Motherhood Uncensored

Kids Always Have a Way of Cheering You Up

"Mommy, your new hair cut looks ridicillllllious!"

What a Difference a Day Makes

It was all vaginas and cupcakes around here until my midwife informed me this morning that my ultrasound showed an Echogenic Cardio Foci.

You say, wtf is that? And I say, I have no clue. And neither did my midwife.

I love midwives, but let them not be the ones to give you news regarding an Echogenic Cardio Foci that happens to be a teeny tiny even controversial marker (on its own, that is) for Down Syndrome because they will liken it to a hand crease and give you some bogus ratio and make you cry that heavy blubbering cry where you can't talk and you just want to run away but you're stuck in a fucking midwife's office.

Once I calmed down, let them take my blood for a Quad Screen, and scheduled an appointment for the super duper ultrasound, I was able to call my husband, talk to a few friends, some of whom have been in this same exact spot, and search around the internet.

And I feel better.

Apparently she also has an ovarian cyst too, you know, just make me worry even more, but I'm not supposed to worry about that because those are nothing. They just make your hormones really wacky (sweet, more excuses for my madness).  All this after the midwife informed me that their ultrasound machine isn't the greatest so there could have been other markers or actually, the marker could have not been there at all. But it was good enough to see a FUCKING CYST on her ovary.  

Now I'm wondering if I'm having a girl. Did you hear, it's a GIRL! Yippppppppeeeeeeeee!

Truth be told, I've been ambivalent about this pregnancy. It's taken me until now to get excited. Partially due to my own anxiety about anything being wrong, but also because I'm living in a general state of overwhelm and I haven't had time to stop and say "WHOO! More kids!"

But yesterday, I got excited. I bought a pink onesie. I told the Gap Kids checkout lady (from whom I bought, not STOLE the onesie) that I'm having a girl. I don't want this to take away from that feeling.

So, if this trip takes us to Holland, we'll enjoy the detour. But I'm not going to feel bad for hoping, wishing, and hell, praying that every thing about this little girl is okay.

I Was Right.

I know it must have been incredibly difficult to sleep without knowing the gender of my baby. Or maybe that was just the burrito you decided to consume at 10pm, for which I cannot be held accountable.

In either case, I am pleased to announce that I was right. Completely and utterly right.

Oh wait. You didn't listen to my podcast? Okay, fine.

It's a GIRL! Weeeeehooooo!

Now while I go grab my husband's jaw off the ground, sniff out the remnants of puke courtesy of 2008: The Year of the Stomach Flu, and return to my midwife's office so she can officially meet me and my vagina, you should go check the links in my sidebar.

The Ultrasound. Yes. That One.

Today I get to march my rapidly growing belly (and ass) into my brand new midwife's office for the ultrasound. It's significant for us because with the other two, we never "officially" found out. With Q, neither of us knew, and with Drew, I found out as did all my friends on and off the internet, but I didn't tell my husband or any of my family. They just thought I was being super progressive by purchasing lots of blue clothes for my daughter OR son.

Don't worry. I already got the whole "what a nasty bitch you are how could you keep that from your husband" comments. (P.S. He didn't want to know and I did so I didn't tell him).

But this time, we both agreed that we wanted to find out and so we shall. Or at least, we shall try.

Or really, I shall try.

The sad irony is that when we can actually stare straight at the in utero private parts of our unborn child without the ultrasound tech zipping around pretending that she didn't see a huge gigantic penis (ahem), he can't be there to do it with me. I'll be the only one staring and uttering smart and nervous things (yes, these ultrasounds actually make me extremely nervous) like "Ooooh look, it's definitely a boy" to which the tech will respond "No, that's a kidney, maam" with my spouse rolling his eyes at me on the phone (we hope).

Seriously, how can they tell these things?

But, that doesn't mean we don't have our guesses, you know, our in-the-gut feelings about who this baby is inside my belly.

And maybe you do too. Or maybe you're just here because you googled "My Mom's Tits" (I'm #1 for that search, by the way) and decided to click around and could care less.

Of course, there's a whopping 50/50 chance (best odds this side of the Mississippi) that you will be right, but it's fun to guess, isn't it? So here are some fun facts for you (without me showing a pic of myself):

a) I'm definitely smaller than I was with the other two but showing and spreading in the same way that I did with both kids.

b) I'm not as emotional as I was with Drew.

c) I have zits all over my face.

d) I had bad migraines and nausea, neither of which I had with the other two.

e) The huz thinks it's a boy and he's been right every time.

f) I'm craving salads, fruit, and anything healthy (can't say that I've ever done that before. Ever.).

g) I didn't have a gut feeling that Quinlan was a girl, but when I was pregnant with Drew, I felt different enough that I was pretty sure it was a boy (before I had the devious ultrasound). I have a bit of a gut feeling now, but I'm not telling you what it is... (or if you listen to my podcast from last night you'll hear it)

h) Quinlan thinks it's a girl. She also thinks she's having twins. And wants to marry Drew when she grows up (damn the South - we need to get this girl up to Yankeeville again).

i) I got pregnant in April *edited: January - not April. That was Drew -- sheesh!*, I'm due in October, and I was 31 when the sex happened (in case you're all about the extremely scientific Chinese Gender Calculator -- I love my ancestors, but sometimes...).

So, if you care to wager a guess, feel free to leave a comment and I'll post later today or tomorrow. Or if you really are looking for your mom's tits, I should tell you something.

They're not here. Just mine. And they're probably not what you're looking for.

This is My "Mommy Blog."

You'll always remember my name, right Mommy?, she asked me yesterday, floating through the kitchen in her fairy wings and knee socks.

Of course I'll remember your name, I told her. 

*****

When you make it through the blur of babydom, it's surprising how much is easily forgotten. Pictures capture brief, fleeting snippets of time - some posed, some not - all goofy, joyous, and proud.

But for each of the 10,000 other moments that were steeped in frustration and confusion, I have no physical record. They sit in my mind's eye, a flat canvas in my head that is slowly fading. Its vivid animation lost in the annals of my tired mind.

The rough feeling of the bald spot on the back of her head that we thought would never grow back. The ache in my arms from rocking her to sleep every night that I thought I'd always have to do. The salty taste of my midnight tears as I held her in the ER after she broke her leg.

That is the beauty of motherhood.

The rough edges that are never quite sanded. The sharp points that bruise but bring texture. The remnants and scraps that don't fit anywhere else.

I package these edges, points, and scraps as best I can, in tidy little stories. Sometimes funny. Sometimes not. For times when she and he and the one soon to be ask me "Do you remember, mama?" and I can no longer laugh or cry and say "Yes, little one..." and recount it like it was yesterday.

For that time when I might stare at their faces, now older and wiser, and grasp their sweet hands in mine and not be able to tell them one single story about their life. Or mine.

They will change and grow and leave and become.

And whether they ask me every day, or never ask at all, and whether I remember their name, or am left to live inside my own head, staring blankly out at a life I do not know, I want them to know my story. And more importantly, I want them to know theirs.

These words will live on past my memory of my daughter's name.

This is my mommy blog.

Of Lollipops, Mystery Illnesses, & Sad Goodbyes

Due to the placement of Drew's staples, the regular old diaper changes aren't the most comfortable thing in the world. Thus we have had to implement the complicated circus-act standing up diaper changes, made fairly simple with two people, but nearly impossible with just one.

That is unless I unleash the power of the lollipop. Apparently the whole world, including a tiny wiggling ass, stands still upon the crinkle of a lollipop wrapper.

Granted he'll probably have rotted teeth, but at least I won't be cleaning his shit up off the floor.

*****

As it turns out, my illness was completely and totally induced by stress and exhaustion. After two full days of tylenol, tons of sleep, and just plain relaxation, I'm fine. My "tired mom flu" has disappeared, and with it comes a realization that I need to take it easy.

There are no expectations but my own to live up to. My husband has transformed himself into an understanding husband who comes home for a few days and works his ass off -- on the house and with the kids.

Sure, he still has asshole moments. We all have asshole moments. But his pleas for me to walk on a specific part of the carpet have turned from annoying to funny. His desire to mop the kitchen floor before even saying "hello" when he gets home is almost endearing.

And his look to me that says "I know this is hard and you're doing the best you can" is the best gift I could have ever gotten.

*****

On Saturday night while we were out for my birthday dinner, Quinlan told the babysitter that she didn't want her daddy to leave again -- that she missed him when he was gone.

As my husband comes and goes for his brief weekend stays, and as the kids get older and wiser, they cling to him more tightly on his return, and verbalize their sadness more clearly upon his departure.

And lately, so do I -- and it's not just because I need the extra hand to change a diaper.

Like Quinlan says when he returns, "We're a whole family again." There's just something beautifully reassuring about the wholeness that I miss ever so desperately.   

And All I Got For Mother's Day Was a Trip to the ER

My super duper birthday/mother's day weekend extravaganza started off with a bang (dinner out, iPhone!, vomiting up the dinner out), and ended with one to Drew's head.

While I was out getting medicine for what I think is the flu (ah the achy legs, vomiting, and diarrhea), Drew pushed himself backwards in his booster seat and hit his head.

Four head staples, two donuts, and the shortest ever trip to the ER (literally 30 minutes tops), we're back and on the mend. I'm popping tylenol, he's popping Baby Motrin, and we're all thankful that we're alive and together today.

And down one really crappy kitchen table and chairs set.

Hope your Mother's Day was decidedly less eventful, at least when it comes to bodily injuries.

When I Said I Blogged About Sex, I Wasn't Kidding

Pregnant Sex. Very very good or very very bad?

What to Wear at BlogHer 2008: A Sleeping Baby

If you don't have one, you might want to snag a wee baby before the BlogHer Conference this summer because they are the "it" accessory for mom bloggers these days. Granted, I would want a baby I could give back after the weekend since I value sleep almost more than my life, but the great thing about a going out with a baby is that you can wear anything and nobody cares.

And there's no need for a nametag because they know your baby.

The truth is, I would have never ventured out to a bar (note to readers: I was actually outside the actual bar) with Quinlan. In fact, I barely ventured outside of my house with her. It was work and then home again. I dreaded the post office, and the grocery store was a nightmare.

And the huz and I almost never had a night out because I was not privvy to this myth called "the trustworthy and responsible babysitter." That's really what they should give you when you check out of the hospital. A list of babysitters.

And The Rookie Moms Handbook.

I've known Whitney and Heather, self-proclaimed geeky girls, since I started blogging. We featured their site on Cool Mom Picks back in the olden days when it was an offshoot of this blog (did you even know that?) and I met both of them at my first BlogHer in 2006.

At the time, I was past my rookie year (basically the first 12 months of a baby's life) and so I didn't take as much notice about the cool stuff they were doing on their site. But if you happen to have a new baby (be it your first or your 16th -- you Duggar, you) or one on the way (oh wait, that's me!) their blog is a must-have resource.

And now so is their book.

It's nothing fancy (although I think it's a swanky looking little gift book) and the activities aren't brain science. They're mostly just common sense activities that you would never ever ever think of doing because you're too sleep deprived to even wipe your own ass or wash your armpits. (They actually give you a quick "how to shower with baby" rundown in the book).

Some of the activities might not appeal to you, but others are must-do-this-instant sort of things -- like emailing your baby. Snag an email with their name and forgo the baby book; just send them email updates of what they are doing, saying, pooping, you name it.

It sure would have saved me scrawling shit out in a stupid flimsy notebook, that's for sure.

This is definitely a book to keep in your "awesome shower gifts" stash. Kudos to them for taking their blog and making it into a kick-ass book. I'd try it with Motherhood Uncensored but I don't see my pubic hair post going over well at a baby shower.

Motherhood Uncensored for New Moms: Shave it Before You Have it. Well, it sort of has a nice ring.

And take my advice, maybe a bar isn't your type of outing with a baby, but the power of a fantastic mei-tai is worth its weight in gold. If my kid can sleep through the gabbing of super fabulous mom bloggers in a loud bar, getting out of the house to anywhere other than the mailbox might be something to think about.

Psst. Share your best, bizarrest, coolest, whatever rookie mom year outing and win some prizes (all weekend long). Go here to learn how to participate. WOO! And if you want to hear what the ladies sound like (and me too), check out my podcast with them!

And thank you thank you for your wonderful birthday wishes and sweet comments about The Today Show. If you live in NYC, I'd be happy to recommend a fantastic hair stylist, make-up artist, and eyebrow genius!

[photo via Rebecca Woolf]

Boob Man

We've been waiting impatiently for the 15 month language explosion to hit. Instead, it's just a bunch of ass and nose explosions, neither of which help me to understand exactly what my son is saying (except don't feed me all that yogurt and perhaps wash my hands a few more times).

I've become one of those moms who annoyingly states and repeats basic words to the point of the on-looker just wanting to say the word for the kid.

"BALL. It's a FUCKING BALL, lady. Now leave the poor baby alone."

It's not that he can't say anything. He consistently offers a resounding "MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM" anytime food is brought to the table. That's always nice for this domestic zero's ego. And he makes "kissing" noises when you ask him what a duck says because my husband taught him to do that to get them to come over to him. We've since added "bwhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrr" for a truck and heavy panting for a dog or hot or both.   

And over the course of the last few weeks, he's said "mama," "ba" (ball), and "nana" (banana) with some intention. But then the lunar eclipse and the perfectly aligned stars pass over us and it is gone.

He's quite a talented "pointer n' grunter" so much so that we're bound to give him absolutely anything he wants off the kitchen table just to get him to stop. And he's taken to using a few ASL signs, with some fascinating interpretations -- my favorite being the hand to the mouth with loud sucking noise for drink.

Unfortunately, he's also decided to incorporate baby gangster language, like biting - or as he seems to be saying "Give me that toy, bitch," hitting - which is code for "Get the hell off my couch," and tossing things at people's heads (with uncanny aim); that's generally interpreted as "Don't mess with me with or I will cut you." (or as my daughter would tell you, "bruise my freaking forehead.")

So last night, during our nightly story hour, we were reading one of his favorite books*. And being the obsessive good mom that I am, I was saying every single word that he was pointing to. Without thinking, he pointed to the mom's large pregnant breast and I said "Boob."

"Boob!" he said, in his cute baby voice.

Oh Jesus. Are you kidding me? You're going to say that?

"What's that," I asked him, hoping it was just a fluke.

"BOOB!"

Now if I had known he was going to add "boob" to his vocabulary, I would have called it "breast" - being that I'm all for using the "correct" terminology, but I figured best to pad the word count for the 18 month doctor visit.

And "boob" is just way easier to say. You know, other than "jugs."

*Like many books we (and you) probably own, it is not one of my favorite books. But there are lots of renderings of babies, and he loves it.

One Thing's For Certain, Matt Lauer is Definitely Not Here

If you missed the segment, you can watch it here! And read our interviewer, Janet Shamlian's, blog entry. She rocks! Off to enjoy birthday fun with the kids.

Updated for like the 3rd time: Okay. The word is that we're on at the top of, the 10am EST with Heather on at 10:30am talking to Kathie Lee of all people. If that's not worth watching, I don't know what is.

Set your tivos, people. The Today Show segment I shot last month is set to run tomorrow morning -- May 7 -- (unless Miley Cyrus decides to show her naked back or something MAJOR BIG TIME like that). I have no idea when it's on during the show nor am I sure why I'm telling everyone (except because I'm an ambivalent media whore), but I'll update on Twitter and here tomorrow.

It just so happens to be airing on my 32nd birthday. Let's hope that's a good omen!

Nuances.

My daughter has grown interested in private parts over the last few months. It's a combination of a growing awareness of her own, and an understanding that her brother's are different.

I made the decision to call a spade a spade, and a vagina a vagina. It still gives my husband the shivers, mainly because it's one thing to realize your sweet little baby has sexual organs, but another when she can call them exactly what they are supposed to be called in her sweet little voice.

Granted, I'm not the most comfortable with it all, but I fake it. I thoroughly believe that after becoming a parent (okay, before too, at least for me, but still), I could seriously make it on Broadway. My sudden dramatic love for broccoli, the joy I feel when I'm cleaning up toys, and, the God's honest serious face I slap on when I'm talking about vaginas and penises.

That was of course until my daughter asked if she could touch Drew's weiner (while I was on the phone with my husband).

She said it sort of quietly. Like she was asking for a piece of gum. Except, it was a penis. Now honestly, I can't really blame her, considering she had just seen it shoot a pretty rad stream of pee right out onto her carpet (post-bath diaperless moment there). There it hung, it all its total dirty uncircumcised glory.

But alas, she is not allowed to touch it, or anyone else's private parts [cue serious mommy voice] because they are our special personal body parts that are for us only.

And then she replied "Well, daddy lets me touch his!"

EEP. EEK. Sjldkfjlkjewalkfjdlkfjdlfjdlfjdklfjdlkf?!

Actually, that was my husband on speaker phone. I sort of guffawed and snorted at the same time. I mean, way to take the whole three-year-old "Daddy lets me..." logic and twist that around.

After thinking about it for a few seconds and realizing how crazy that actually was for her to say, we asked her if that was true or if it was made up, and she admitted that she made it up.

Ah, my little lying sack of potatoes.

And then the explaining began. First about the lying (again) and then about the serious discussion about how we don't touch other people's parts and if adults ask you to touch theirs that it's not okay and that you have to tell us even if they say don't because we're your mommy and daddy and you can tell us everything.

And then I sighed heavily. Inside at least.

We still wipe her after she goes potty. When she gets older (like way older, maybe 35 or so), she'll be able to touch other people's private parts and she might even ask them to touch hers. We want to explain to her that certain things are not okay, but still save room for the caveats. We want to provide her with as much information as she can process, but not scare her into completely closing off about the topic.

Because even in these cases, there are no total extremes. Just a whole hell of a lot of nuances.

*It very clear to me that my husband DID NOT EVER allow my daughter to touch his penis. I'll leave the comments open for a civil discussion but if you feel the need to hint or overtly comment that he did somehow do so, then I will delete your comment.*

--

Okay, so if you haven't gotten the memo yet, all my links are in my left side bar now. So please check them! I just got my real live pics from this place and they rock. Awesome (and very cheap) mother-in-law gift for Mother's Day. My kids might have a photo album afterall...

Mother's Day Is Every Day

I've heard more than a few moms express their disgust about the commercialization of Mother's Day. Like Valentine's Day and other useless holidays, they jack up the prices for flowers and chocolates, and hope some poor sucker whose wife works her ass off 364 days out of the year will come running to spend his allotted $100 the day before.

The truth is that moms deserve way more than a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. And they deserve it every day of the year.

I'm not even sure when the flowers and chocolate thing came into play. Clearly it was not a mom who came up with the idea. "That's right. I lost my figure, shoot a kid out my woo-woo, and wipe butts every day. I think moms everywhere would like CHOCOLATES!"

Yeah right.

On the flip side, I don't think moms want diamonds either. Although, if my husband were to shove one at me, you wouldn't see me running back to the shop begging them to take it back.

But what I do want for myself and for other mothers this Mother's Day is empathy. I'm fortunate that when my husband is home he cleans, vacuums, and plays with the kids. And lately he's been a lot better about not complaining about how tired he is even though he's gets to come home to a quiet house with no kids and no dogs almost everyday.

And I know other moms out there whose husbands rock their socks off. They get it.

But some dads just don't. Too bad they don't sell empathy along with those chocolates and flowers. I'm pretty sure it would be a best selling gift for moms everywhere.

How do you want to be recognized this Mother's Day? (Click the link and see how you can participate in our Blast -- Julie and I are donating $25 to the charity of the choice of 10 winners -- so it's for an excellent cause!

Synchronicity

Last year I decided that in my free time I'd try to pitch Motherhood Uncensored as a book. I wrote a few chapters, asked a few wonderful colleagues to check it out, and I sent it off to Seal Press with high hopes.

But alas, it was refused. Same story, different title. "Career mom with surprise pregnancy gets overwhelmed."

Bla bla. I got it.

It turns out that around the same time they had just signed Rebecca Woolf to write Rockabye: From Wild to Child.

I got that too.

It would be wrong to say that I didn't have a speck of envy about it. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why. I suppose it's a writer's dream to publish a book. Most days I don't really consider my self "A WRITER." But we all see some legitimacy in books -- a soft or hard cover bound bunch of pages that you can hold and wave and accidentally drop in the bathtub.

You know, what you can't do with blogs.

But most of me was extremely excited for Rebecca. There's no doubt in anyone's mind, at least anyone who reads her blog, that she's got chops. Amazing writing chops. But what many people might not have put together is that our stories are very similar.

She definitely beats me in the tattoo department (I have four). And I have more kids than her. And she has bangs and lives in LA and.... okay, so maybe it's not that obvious.

But we both had surprise pregnancies, we both got married before our first kids arrived -- shotgun style --, and we both struggled with what it meant to be "a mother."

And now we're due with our current pregnancies within a week of each other.

So, it was with much anticipation that I waited to get her book in her hands.

If you look at the cover you might get the impression that it's one in the sea of soooo last year "bad drunk party girl now mommy like oh-my-gawd how did I get into this mess" type books.

But it's not.

In fact, after reading the first few chapters I was completely struck by the book's simplicity. You don't get this long twisted story of Rebecca's sordid past. It's not about dredging up all the crazy shit she did as a kid so that when she becomes a mom you're like "OH HERE WE GO AGAIN!"

You hide in the bathroom with her. You take a shit ton more tests like she did. Even if you were dying to get pregnant and only needed one test to convince yourself.

It's relatable, on many levels, because of the messages that are sent to the reader. Through sweet stories, touching moments, and honesty. A beautiful honesty that transcends everyone's diverse experience as a mother.

So, to say I've been touched by this book is an understatement. The truth is if my story never gets put into print, I feel that in some ways, Rebecca has done it for me.

And for that I am eternally grateful.

*****

Because I have a ridiculous amount of interesting links that I want to tell you all about, I've decided to put them in my side bar. I'll update them on a regular basis -- regular being as often as I can remember to do so.

Imposition Part 2: Confrontation

Against my better, well-rested non-hormonal judgment, I decided to talk to my mom about God and the penis. (Consequently, isn't that an Alanis Morrisette song?).

Had I had some sleep and not been jacked up on hormones, I would have used half a brain and just let it go, because the truth of the matter is, my kids see my mom twice a year, if that. But that takes maturity and fortitude -- apparently neither of which I have at this point in time.

I spent a good many years in therapy figuring out that talking to my mom about stuff like this probably isn't the best route. It's not that my mom doesn't listen or that my mom comes from an undermining place.

No, that's my in-laws.

My mom, on the other hand, listens and comes from a very good Jesus-Loves-You-Except-those-Gays place.

The truth is she just doesn't really get it. Limited. Totally clueless.

We really weren't so peeved about the penis thing (although it was pretty gross). And we really didn't have an issue about the Poppy Bill in heaven thing. In fact, apparently Quinlan was the one who brought it up. Truthfully, I can live with heaven. And I know that my presence every day compared to the twice yearly presence of my mom will carry some weight with my daughter.

But what I obviously couldn't just "live" with was the Bible story book that she packed in her bag to read to her.

And what's worse, I couldn't live with her explanation as to why.

"Well, she's got to get it somewhere, and you're not going to be exposing her to anything."

There were other things before that came out, like we want to be the filter of information for those types of important things in life, and we're not going to shelter her from religion in fact she's probably going to send her to a Catholic preschool this Fall (oh the irony), and we're open to talking with her about everything and anything when it's age appropriate.

And then she said something about how we tell her about Santa and the Easter Bunny and so what's so different about Jesus hanging on the cross (the true and important meaning of Easter, particularly for a three year old - oy). And it's just like any other book so what's the big deal... you oversensitive daughter who just wants to pick a fight with me because you're a hateful heathen child who decided to leave the church and this little part of me lost some love for you over it.

Okay. So not all that. But that's what I heard.

And so, after we hung up and I started formulating a response to what will either be a long no-paragraph email about how mean I was or better, a phone call sometime this summer with the same sentiment I realized why I was so offended by the damn book. And her prayers. And her Jesus talk.

It's because I don't want her Jesus and God for my daughter. Because she seems to forget that her Jesus and her God royally screwed me over. They made her stay in a hateful abusive marriage. They made her stand by and watch while I was verbally and sometimes physically abused.

They made her choose him over me.

And I never ever ever want that to be the God my daughter sees.

So it's not really about the book. It's about what that book represents. I realize that I don't necessarily have a problem with religion. I just have a problem with hers.