Motherhood Uncensored

How Good (or Bad) of a Mama Have You Been This Year?

C'mon, people! We can't sit around and wax religious all week long. What's mother's day without a glass dildo and a vibrator that plugs into your iPod, I say?

Giveaways (last day to win cool stuff): Click here and here for more information. *Make sure you read the directions before you just say "Me Pick Me!"

Blog Blast: We've got a special extended blast through May 8 with Johnson & Johnson's new charity site, Baby Cause. Tell us how you want to be recognized this Mother's Day -- stuff, flowers, dildos? (click the link for participation details). You could win a JnJ gift pack and PBN will donate $25 to the Global Giving charity of your choice (10 winners!). Oh, and if you want to bid on Poppy Montgomery's High Chair, check out their eBay auction. (heh).

Settle an Argument for me and the huz. Are these shoes girly or European? Added: Click this link for a pic of them on my son!

ADDED: The MOMocrats asked and Obama actually answered! Check it out.

Imposition.

If I had to guess what my daughter and mom talked about while I was gone, I could pretty much figure it out based on all the "God is Love" songs and talk about heaven that's been happening since my mom left. It's no secret to me that my mom is incredibly worried that I won't go to heaven. But now it's clear she's taken it upon herself to make sure my kids won't share my own same fate.

Hell.

Ever since I decided that fear mongering religion that marginalized specific groups of people wasn't for me (or really, when I decided I wanted to have sex without guilt), my mom has been scared for my eternal soul. She doesn't mention it as much any more, mainly because I've asked her not to do so, but she'll still indicate that she's praying for me.

It's really not that I hate religion, or don't respect folks who choose to believe in a specific faith and live it fully. It's that I don't believe religion should promote fear or hate or judgment of others. And I don't believe it should interfere with a person living a full life because God said they can't do certain things or in extreme cases, wear certain things.

I understand the role that religion plays in my own mother's life. It provided her solace after my sister died. And my father. And her boyfriend. It gives her hope, security, and peace. But I do believe that it limits her -- in her sometimes extreme interpretation, I think it stifles her experiences of life.

And that's her choice. But it doesn't need to be mine. And I don't need her to make it that way.

The truth is, I don't feel as though her dutiful prayerfulness makes God listen to her anymore than me. And I don't believe that it means that people need to worry about me, or anyone else who might be considered "a lost soul."

Is it wrong for me to feel just a little bit annoyed that she just brought "A Bible Disguised as a Storybook" to my house with her?

I have yet to figure out how religion will fit into our lives. Perhaps we will always be Easter and Christmas church goers, with our own private way of celebrating our spirituality. But I hate to think that it makes us "bad" or "wrong" or "terrible" because we're not underlining verses in our Bible, or attending church every Sunday.

I love my children with every inch of my "heathen" soul and will do everything in my power to guide them in what's good and right in the world, which may or may not include an organized religion.

Doesn't that count for something?

--

On a lighter note, check out a fun round-up of my trip to San Francisco.

Edited to add: If you live in ATL and know a cool place to do a book signing, specifically a place that a) you'd come see me at and b) that doesn't sell coffee (long story...), please drop me an email.

Not Exactly the Conversation I Wanted to Have With My Mom at 5am On the Way to the Airport With Both Kids Awake in the Car

"And can I suggest that you get Drew circumcised because I never realized how many bladder infections a woman could have until I married your father and you know, you should really pee before and after intercourse and I had to take sulfate tablets all the time because I got so many bladder infections so you should really do your son's wife a favor and get him circumcised because that foreskin on his penis is a little red right now."

Or, I could teach him how to keep it clean when he gets older. PS: This pregnant mother of two thanks you for the tips on intercourse, Mom, as well as the horrible indelible images of you and dad having sex a lot. Like I needed something else to make me barf.

Peas & Carrots.

On most of my brief visits home, I don't get to see my mother much. She only lives an hour from my in-laws on the Jersey side of the city, but it's a long hour, made more tenuous on her arrival when she has to visit with my in-laws around.

I've spent the last few years pushing the grandchildren on her. Granted, it was never an issue for my mom. She's a baby whisperer and consummate grandmother -- the one who will give long baths chock full of crazy kitchen utensils that always make the best bath toys, read stories for hours and hours, and hold them in her arms all night if that what it takes to get them to sleep.

She's mentioned, in passing, when we've had our tiffs about her making an effort to see the grandchildren, that she actually would like to see me. Alone. Without the kids.

I've shrugged it off, offering her precious time with the ones that are far cuter than my old tired mug. 

But as my own daughter gets older, I realize how much I'll miss our time together. Her independence is both refreshing and sobering. And these days, I find myself admiring her from afar.

While I'm sure I'll love the moments I'll have with her children, I know there's no doubt I'll want to hold her tight in my arms, snuggle up close, and whisper "you know you're my best girl, right" softly in her ear.

Even when she's my age.

I know full well that things will change. Maybe things won't be how they are now. My own mother and I were never close. But I bet there were days when we were just like peas and carrots. Where she sat and read me long bedtime stories and stroked my hair until I fell asleep. 

And so, on those possibly infrequent visits where I'll spoil my grandchildren like any grandmother would, I know I'll still long to hold my own sweet daughter close and tell her I love her more than life itself.

I can only hope that she, unlike me, will oblige her dear old mom's request.

--

Please share your portrait of mom or motherhood today on your own blog. Click this link for more details.

I Left My Fart in San Francisco

*The archives are live if you want to watch!*

I'm pregnant. So sue me.

After struggling through the day with a son who just decided to have separation anxiety (read: total and utter hate for my sweet and lovely mother), a neighbor I didn't even know drove me to the airport and I was off to San Francisco.

In first class.

Now know this. Even though the huz works for the airlines, we have never been placed in first class. EVER. Of course, anyone we give a buddy pass to does. But us, never.

Until now. When I'm pregnant. And can only sniff the vodka tonic of my seat mate.

But hey. I got to cry my way through Juno, while eating a turkey focacia sandwich. And I got to stretch my long pregnant legs out and snooze.

So, we're here, and apparently we're going to be on View From the Bay this afternoon which you can watch live on your television in you live in the Bay area, but you can also watch us live via web stream (or via the archives if you're busy) from 3-4pm PST. I have no idea when in that hour we'll be on, but for a solid seven minutes, we will be showing off our favorite Mother's Day gifts from Cool Mom Picks (many of which are made by moms!).

I'll be the tall pregnant one in black. Hopefully not farting.

[ps. If you're looking for the genius water and sand table, it's the cool Target outdoor toy brand (don't know the name). $39.95]

Okay. So Maybe I'm Not As Grown Up As I Thought.

It's only fair that after I write a mature and all-growed-up post about understanding my truly good fortune in this extremely difficult world we live in my husband received word that he must indeed do 45 days with the Guard unit in Delaware.

Yes. I know it's not 90 days. And I know it's not a year deployment.

But it still sucks.

To be clear, I'm not moving up there. I ordered moving announcements for God sakes. I'M NOT MOVING.

After a few days of going it on my own again, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. The weather has been gorgeous so we've been able to enjoy our deck and our yard and the most genius invention ever made for two children under 3: THE WATER AND SAND TABLE.

And I'm actually getting things done -- scheduling midwife and pediatrician appointments, interviewing doulas, getting preschool applications in, drilling and screwing in a freaking lion proof baby gate. Now I'm most certainly not scrubbing baseboards and my hands have yet to touch the vacuum, but the house is picked up at night. The kids aren't reciting Shakespeare yet, but Drew is waving "hi" and "bye" to all passers by, including stray dogs and the UPS man.

And I'm only staying up to midnight so I can do that thing called "work." Technically, if I can keep my brain in Central Time Zone, that's only 11pm! Not bad at all.

Thankfully, the Messiah has returned -- at least to my home in the form of a lovely older Brazilian woman who is dying to babysit. Alternating visits from Michael Vartan and Aidan Shaw (Sex and the City), in the form of a large pink vibrating cone, are set to begin early next week. And hello, Grey's Anatomy!

Truth be told, it will be nice to have an extra excuse to visit my friends and my mom. And if I'm desperate for blog fodder and need a good reality check, the in-laws. And being pregnant in Philly, ala water ice, cheese steaks, and pizza, isn't so bad.

But I do wish we could all be together again. That he could be with me at the ultrasound when we find out who has been craving salads and fruit. And go shopping for furniture. And choose paint. And pick out porch chairs.

We've got a lot of shit to settle. Not just with this house, but with our relationship. Admittedly, the 15-minute a night phone conversations don't hurt what has been a rocky four months. But every time I see him, it's like we're starting over. We're treading water.

We're not getting anywhere.

But it is what it is. Now off to gaze into the night sky at the beautiful bright stars.

Silver Lining

All good things seem to come with a "but" for me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm always seeing things as they should be or how I want them to be, and not how they actually are.

It's a momentary high followed by a sometimes harsh reality, like a beautiful sunset that leads into the dark, bleak night.

My mother is coming down to Atlanta so I don't have to fly up to Philadelphia on Tuesday for my trip. But she's hassling me about what flight to take. And whether she can leave the night I get back or if not then, at the butt crack of dawn the next morning. And she hopes nothing will happen to the kids and if it does she doesn't want me to get mad or blame her like I did when she let my dogs out on the coldest day of the Philadelphia winter without leashes and *surprise* they ran away.

"Just keep your eye on them. And don't let them off their leashes" I joked. Maybe the in-laws would be easier.

I've been feeling pretty great with this pregnancy going into my 16th week and I'm way off track for another 70lb weight gain. But I haven't really felt the baby move and maybe because I'm not craving sweets that means there's something wrong with the baby and I won't be able to find out because I don't have a babysitter to watch my kids so I can go to the midwife which I don't yet have anyway.

"I'm feeling great. You can't beat a pregnancy where you're craving salad and fruit." It's because I'm carrying a rabbit.

And I'm back in my house, my gorgeous beautiful, amazing house. But my husband is gone all week and I don't have a babysitter yet and I spent three hours putting up a baby gate last night that involved using a drill (eek) and I haven't found a midwife or a doula or a preschool for Quinlan.

"I'm so glad to be home," I tell people. Perhaps the tiny house in Little Rock wasn't so bad after all.

If I didn't know any better, this would just be how things were. But for some reason, I can't keep staring at the green grass on the other side. And as I think about the many many many challenges I've faced even just over the last few years, I wonder if it's just time for me voice my discontent, acknowledge the suckitude, and then cleanse myself acceptance.

Acceptance that my mom is my mom. And she probably won't be changing anytime soon. Acceptance that I will be spending many nights alone in this house. And that probably won't be changing anytime soon.

The truth is I'm lucky to have a mom that is alive and with me. Many would wish to be so fortunate. I'm lucky to have my health. Many have been fighting hard (and winning) for their own.

And I'm lucky to have all my beautiful children, sleeping peacefully within an arm's reach. Many have beautiful children "sleeping" way beyond their grasp.

These amazing women challenge me to search a little harder for the silver lining. They bravely stare into the dark sky and notice the gorgeous stars.

Maybe it's time I started looking a little harder.

What blogs challenge you to see the silver lining?

Hey! I'm Here! In Atlanta! For Good! I Think!

As I drove through however many straight hours of pouring down rain, with one brief stopover at my favorite mall in Tupelo, Mississippi (birthplace of Elvis, in case you're wondering), I had several realizations:

1) Trying to pull out white hairs from the crown of your head while driving is never really a great idea. Especially in the dark.

2) My son was not created for long car rides, although driving until 3am was actually a smart move on our part.

3) It was not a smart move, however, for my bowels, or the bags under my eyes. 

4) I wish had a DVD player. And an iPhone. And a driver. 

Upon arriving home, I then realized the following:

1) Apparently I made it onto some crazed PR person's list because waiting for me were total of 24 dvds while I was gone, half of which are Barney.

2) I think I have dandruff, which isn't so bad except when you notice it at 3am after driving in the car in the pouring rain for 10 hours.

3) I really really really really really missed my house.

Edited to add: AND BRAVO! YAY TOP CHEF OH HOW I'VE MISSED YOU!
It's good to be home.

The Lord Be With You, Little Rock

I'll save you my gruesome yet very poetic ode to of the month long bout with stomach flu and the cold from hell. Or my grab-you-in-the-gut tear jerker about how I'll always remember Little Rock as the place where my 3rd born was conceived. Or the post about how I'm still a little traumatized about the three men "hanging" from the cross on the side of the road.

Rather, I'll just tell you that Little Rock rocks. And so do the bloggers that hold down the fort. Or the rock. Or whatever it is here that you need to hold down.

But I'm ready to get back to my totally unfurnished house with lots of steps for my son to fall down and lots of carpet for me to vacuum, and lots of toilets for me to scrub.

Or the person that I plan on paying to scrub them. (heh)

Click on my ads. It helps to have my toilets cleaned. (Okay not really, but that sounded kind of funny when I said it out loud).

I'm looking forward to decorating and furnishing and running my ass off after those kids all by myself since my husband will be in Little Rock until the end of May. Okay, maybe not that part, but I am hoping this is it. However, a little bird with a cute ass tried to tell me that we might be living in Philly all summer courtesy of our fine US Military.

HA. HAHAHA. HA. *barf*

So, let's all pretend we didn't hear that and move along to what IS important.

Pick of the Week: Another doozy from our Mother's Day Guide. I just think these are super cool.

Podcast: Tracey Clark and Kate Inglis from Shutter Sisters!

Blog Blast: Oh this is a good one. Gifts Gone Right, Gifts Gone Wrong. C'mon and pull out those nasty old things your husband tried to pass off as a gift. Or better, what your mother-in-law gave you. We want pics, stories -- good or bad. Here's mine.

And you can win a $250 gc to the spa of your choice courtesy of GetInHerHead.com (we're actually writing them up at Cool Mom Picks -- smart site started by two parents!)

Giveaway: $50 Gift Card to Itty Bitty Lady Bug -- just click here and follow the directions. And also, the lovely Dr. Ann Dunnewold is giving away three copies of her book. Just leave me a comment, any comment (preferably a funny one that is flattering). I'll pick three winners at random on April 30.

We're driving all day. Think of me. And be glad you are not in the car. Of course, it's raining cats and dogs right now. Not sure how far we're going to get...

Liar Liar

While my son has been making new teeth and new words, my daughter has reached new strides in her development as well.

She has acquired the lifelong skill of lying.

Aw, mommy's little girl is growing up.

It started out quite innocently enough and quite frankly, still hasn't left the early stages of deception. It seems to be a mix of laziness and avoidance of reprimand. Of course, that's sort of why big people lie too, so maybe she's not as much of a beginner as I thought.

Growing up with an alcoholic father, I became the consummate liar as a means coping and surviving -- mostly to avoid the harsh words and swift hands. Spilled milk was met with fire, so I learned pretty quickly that it was better to just slide by the truth and save myself a whole lot of pain.

As a parent, I've become intimately aware of how I react towards her when accidents happen, or worse, when things are purposely done that require intervention. I find myself walking the fine line of teaching my daughter consequences and honestly sharing my frustration when something happens, even if it is an accident, but also helping her understand that she can come us and disclose anything without being afraid; it's her choices and behavior that might cause problems.

She doesn't get put in time out for dropping water on the floor, or peeing in her bed. Admittedly, I do offer a bit of a grumble, on some days it's louder than others, but then I encourage her to help us clean it up, and then remind her that she needs to come get us when it happens and that we love her no matter what and that she can feel comfortable coming to us with anything.

I know. I sound like a freaking after school special.

But based on the lies, I'm guessing she doesn't really get it.

A few days ago she told me several times, even after I explained to her that if she was lying she would lose privileges, that she had made her bed. Surprise! She hadn't.

And then just yesterday I found a huge puddle of water on the floor in the bathroom a few hours after she had "washed the dishes;" apparently it was all Drew's doing. (Good use of the younger brother blame, however!).

I know it's part of growing up. I know it's how kids are.

But that itty bitty part of me feels like I have done something wrong. That I sighed too heavily the last time she broke a glass and spilled her juice on the floor. That she hears her father and I fighting more often than I care to admit and she thinks it's her fault. That I have become the cliche' parent that believes her kid is just how she is and that her parenting didn't have anything to do with it when really all her fault.

All.

Truth? I fear that her not telling me about the pee in the bed and the water on the floor is going to lead to the lies that could really affect her life. I fear that she won't feel that she can come to me when she really needs to come to me and when I really want to be able to be there for her.

And I fear that the one thing, the only thing, that I really want to do well in this lifetime -- being a good parent to my children -- is slowly slipping from my grasp.

California is in a Different Time Zone! And Other Tidbits Of Wisdom I'm So Glad I Called My In-Laws to Get

*Updates below!

Liz and I have been afforded a great media opportunity that will take us out to the Bay area in a couple of weeks. And as you might have guessed, the only childcare option I am left with, after handing out flyers at the local zoo, is my in-laws.

Now before you jump down my throat and tell me what I know you are going to tell me then let me tell you that you are wrong.

Totally and utterly wrong.

Clearly, their tom-ass-foolery can be pretty hilarious, embarrassing, or outright depressing, depending on what kind of mood you're in. But when it specifically affects the kids, then I'm a little concerned.

Okay, I'm scared shitless.

Over the course of four years, they've changed less diapers than I have fingers and they've fed my daughter a marshmallow peep for a snack, which I suppose is better considering they've skipped her entire lunch on a different occasion. They also believe that dessert is a food group, with charter members chocolate milk straws from the dollar store, jello, and pudding, all delightfully flavored with Splenda.

And they've also never been alone with Drew for more than two hours.

So in my desperation, I reluctantly called my father-in-law to make sure they would be able to help me out. It was made a bit more awkward since I've avoided all contact with them after the whole mother-in-law debacle, so I was less than thrilled to have to engage in a conversation.

But lucky me! I was quickly reminded why I had enjoyed not talking to them, particularly as my father-in-law seriously explained to me the concept behind the Pacific Time Zone (huh, what's that?) and how flying back from California to Philadelphia would take extra long due to something called a "time change."

Considering he's the same man who explained how to put a trash bag in a trash can, I shouldn't really be surprised, however, at this juncture in my life, I have no patience left to just nod, chuckle, and write a funny blog post.

I mean, the last time I checked, I'm a fairly functioning human. With a brain. And better, a few college degrees.

"I'm married to a pilot, you know," I told him. "And I've actually been to California a few times. I think I get that I won't get back until late on Friday."

But then I had to convince him that thanks to a really crappy moldy stinky mattress that Drew had a major allergic reaction to, he will not be sleeping in their crib.

That proved to be a bit more difficult. 

"But the mattress is marked hypoallergenic." Um, okay. It's not when you keep it under your bed where the cats piss, so I'll just buy a playpen.

"But it was probably just the blanket we put on it." Yeah, except I took that blanket off and burned it and he was still coughing and sneezing, so I'll just buy a playpen.

"But I think it was just the room itself or maybe the season." Right, so many people have February allergies. I'll just buy a playpen.

[insert choice words, eye rolls, heavy breathing, and visions of a playpen shooting through their roof and landing on his head]

And for a brief moment, I decided that maybe I shouldn't go. That it just wasn't worth the headache, the fear, the worry, and the systematic desensitization I will have to put my children through after their stay.

But other then understanding that it's incredibly silly and terribly illogical of me, and sending a playpen, sippy cups, and set of baby spoons to their house thanks to a Target gift card I had laying around, I realized how much of a shining star of a mom I'm going to look like upon my return. And considering my level of parenting these days, I'm desperate for all the brownie points that I can get.

--

So my mom and BFF are headed over to see the kids on Thursday and Friday while I'm gone. And they promised to bring food just in case. Now just to manage the flight to Philly with both kids. Alone.

Eep.

Tighty Whities

I've been trying to convince my husband to switch to tighty whities. Not a permanent switch, mind you, but in sort of a "hey, I'm happy to wear some uncomfortable thong for three-minutes before you pull it off with your teeth [I wish] so oblige my request for a little underwear switcheroo" way.

The huz happens to have a tight stomach and a round little white ass.

Ah the benefits of not being the childbearing adult in the household.

And for some reason, I have this idea in my head that the underpants, when coupled with a few smooth moves, might be kind of hot. The only problem is that he thinks I'm nuts.

Which I kind of giggle at, but then kind of offends me, considering all the lacy bullshit we women endure. I know, I know, it's just as much for us too.

Blah. Whatever.

So, any suggestions? Am I just plain nuts?

And who's up for "Rock of Love" finale live thread tomorrow?

The Real Story Behind Johnson & Johnson's Camp Baby

Okay, so here's what really happened, Mominatrix Style.

Shirt of the Week: Check out this hottie in her sexy shirt!

Pick of the Week: Cool Mom Picks Mother's Day Gift Guide -- check it out and help us spread the word ($400 of prizes up for grabs!) *If you need more ideas for your own mother's day gift, then check out our main site! We've been featuring some really awesome stuff.

Blog Blast: Can women do things just as well as men? Tell us what! (Here's what I can do!). Some pretty cool prizes (10 to be exact) are up for grabs today!

Giveaway: Enter to win a $50 gift card from my awesome sponsor here.

Podcast: Joanne Bamberger, PunditMom, discusses politics with a bunch of great chatters. Next week is Tracey Clark and Kate Inglis (Sweet Salty) from Shutter Sisters. *If you can make the live shows, make sure to sign up for my show "Motherhood Uncensored" via iTunes!*

It Certainly Doesn't Get Easier. Just Crazier.

I get why parents with kids older than mine do the whole *eye-roll, chuckle, fake head nod* anytime we newbies with the wee babes complain about how hard teething is or how terrible that tantrum was. You know exactly what they're saying to themselves, right?

Oh please. Wait until you can't pick up that crying teething sleep fighting little baby who's now bigger than you in the fucking 2nd grade and proceeds to tell you where to shove it which is soon to be followed by him zooming away in his car with some ho-bag named Tyffanye who just got your son's name tattooed on her ass.

That's not to say that what you're experiencing right now, in this very moment, isn't sucky, complicated, or incredibly challenging. When you're living in the baby-toddler vacuum that seems to be repeating itself day in and day out, even if it is just for a few short days, months, hell, even a year of you and your child's long life, it is truly the hardest thing you've ever done. And let's face it. Being neck deep in total overwhelm doesn't leave much breathing room for perspective.

And sometimes it makes it worse to hear that it's only going to get harder. I mean, the whole "consider yourself lucky because you can still throw them in a crib" speech doesn't really do much for the bedraggled sleep-deprived mother who on any given night would much rather pick her son up from jail because then she wouldn't have had to listen to him scream all night long.

But on the off chance that you've enjoyed four days of uninterrupted sleep, completely devoid of poopy diapers and nagging preschoolers, you will be able to appreciate the 15-year-old (or thereabouts) girl in the seat across the aisle from you on the trip home tell her parents quite matter-of-factly that she's going to go to bartending school instead of her first year of college because "it's a great job and it pays really well and they don't actually drink the alcohol they just give it out."

And suddenly, my naughty little three-year-old girl who decided to do "laundry" in her humidifier with half her pajamas and then proceeded to hang them over her wooden now water stained headboard seems incredibly easy. Refreshing, actually. And handling my teething high energy 14-month-old who refuses to go to sleep without extensive rocking is a piece of cake.

Besides, since I'm probably never ever going to get sleep anyway, I might as well enjoy losing it to a screaming contained child and not a daughter at her prom or a son on a road trip with his friends.

Yep. Better start the xanax stash now.

Turn on the 'ight

Drew has been babbling almost non-stop for the last few months with extremely good intentions, but he has yet to say an actual word (including an intentional "mama" or "dada"). We thought he had said "dog" a couple of months ago, but turns out that was just "da" which, as we've learned, could mean anything from television to penis.

So to compensate he's been using what I call the "22-year-old ho at a bar" technique. He bats his eyes, does a little wiggle (and sometimes a belly flash), and smiles -- all of which sucker us into giving him exactly what he wants.

And then, if we give him the wrong thing, he just stands there pointing while saying "uh" for as long as it takes for us to figure out what "uh" means. It's like one of those demented Chinese game shows that I have never actually watched or enjoyed (ahem) where some poor yet totally willing contestant traipses through some impossible gauntlet with weirdly dressed people hold a battering ram ready to beat him into a pool of mud. Except I almost feel like that might be better than standing there like a complete idiot picking every single thing up off your kitchen table hoping it will make your toddler stop saying "uh." Not to be matched, of course, by reading a book or walking through the house and having to name every single thing he points to while saying "uh" or "da" or "at."

My husband tries to make it more interesting by using the actual name for things; so for any type of bird, I just say "bird" while he'll make it sound like he's some sort of ornithologist, spouting off words like "egret," "ostrich," and "emu." Probably why the poor kid has yet to say "bird" or well, anything for that matter.

Regardless, we've tried not to worry about his lack of language, particularly since the kid has been running since 10 months old and can clearly communicate (in his own caveman-like way) what he wants and needs. Plus, he can also sign "more" after we plead with him a few 100 times and withhold bananas and bread (his two favorite foods). So he's definitely trying to communicate, just not in English.

However, when you've got a daughter who uses the words "challenging" and "particularly" in regular conversation, and has been talking quite clearly since she was just around Drew's age, it's hard not to worry, if only just a little tiny bit.

But last night as I got him ready for bed, he pointed to the light on his dresser and I said "light." And then he said "IGHT!" And after a [10,000] few times of me asking him what it was to every light in our house he said it.

Either that or he thinks our choice in lamps is alright, or "A'ight" as the kids like to say.

Only 14 months and talking in slang.

I'm doomed.

--

If you want to see some pics of my trip, check them out here.

Goodnight My Someone

My daughter has a typical bedtime routine that is totally absent of breastfeeding, rocking, lulling, patting, crying (mine, that is), and pleading. Now had you told me this little anecdote almost four years ago, I would have laughed at you.

Or cursed you, depending the on the night.

She was a beast of a sleeper, requiring some type of parental intervention involving an "ing" at way too many times during the night.

But now that we simply brush her teeth, read her a story, and turn off the lights, it's hard to remember how much work we used to put in just to get her to close her tiny little eyes and keep them closed for those precious dark hours. I've since pushed aside the difficult memories of her first year, mainly as a means to protect the little glimmers of sanity I have left.

Tonight she asked me to rub her back and sing her lullabies. She's laid claim to the five or so songs that were in regular rotation in mommy's live and in-person cd player. And so, out of respect for her request, I don't sing those songs to Drew. And since she doesn't need them anymore, I haven't sung them in a very long time.

As I softly scratched out a few notes as she lay quietly on her very big girl pillow in her very big girl bed and the memories flushed through me, I choked up a bit.

It wasn't a new feeling -- to be stifled by my own salty mix of frustrated sobs while singing those songs, standing painfully alone in the dark in a trance of sleeplessness and helplessness. But this time, the tears came with a smile, as I remembered the beauty of our nightly rendevous. Once tarnished by pain and frustration, the truly sweet moments I endured every single night with her for over two years were returned to me fully shined.

Almost brand new.

And for the first time, when I sang those words, my only memory was of that precious baby girl, my best girl, falling slowly to sleep in the crook of my tired left arm, her fuzzy head and compact body heavy as she drifted off into dreamland.

My memory reclaimed. My memory, as it should be.

And This is How I Weaned My Son

Leave town for a good four days for an interview and a conference, and let your husband deal with the him.

Just don't decide to hop on a flight to LaGuardia because all the flights to Newark are delayed or canceled (and this time you can't drive to the conference) but your bag with all your fun new clothes and breast pump stayed on your original flight to Newark.

[Thank you hair stylist and make-up artist and way too expensive NYC sweater and fresh pair of underpants I remembered to pack in my purse].

Okay, so maybe it won't be that simple for you. Quite frankly, we've been working for the last few weeks to drop a feeding (I was down to one before I left). We've also instituted a little bit of CIO and a sippy cup of water in the crib. And while we've had to endure some crying (okay. disclosure: A LOT), it's been working well.

And what a surprise, he slept perfectly fine last night for my husband.

But guess what? So did I.

[If you do want to hear some of the helpful hints the MU readers so kindly shared that did not include a trip to New York but really should (Mom's Weaning Camp!), drop me an email and I'll try to summarize for you]. 

Swear-Bys, and an April Giveaway

So is it just me or are you curious to know people's favorite stuff? I could care less if Angelina wore it or used it or tattooed it on her ass.

But my fellow mamas? I'm all over it.

Now I know it's a bit presumptuous to assume that you give two flying craps about what I love, but hell, when did that ever stop me? So, I've compiled a bunch of my favorites, along with the awesome giveaway from one of my April sponsors, mom-run business Itty Bitty Lady Bug Boutique (coincidentally, Cecilia reads my blog and is extremely friendly and generous, so on that alone you should go visit her site. But she's giving something away too, you know, if you're motivated by free stuff).

So here goes (and I was not paid to say I like these things. I just like them. The end):

Maternity: Bumpstyle. You say $79 for a shirt, and I say, emphatically YES. I wore it from DAY ONE of my pregnancy through the 4th trimester. It's a one size shirt that is long so it covers the damn maternity pants even when you're gihugic, it's super soft and comfy, and seriously, you will get MORE than your average use out of it.

Sling/Carrier: If you saw me at BlogHer, or sadly, in EVERY single picture of me at BlogHer, I was either wearing Drew in a Rockin' Baby Sling or a Baby Hawk. They are by far my favorites for a few reasons. Rockin' Baby (the pouches) are sized but they have zippers on the shoulder so you can size it up or down. And it's a thinner shoulder strap -- way more comfy. The Baby Hawk is sturdy and comfortable and hands down (or off) the best. I have heard from my BFF that Baby Bisou rocks too. Again, you'll get your money's worth.

Jewelry: If only my son wasn't so grabby (magnetic closure), I'd wear my Blend Creations necklace every day. I purchase an ox bone one that has a graphic inscription with the same meaning as my middle name (Chinese), but I love her washi pendants too. They are simply gorgeous and you'll wear it all the time.

Not So Common Toddler Board Books: The Kit Allen Seasons series of four books is my daughter's fave and now my son's too. She could "read" it since each page is just one word (great for quick bedtimes too!). Adorable.

Baby Flat Ware: Since Drew insists on feeding himself, I'm loving the Boon Benders. They rock. Now I realize they didn't get great Amazon reviews, but let me tell you, they work for him. I bend, he scoops, no food on shirt. And they are BPA-free.

Diaper Cream: I was recently introduced to Diaper Goop thanks to that feature of mine in the Arkansas Democrat Gazette. He's a local Little Rock guy that made this very goopy stuff. Now, it's not sweet smelling (better than Desitin, mind you), but it works. Anytime Drew's butt was red, I slopped it on there (it's like hair cream stuff) and he was fine the next day. It feels very natural which is good because I loathe the smell of Desitin. (ew). Plus, it has no zinc oxide so I'm betting it's good for cloth dipes. Seriously, go check it out!

Feel free to share your swear-bys with me in the comments. Links are welcome.

And now, if you want to win a $50 to Itty Bitty Lady Bug Boutique, just peruse her shop and tell me what you are coveting in the comments. I'll pick one winner at random on April 30. You may enter only once. And congrats to March Giveaway Winner, Karianna!

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If you want to chat with some of your favorite bloggers tonight (woo!), then hop onto my radio podcast and listen OR call (646) 915-8634. Plus, I've got a slew of great guests lined up for April.

And pssssssssst I forgot to mention, the names? Yeah, those were Quinlan's picks. April Fool's :)

Playing the Name Game

We came up with Drew's name the day before I had him. Up until then we had absolutely nothing, which is great when people keep asking you what you're going to name the baby or like my in-laws did when they heard we had picked "Quinlan," offer us a list of "acceptable names."

No joke.

Even after Drew was born we still couldn't exactly figure out what to name him. There we sat, with our baby screaming from the warmer with no answer to all the excited nurses asking us what his name was. I'd always laughed about those people who took their kid home without a name, but that was almost us. And so, I laugh no more.

Since we almost had a no name baby here (or Chalk, as Quinlan named him), it's no surprise that this time around we have been struggling. But struggling is inordinately better than not having anything at all.

So we're trying to eliminate a few right now before we move onto the "You want to name our kid what? No fucking way!" round which, by the way, is always great for marital relations. I'd honestly love to hear your thoughts. Be specific. It's my kid's name for god sakes.

BOYS

Mozart (huge fan)

Emeril (huge fans, too)

Orville (like the popcorn, and you know, the plane thing)

Arkie (cute and where he was conceived!)

GIRLS

Electra (Loved the movie!)

Lavendar (Sort of like Violet but not)

October (It's her birth month, afterall -- plus, Halloween!)

Gerta (German Heritage -- cute family name)

Okay, so what say you? Love 'em, hate 'em...?? Now onto middle names. God help me.