no soap. And no window treatments.

Hello neighbors. My ass is happy to meet you.

Cripes. I didn't know how much I missed seeing the big yellow Waffle House signs.

Not.

The house that I had yet to have seen in person is fantastic. But let's be honest. When you live with your in-laws for almost a year, there's no room to be picky.

So I had an orgasm on the bathroom floor when I saw the his and her vanities.

We live next to a bi-racial couple with three children including one wee baby (hooray for diversity, extra hooray for diverse people who nurse!). I enjoyed a 24 oz can of Coors Light (hey, it's the South people) on my huge living room floor and enjoyed the quiet.

Ah. Quiet.

But then my kid kept waking up every four seconds to eat since he didn't like to eat in South Carolina.

So much for quiet.

So now we have to move all our shit into it. Perfect time to call "parenting duty" and head to the pool, don't you think?

Family Togetherness: Can We All Fit in the Tub?

With my husband now gone many days out of the month, I've been trying to figure out how to get my family together for some quality time. Since I'm with both kids most of the week, I have to admit that family time is not exactly what I'm looking for.

I want to sit in front of the television with a big drink and watch Top Chef.

But alas, I know it's important for us to bond, particularly since my husband is away a lot. But quite frankly, we all don't like the same things -- except eating. And so I've decided to try a few new family activities that might just work.

Family Bath Time

Sort of like the Shel Silverstein poem, "There's too many men in this tub," I'm thinking we could all try to take a bath together. It would lend itself to a bazillion important conversations and we'd all be getting clean - one of my husband's favorite things.

Family Potty Time

Similar to family bath time, we'd all sit in the bathroom and converse while everyone uses the potty. You figure, if you can stand each other while you're pooping, chances are you don't have to worry about lack of bonding.

Family Cleaning Time

I say kill two birds with one stone. Or, in this case, one bottle of Windex. Then I won't have to hear about how I don't clean.

Okay. So maybe these are the best ideas. I swear it's got to be easier when they are older and can actually do things. I find it hard to be actively involved when I've got to tend to the baby. But perhaps we can try to make more of an effort, picking a specific day? night? morning? where we all make sure to do something together.

--

This post is brought to you in conjunction with Parent Bloggers Network & Wii-Boogie, family experience that's changing the face of video gaming. Shake it, sing it, create it.

If you'd like to participate and enter yourself to win a free Wii Console and Boogie game, check out the rules. It's a great new family game that will get everyone's butts off the couch.

FREE Wii! YEAH!

--

I'm en route to ATL! Wish me luck. LONG DRIVE WITH TWO CHILDREN AND DOG. WEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

And You Thought I Was an Ungrateful Jerk

Because ungrateful jerks would have used that evil formula.

More news from the road.

The Preschool Jamboree

After observing my daughter seek out the interaction of other children, I've decided to make the huge leap and enroll her in preschool this Fall.

I'm still searching for a protective bubble if anyone has any connections.

But seriously, it's the right thing to do. She's excited about it, at least for now, and it will get her out of the house for two mornings a week to play with other children.

I'm in the camp that says preschool is not college prep. I'm all about starting kids early, but quite frankly, I'm not going to rely on some preschool to do that. I'm relying on them to give her some quality interaction and crafts.

I cannot do crafts. Well, I can, but I choose not to. Although I can be guilted into them, particularly if you leave me in the middle of a Michael's store.

And so, I've looked at several resources for finding a preschool. I just want some place where the kids are all clean, healthy, and well behaved.

HA. Okay, stop laughing.

But you get my drift.

If your kids are in preschool, how did you choose? And honestly, how sick did your kid(s)? That's really what I'm dreading. Inquiring minds want to know!

Motherhood Uncensored's First Ever (and hopefully only ever) In-Laws Commemorative Auction

An autographed bra of your very own that can hang in your kitchen.

Buy it now: TOTALLY FREE

An autographed wrong spatula: Perfect for pancakes but clearly NOT for eggs

Buy it now: Free (annoying husband not included. Unfortunately.)

An autographed paper sign "PLEASE KNOCK. WE'RE DOING THE NASTY" -- perfect for in-laws who don't like to knock.

Buy it now: Free -- door not included.

An autographed pot that you can burn and toss, and then lie and say it fell off your car and you ran over it.

Buy it now: Free (gullible in-laws extra)

One size-10 foot that you can stick in your mouth. Don't get any sick ideas, oh foot-obsessed weirdos.

Rental only. Includes chipped nail polish and tattoos.

Laundy for an entire family for one week while we wait for our washer and dryer to arrive out of storage.

For free rental only: Includes blogger and two cute children who will fold and transport. Open to Atlanta Residents Only!

Incredibly cute children that will need a potty and play area several times during a long trip from Philadelphia to Atlanta.

For free rental only - Hourly Rates Available. Open to bloggers who are not axe murderers that live at good stopping points on the way from Philadelphia to Atlanta starting August 9 through August 10.

If you're interested in any or all of these items (for sale or rent), please send an email to coolmompicks [at] gmail [dot] com. All free purchases include a set of limited edition Motherhood Uncensored condoms.

Photo via

A Pilot's Life For Me

We never sat down to divide the parenting responsibilities when my daughter decided to show her glorious face. I decided to continue working part time even though I thought I had wanted to stay home. The Air Force decided that he needed to work 14 hours a day plus weekend trips.

"She doesn't like me" he'd say, handing this screaming little being off to me as I sat alone in the rocking chair in the dark nursery.

We scrambled to do what we thought was best. I worked and parented a lot. He worked and parented a little.

And it didn't work. For me.

Since then we've struggled with the notion of co-parenting. I became a stay/work-at-home-mother where the line between on and off duty as a mother is blurred.

Comparisons are drawn.

"Is it harder to hold our daughter for two naps every single day and bounce her non-stop so she stops screaming or fly a plane?" I'd ask him, begging him to just come home and skip the gym so I could get a break.

Now he's gone for all but a week a month. A few days here, a few more there. She cries for him any time she gets upset. "I want my daddy," she screams.

Then she cries for him when he leaves. And I'm left to pick up the pieces.

Co-parenting is a myth that I'm not sure will ever exist in my home. I parent my children singularly almost every day. We have a routine and a schedule. On most days, it's not pretty. The naps are minimal, but so are the tantrums.

I work during naps and long into the night. Sometimes I think I work in my sleep.

But then my husband comes home. My daughter hangs on him like a deranged Christmas ornament. He kisses me, plays with her, holds the baby, and changes a diaper.

"She doesn't need a nap," he tells me, as she rubs her eyes, later throwing tired tantrum fits. What do you know? You haven't been here in a week.

"I think he needs to eat," he says, plopping him down on my lap. Then feed him. I'm pretty sure you can mix cereal can't you?

I feel as though his presence is fleeting. We are the constant while he comes and goes like a strong breeze blowing us over and leaving us to pull ourselves up on our own.

We are disconnected as people and as parents.

We're no longer four.

We're 3 + 1.

I'm Cleaning House

Does anyone want these?

Okay. The books are taken. But I have some newborn baby boy stuff -- just a few TOTALLY UNUSED things that Drew never got a chance to wear. Email me ASAP!

PS -- Did you join my iBakesale Group? Or did you at least sign up and start your own?

Because I'm Hugely Competitive, Even Amongst Friends

I'll see your cock and raise you a big black ball (or "bum-bum" as I was told).

Mine Was Too Until I Had You

"Mommy, my butt isn't stinky. It's happy."

Moving, Schmoving

I've never done an open thread before. But I'm moving on Tuesday.

TUUUUUUUUESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSDDDDDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

And I'm trying to pack and drive 15 hours with 2 kids and I need help. So, do you have advice about moving, driving, or anything you just feel like sharing?

Then leave it in the comments. And if you're on the way to Atlanta from Philly and you'd like house guests, let me know that too.

A Woody With a Hoody Can Be Sort of Goody

The Mominatrix makes a good case for the uncircumcised penis. And if you missed her first live podcast, click that media player up in my right side bar and listen to all your favorite bloggers tell their conception sex stories.

And if you'd like to win one of the fantastic Mominatrix t-shirts (created by Deb), check out the contest here.

I've also got limited edition "Good Girls Have Pubes" shirts up for grabs as well. Amy Sedaris thought they were funny. If that doesn't sell it, I don't know what will.

--

My Blog Exchange and Parent Blogger pal Alex is going to be on the Mike & Juliet show today (9-10am EST) regarding her post on the Formula Ban in hospital take-home bags (I will not call them diaper bags) in NYC. Make sure to check her out, and hop over to her place to discuss this interesting issue.

Why Don't You Just Tell Me I'm Not Important and Get It Over With

While I was getting loaded on half a glass of free wine and swiping Bliss products from the W hotel, my husband was closing on our new house. Thankfully, I had very little to do with the process except fax various W-9s, move money between bank accounts, and have the nervous stomach shits.

Sorry Flight 4891 from Philly to Cincinnati.

I won't get into the annoying issues of moving, not only because they've been way more interestingly described in the last few months by my fellow bloggers, but also because it seems droll for me to complain about moving when all I've wanted to do is move in the first place.

But getting the mortgage? That I can bitch about.

We're in a weird financial situation in that my husband's salary is difficult to quantify. While he does have a base salary that is scarily way less than anything you'd want to pay someone for flying humans around in the air, he can also make more by doing more trips.

But that doesn't translate so well to a mortgage broker.

And so, I had to offer a few pay stubs and letters of income verification to show that I was indeed making some money and "contributing to the household."

That last statement in and of itself sounds ridiculous to me, but that's why I let the husband deal with shit like that. There's just no time for me to get into a philosophical discussion with a mortgage broker about the contribution of mothers to their households and how that translates monetarily.

Better to leave me at home to get into a philosophical discussion with the blogosphere.

So then I received word that I was being taken off the mortgage application because I'm a "negative." According to our taxes last year, I didn't make any money thanks to several deductions, and so, I'm a negative.

Not worthy, or worthwhile or really, working.

Truth be told, I'm more of a work-at-home-mother than stay-at-home-mother, so I can't even imagine the position many moms who don't have any actual income would be put in.

What's below negative? Hell?

And while I get the legalese mumbo-jumbo financial bullshit, it still pisses me off that I work my ass off and I am still considered to be a negative and therefore not worthy to be on my own mortgage.

And thus the issue of the value of our work as mothers is brought to the forefront yet again.

Let me reiterate that while I do not expect to ever make the $129,567.02 or whatever we're supposed to be paid (at least not from my splentastic cooking and housework), I do feel it's time for us to strive for value in terms of respect, dignity, and recognition. Regardless of how much money I make, I most certainly contribute positively to my family, my community, and my country.

But yet, that's seen as a negative.

Make sure to leave your hard working wife and mother of your children off your mortgage because you won't get approved with her on there.

So let me ask you, society. What are you going to do without mothers? Who the fuck is going to raise your kids?

Perhaps a shift in societal ideals is impossible. Money is still power in many respects, and the value of experience pays little in the face of a capitalistic society.

But how can we, the mothers with a voice, make a negative into a positive, and kick a few asses along the way?

Check out this fantastic post on rights for ALL caregivers.