Motherhood Uncensored

And the Award Goes To...

My eyes are shut tight, my hands are clenched, I’m holding my breath… is it me? Is it me? Have I done something award worthy this year? As the pause lengthens I force myself to relax my shoulders. It’s not going to be me. I never win anything. Plus, seriously, what have I done this year that could possibly net me an award?

“But first! Let me explain a little more about this particular award.”

A reprieve! So, wait, let’s see. What did I do this year?

I took care of M when he ruptured a disk in his neck, while I was in the third trimester of my pregnancy, and cared for C at the same time.

I had a baby. I persevered through the first painful weeks of nursing said baby, while still caring for C, because M still wasn’t 100% fixed.

I worked full time, while pregnant, and caring for C, because… do we really need to rehash the fact that M ruptured a disk and became almost completely incapacitated while I was really pregnant?

I worked at my thankless job, doing everyone’s bidding day in and day out. (Why, oh why, is no one willing to hire me to surf the Internet and blog all day?)

I fed and took care of my family every day. And my daughter only got duplicate Happy Meal toys once or twice during the whole year! (For those not in the know, McDs changes the toys once a week. And, no, I’m not proud that I know that.) Most nights she had a home cooked meal.

I went back to work after a three and half month long maternity leave even though I really, really didn’t want to go back. Rumor has it that health insurance is very important. Especially when mommy’s job is going to make her go postal... er… when you have teeny tiny children.

“And the award goes to… let me get this envelope open.”

I snap back to attention. Wait a second. Maybe I do deserve this award. I’ve been giving and giving and giving! I deserve to get something back! It’s about time that someone noticed how much I selflessly do for everyone else! It’s not like I ever do anything for myself… no! It’s always about them. Bah. No one ever even asks me what I want. Bunch of ingrates!

“Darn it. This envelope is hard to open. Oh. Here we go. OK. As I was saying, the award for the mom who has finally taken time to rediscover herself, for her time spent blogging and writing, goes to Rose! All that time on the computer has finally paid off! Bravo!”

Ah… well… yes… maybe I do, do a few things just for me.

This was a guest post written by Rose at It’s My Life... in honor of this month’s blog exchange.

When I’m not busy working, cooking, running after my toddler, C, or nursing Little L,  I’m usually hiding in the bathroom thinking up my next blog post or trying to read a chapter or two of the book I’m currently wading through. When I do come up with something witty to write about, you can read it here where your usual blogger extraordinaire is blogging today.

Go on over and read her post and don’t forget to check out all the other blog exchange posts this month!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My Name is Not Julia

I’ll be there at midnight. The coordinates: 49:30:00-123:30:00.

She turned off her flashlight, checked the time on her watch: 11:50. She folded up the worn piece of paper into a neat triangle and stuck it back in her brassiere.

Julia, come back to bed, what are you doing out here? He stepped out of the tent, rubbing sleep out of myeyes. She didn’t hear him, startled, she turned around quickly. Why are you dressed Julia? What’s going on? Quickly she improvised.

It’s that horse. It’s that god damned horse! I can’tlay here with the smell of that dead horse. I’ve gotto go for a walk. I’ve got to go somewhere. It’s making my skin crawl! She started to walk away fromhim but he caught her by the elbow.

It’s the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere Julia! Luis said to stay put until he came back to find us. He’ll bring the jeep and we’ll load up. The horse died! What do you want me to do? I’m sorry that’s inconveniencing you but we don’t know where we are!  Stop being unreasonable. Come back in here and try and get some sleep.

She wrestled her arm away from him. Leave me alone. Go back in the tent if you want to. I don’t want to. Go back in the tent she thought to herself, don’t make me do this. She took a long look at his silhouette in the moonlight. She couldn’t make out his features but she could see he had grabbed his glasses, his black hair slicked back away from his eyes. She was glad she couldn’t see them. She turned her back on him and walked away.

Julia! Don’t go! It’s dangerous! You’re acting crazy. She began to walk faster. She glanced at her watch, 11:55. She could hear him following in the sand behind her. This was all wrong. She was supposed to slip away while he slept. She broke into a run.

Julia! Please! You’re scaring me! Come back here! She ran away from him, away from the ocean waves, up the beach. The stench of the horse was heavy in the damp night air. She knew she must be close: 49:30:00-123:30:00. She was running wildly now, weaving in the sand, trying to escape. He was so close she could feel his breath on her neck, but she was dodging his attempts to grab her, any part of her.

Julia! He called out to her, sure she was mad from something, maybe the heat?  Sweat was pouring into his eyes, he reached down to pull his black t-shirt over his head, the heat was unbearable, but in the darkness didn’t see that the path abruptly ended at the corpse of the rotting horse they had brought with them. He recoiled in shock, losing his balance, falling
backwards. One more time he called out JULIA!

She heard the sound of him hitting the ground and knew just where he had fallen. She checked her watch: 11:58. She knew exactly where the horse was, having traced this route each night for the previous five nights while he slept. He wasn’t so lucky. He was lying in the sand, she could hear him breathing but it appeared his leg was twisted. His glasses were lying beside him. She picked them up out of the sand and placed them on his face. She softly touched his hair.

Julia, what are we going to do?

11:59. She kissed him one last time and whispered: My name is not Julia.

Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

This was part of a previous Blog Exchange based on a prompt: Write a fictional story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

Amy - whose name is not Julia - is the author of this post. If you are looking for Kristen, she's partying down in Binkytown today. Visit here to read more at The Blog Exchange.

Cue The Harps And The Singing Angels... Now with Updates from "Oprah"

Before you all decide to leave me for my BFF, here's a picture of my brand new yummy baby. Much more to follow, including "the birth story." I'm just sort of waiting until I can lighten my load again *ahem*.

In the meantime, here are a few morsels for thought:

1) The "dry run" to the hospital = highly underrated.

2) Tiny balls + meconium + mom without glasses + weird wet-your-own baby wipes = very precarious situation.

3) Favorite line from the event: Nurse: "What was your pre-pregnancy weight?" Me: "Um, 150. On a very good day."

4) Do not ask a Philadelphia Cabbie for directions anywhere (see #1).

5) Pushing STILL does not feel good.

Now back to the "Girl Next Door" Marathon and googling "newborn baby poop colors."

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I'm writing a love note here.

Since it's my 'time to shine' (read: before Kristen gets home and changes all the passwords), I wanted to take a moment and write a little tribute to my BFF on this momentous occasion in her life.  It's early and I have to get to a meeting, so forgive the lack of stylistic flair, I'm just coming straight from the heart.

My husband turned to me a while back and said, "You know you're Gail, right?"  I cocked my head to one side, as if to say, 'What the hell are you rambling about now?'  He explained, "You.  You're Gail.  And Kristen is Oprah."  I was still laughing as I dialed her number to tell her that I will be getting a wing in every mansion that she buys.  Every one.

Being the BFF, I do have some very choice bits of info that I guess aren't available to the general reading public (and for a small fee...) 

In all honesty, though, to do a tribute I don't have to tell you anything about her.  Because you already know her.  The things that you read here, that you laugh at, cry about and get pissed over--they are the very same things that we've laughed at, cried about and have gotten pissed over, just days before.  She's really real.  What you see is what you get.

For the last 12 or 13 years, our friendship has been one of the most important relationships in my life.  Beyond being super talented, super driven, super successful, super funny, super beautiful and all of that, Kristen is just plain super.  She is warm, she is loving, she is thoughtful.  She is smart and quick witted and insanely fun to be around.  She is one of a very few people who can make me laugh so hard that I want to stop but can't.  She is sensitive and deep and minimizes even her worst pain... finding funny in dark, scary places.  She has been through a lot. She is an honest-to-God-survivor of some really fucked up shit.

And she's a kick ass mother.  Kick. Ass.

Don't ever let her tell you any different.

**Kristen and baby Chalk (as we're all still calling him, BTW) will be home sometime today.  I'm sure she'll be back to the blogiverse soon.  I know that she misses all of you and appreciates your comments and well wishes.  Look for me as the future Editor-At-Large of Kristen's magazine, 'Special K.'

Change is Routine

If I have one birthright, it is the ability to change my mind.  As the only girl in a house full of boys (ok, I didn't count the cat - she's a girl), I seem to be the only one who is at peace with change at a moment's notice.  My husband needs weeks to prepare for just the planning of a vacation.  As for my son, if the plans we have for a Saturday afternoon get changed a little he has a hissy-fit.  And the baby? Well it's all about routine with him, because if he doesn't get his morning nap, there will be hell to pay.  I find routine mundane.  Routine to me is death. Yes, I like the predictability of my bagel with butter accompanied by my iced tea in the morning, but beyond that, I'm pretty much game for anything as long as I'm having a good hair day.

I try very hard to plan fun things with my kids on the weekends, but is it a crime if I decide that maybe I don't feel like going to the indoor playground at the mall and want to venture outside instead?  Or why must my son always insist on riding his scooter to come get the mail with me, why not shake it up a little and take his bike? Clearly he has not inherited my spontaneity gene. But I've come to discover (that old wisdom thing really does come with age), that it is probably not because he didn't inherit my genes, but because he is not female.

I have to blame some of this lack of clear direction on my hormones.  I am a moody person.  And my mood changes based on the time of the month.  Perhaps this accounts for the fact that my blog posts range from funny to blah to boring to reflective to downright suicidal.  There is no consistency in my life or in my work.  The week after my period I'm at my best.  Then I slowly start to take a downward spiral from general fussiness in week 2 to "don't-come-near-me-or-I-will-blow-your-head-off" by week 4.  Luckily hubby knows the zone in which he can cross and not cross, consequently we have continued to remain a couple after more than 10 years. So all this constant hormonal change, all this moodiness, reluctantly spills over into my daily work where I am always trying to institute a successful routine.  The very thing that I just called death. (Did I mention I'm quite hypocritical, too?).

So I can only conclude that my inability for routine is the balance within our household that makes it all work.  Because majority rules.  Maybe they are all here on this earth to keep me grounded.  I'm a hard person to love during week 4.  They all seem to take it in stride though.  So it seems change is my only routine.  And it's in the form of a big red spot.Every 30 days or so.

**When Kate is not complaining about her period, she is a WOHM and has a 5 year old and a 12 month old and writing about it on Eucalyptus Pillow.  Come visit Kristen there today, and come back to get your fix daily.**

It's the New Year's Day Blog Exchange. Check out the other participants and join in for next month. Click here for more info.

Happy 2007!

Green

Back in August, my daughter adopted a friend.  He is green and lives in a garbage can.  You probably know him as Oscar the Grouch.  I spend a lot of time with him, so I can call him “Oscar” or “Ah-ga”.

Some might think that an Oscar the Grouch toy is an odd choice for a security item, and in many ways, I guess he is.  This particular Oscar has a couple of hard plastic pieces (forming his mouth and the bottom of his garbage can), so he’s not a very good cuddler.  He’s also (according to his label) not machine washable, though after a nighttime puke incident several weeks ago, he was summarily thrown into the wash and emerged without any ill effects.  Also, Oscar the Grouch the character isn’t one of Sesame Street’s more loveable cast members.  He can be mean, dirty and rude.  But that isn’t how my daughter sees him.   The Oscar the Grouch character is not my daughter’s Oscar.  He’s her soft and cuddly (and smelly!  Oscar might need to take a trip down to the laundry room again) buddy, who helps her fall asleep at night and comforts her after traumatic events.  He’s her near-constant companion.

As I have spent more time with Oscar and my daughter, a funny thing has happened to my perception of Oscar.  I no longer see him as “Oscar the Grouch”, the guy who loves trash, lives in a trashcan and is best friends with a worm.  When I hear Oscar’s “I Love Trash” song, or someone mentions any of the above traits, I have to stop and remember that that is what Oscar the Grouch is about.

So if you see my daughter, Oscar and me out and about, forgive me if I look at you strangely should you mention one of Oscar’s more typically grouch-like traits.  Because to me, my daughter’s favorite toy bears only a slight resemblance to the Sesame Street character on which he is based.

Erin is a mother to a 15-month old toddler, Emily, with another due in July.  She tries to divide her time between blogging, working and mothering (sometimes more successfully than others).  Her blog home is The Looney Bin, which is where you will find Kristen today. 

Make sure to check out the other folks today writing on the topic "Red" or "Green" and leave a comment. Click here for the list.

A Letter From an Academic Nut

[A little context is in order here… Right now I am entering into the massive cattle market that is the academic job market.   This means I am spending copious amounts of time writing a shitload of application letters for assistant professor positions that I am highly unlikely to even be interviewed for.  My letter is likely to be one among one hundred or more that these departments receive.  Our letters will all look much the same, and all tow the same line in terms of explaining our "cutting edge research" and "teaching pedagogy." We'll also each exude a quiet air of desperation.   To say I am deeply ambivalent about this whole process would be an understatement. 

This is the letter I only wish I could send….]

Professor BlahBlah

Department of English

A University Somewhere

Somewhere USA (but not deeply rural, sorry….)

Dear Professor Blahblah,

How are you? I am fine.

I bet this letter comes as a bit of a shock after the stacks of other dry prose you've had to plough through before the dreaded Search Committee meeting tomorrow!   And look, don't let those piss-ant colleagues get you down, OK?  In the end, you're all in this together, and although that little fucker from Brown keeps harping on "demonstrated academic excellence" among the candidates, you know that what you all really want is someone who will willingly take on a shitload of freshmen writing courses no one else wants to teach, and who will get good and drunk and inappropriate with you at the faculty Holiday Gathering.

Anyhoo, if this sounds about on target, then look no further. I'm your gal!   Hells, I'll take it one step further and manage to get into a shots contest with the College Dean at that drinking hole across from campus.  If we play our cards right, I can get him/her to spill some of the juicier campus-gossip you're all dying to know, and rest-assured that I'll be passing this information on to you—discretely of course. You can definitely rely on me in this capacity. I am nothing if not discrete.

Let me see. What else is relevant here? Oh! I should have mentioned this before, but you should be reading this letter with a British accent.   Yes! I am British!  I feel the need to state this upfront in case it affects my candidacy favorably.  What else are English Department faculty but a bunch of cloying Anglophiles, right?  I know, I know—this is an accusation of supreme superficiality, but I don't judge you by it, honestly.   I will myself confess to unashamedly "laying it on thick" when the situation clearly calls for a crisp Dame Judy tone.  And you would not believe the mindless shit that I can get away with saying if I throw in a few good "Bloody Hells" and "May I have a glAAhss of wAWter please?"    This kind of stealth skill can only help you and your department. Believe me!  The Board of Trustees is sure to eat that shit right up.   Never mind that my vernacular is more reminiscent of Eliza Doolittle (before Professor 'Iggins). I can keep a lid on the more screechy and unattractive aspect of my tenor, don't you worry;-)

What else?  I suppose I should share a bit more information about my teaching credentials.   As you can tell from my CV, I've taught "in a broad range of content areas."  I wish I could tell you that's because I am supremely qualified to do so, but between you and me I think it had a lot more to do with my department needing someone cheap and fast to fill in a niche once Professor Creepo had taken a "leave of absence" (when, ehem, it was discovered he was knobbing that graduate student—not me!).  Et Voila! You got yourself an expert in Medieval Romance Literature.  Or World Civilization.  As long as I can get my hands on a nice anthology textbook that's got all the readings, discussion questions, assignments, and teaching plans in it, my job is pretty simple really.   The course virtually teaches itself! And I can always rely on the assumption that even though I don't know the first thing about Courtly Love in medieval France, my students know even less. 

By now you'll have waded through a bunch of letters that drone on about a "student-centered" philosophy of teaching.   Do I also subscribe to this philosophy, you ask.  Hells Yeah!!!  Let's face it, one professor's "fostering of independent learning" is another one's "Uhm, I'm not really prepared to teach anything today, so how about you form into small groups and…. and….. for the next hour and a half. OK?   If you need anything, I'll be up here nursing my hangover and checking my blog comments."  So if this is what you mean by constructivist pedagogy, I'm all over that shit.

My dissertation you ask?  Can I explain my central premise? What, now???   Fuck No!  When I look back at that thing all I feel is the cold, cold memory of fear and anxiety, and frankly, I'd rather put it behind me.  But don't worry, if I get an on-campus interview and have to present on "my research" I will do my best to provide a stellar performance that will quite convince your colleagues that I am, indeed, Hot Shit Academically.   I just need some time to prepare (i.e. read the effing thing and remind myself what it was I was driveling on about for those good three years of my life that I'd really rather put behind me).

So, I am hoping at this stage that I have piqued your interest.  You should know that in general I am a likeable person, and although I come across a bit strong at times and annoy the shit out of people when I won't shut the fuck up, overall I am what is considered a "people-person."   Of course, if I had to provide one example of where I would like to improve myself, it would be to give up on this endless drive to perfectionism.  I just can't seem to let go of this bloody (;-)) drive to make everything I touch just right. It is my cross to bear, I suppose, but rest assured I am working on it.

I've got to go now.  So, uh, thanks for you consideration blah blah blah…Look forward to hearing from you blah blah blah…

Please hire me. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Luv,

Dr. P.

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Joy is the mother of four-year old, Boyo, and has one on the way. Really, really soon.  And yes, she is wondering why one earth she is putting herself through this kind of torture when she is 38 weeks gone and holding down a full-time job.   She blames the system. And the crazy hormones. Come visit Kristen at her blog today. And stay for awhile. Funny stuff to be had, particularly if you read it with a British accent.

If you want to check out the other open letters today, like these at my other blog The Mom Trap, as well as get more info on the blog exchange, click here.

Both Sides of the Story

Today I'm the odd woman out of the blog exchange I organize every month. This month, you'll find a series of excellent debates on various mom-related issues. Elective c-sections, tv for kids, organic foods, feminism... the list goes on.

Click here for a list of the participants and read away. I'm sure you'll enjoy hearing both sides of the story and sharing your take on the issues that matter most.

Stay tuned *ahem* for exciting stuff tomorrow.

Who Gives a Shit About Mommy Blogs Anyway?

With all the crap about mommy blogs and the ladies that write them thrown around at this year's Blogher conference, I figured I had to hear what Ayun had to say about it. Sure, we felt the love, but there was a decent amount of shit going around - not necessarily from those sans-kids folks (although they did take a couple cracks at it), but also from some mommy bloggers themselves. *GASP*. Didn't you know? We're all really rabid animals with hormones shooting out of our asses vying for pole position.

You know what I think about it *cough UNDERMINING cough.* Disagreement is one thing, but trying to take one down like a bad middle school wrestling match is another.

Read on people. Trust me, you won't be disappointed.

Mommy Blogs.

All of them have value as a document of the child’s life, and of the mother’s life with the child. They’re also all viable creative outlets. There’s nothing like a pleasurable ongoing creative assignment to help a stressed-out mother keep her wig on straight. Like Mommy zines, which are sprouting like mushrooms, the majority hold little interest for those outside the immediate family, but so what?

A woman who I would describe as a friend-of-a-friend-whom-I-may-have-met-once-and-don’t-remember recently gave birth. Well before the actual event, she started sending out these sprawling email epistles, updates on the pregnancy, the sonogram, the color of the nursery walls…now she covers the baby’s sleep habits, dietary developments and visits to the pediatrician in exhaustive detail. She didn’t seek my permission before adding me to her subscriber list, and the few bulletins I’ve skimmed have proved less than captivating but SO WHAT? Of course it’s the biggest thing in her life and of course she assumes the whole world is interested! What would be the point in me telling her to shut up, that it’s boring, that I don’t even know her or her baby, so why would I care?

That’s really the only thing that bothers me about Mommy Blogs, the nasty comments they invariably attract. Ordinary citizens should not be pilloried for daring to celebrate or consider the impact of motherhood on their lives, especially when they offer their observations in a free medium that can be switched off, unread. I’m all for the First Amendment, but in this situation, I feel distressed that the Internet renders it so easy to exercise it without manners or the milk of human kindness.

Not surprisingly, the crème of the Mommy Blogs, the ones whose authors have such an idiosyncratic point of view, dedicated posting schedule and feature such an appealing cast of attract the most vicious comments. I guess that’s why they’re popular, but I couldn’t hack all that criticism, even if it wasn’t directed at me, but at other commenters/readers of the blog. And yet, I park my sorry carcass at D-listed when I’m supposed to be making dinner for my children. Go figure.

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And so, there you have it. The fabulous Ayun Halliday has made her presence known here at Motherhood Uncensored. I swear I'm never going to wash this blog again. If you want to read more from Ayun, check out the other blogs involved in her blog along. I'm flattered to be in such fine company.

Oops She Did it Again, and Again, and Again

C'mon. You can't dish with a mama and not talk about the big B-ster. Alright, so maybe you can (and probably should just walk away in your short ass-hanging-out mini skirt and chew your huge wad of gum somewhere else), but I couldn't resist.

Britney Spears – another staple of D-listed! I, of course, missed her tearful television interview and am almost entirely ignorant of her oeuvre, though I do have a certain fondness for a Weimar cabaret cover version of Oops, I Did It Again. I have to be careful because I get her confused with Jessica Simpson, for whom I’ve felt a tender, if mild concern ever since happening upon a VH1 special about her while climbing a Stairmaster, as good an excuse as any to decrease my cardiac activity.

Britney’s the one with the baby, right? I’m just joshing you. The poor girl’s D-listed pascal lamb! I can’t help but feel sympathy for her. Her flabby maternal bod’, her unflattering outfits and her inability to catch a break have a non-celeb authenticity. She should stop driving with the kid on her lap, but I remember that as a tot, my car seat was a beach towel my grandfather stapled to a piece of plywood, to keep me from falling backwards through the crack between the Buick’s front seats. And I’ll admit to almost dropping both of my babies when I holding a glass in the other hand.

In fact, when Inky was about six months old, I was so excited to be invited to a join a group of friends who were gathering at a tapas bar to welcome another friend from LA, that I downed way more than my share of sangria. The flamenco dancers passed Inky around for at least an hour before two of my pals insisted on walking us half a block home, the New York version of confiscating my keys. I don’t tell this story because I’m proud of this lapse in responsible parenting, but because I feel sorry for Britney Spears that her mistakes are so public, so human and so judged. And she said that was Sprite in her glass.

Tom Cruise, Anyone?

Okay. So maybe we're all tired of TomKat. But considering we have yet to see proof of Baby Suri from anyone other than another Scientologist, I figured I wanted to hear Ayun's take on the whole thing. Plus, she mentions Johnny Depp about 4 times and that makes me want to lick her.

And if you have no idea who Ayun is, read this.

One has to sign up for Time Warner Cable to get reliable television reception in my neighborhood, so sadly, I have never witnessed the miracle of his infamous jumping on the couch Oprah freak-out. I did catch some of the exhaustive, populist analysis to which that spectacle – and all things TomKat related – was subjected on my guilty pleasure, a nasty and oft-hilarious celebrity smackdown blog called D-listed. The general feeling there was that that Tom is gay (and insane), Katie is on the payroll, and the fetus, when it came out, would be hailed as the Alien Prince of Scientology.

I have to admit, Tom has never been one of my boyfriends. (I’m more the Johnny Depp in pirate drag type, with a side of Alan Rickman and some Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting for dessert.) If he thinks he’s recapturing his youthful sex appeal by knocking Brooke Shields’s post-partum depression meds or humping Katie’s leg every time the cameras are turned on , he’s mistaken. I was perhaps most sicked-out when I heard that he’d purchased a state-of-the-art sonogram machine for Katie’s home use. That to me, is far more unseemly than letting a nipple slip out of one’s Golden Globes gown.

I like to think that in Tom’s shoes, Johnny Depp would have donated that expensive piece of equipment to some low-income teen parenting center and told Vanessa Paradis to set a good example by making an appointment, same as all the other expectant moms. To tell you the truth, I don’t really care very much about Tom Cruise, other than to be glad he’s not the father of my children, because he seems like an utter a-hole.

Come Shake Your Big Rumpus

If you thought I was the queen of uncensored (or maybe just its bastard child), then you apparently haven't met Ayun Halliday, mother, author, and creator of the East Village Inky (a sort of zine on crack of the really good tasty kind). Her book The Big Rumpus, previously released in the US, is now being released in the UK as Mama Lama Ding Dong and I'm part of her 31 blogs in 31 days whirlwind tour. I'm beyond flattered and teeming with excitement. I've had to edit for exclamation points about 3 times.

And so, I decided that aside from telling you how wonderfully fabulous her book is and how much you should buy it right now because if you don't you're crazy and a hater of cute little babies (okay, so I'm laying it on thick, but you get the point), my readers would love to hear her dish on all things controversial.

Hooray for hot topics that tend to piss at least 4 people off and make for really mean comments that I get to delete but then they write posts on their blogs and send me traffic and so it doesn't really matter anyway.

Let's face it. Ayun has never been afraid to say what's on her mind and dare I say has drummed up a bit of controversy of her own?

So, throughout the day, I'll be running Ayun's thoughts on a few fun things we seem to love to talk about here at Motherhood Uncensored. So visit often and comment much. And if you don't want to buy her book after reading this shit, you're Ebenezer Scrooge or better, Cruella DeVille.

Let's Talk Mommy Wars

This is that phenomena whereby the media attempts, and alas, often succeeds in pitting we mothers against each other, yes? I hate it. In the early days of my maternal experience, I occasionally fell prey to it, and I know there’s certainly no shortage of Amazon customer reviewers and blog commenters who say I propagate it, which may be true, but I assure you, it was and is unintentional. The thing to know is that it is more often than not intentional when it comes out of the big megaphone.

 

Here’s proof: an editor of a large-circulation, monthly, mainstream parenting magazine, called me up and invited me to write half of a point-counterpoint article, which she described as breastfeeding vs. bottlefeeding. She knew, as does anyone who reads my mother-oriented stuff, that I am, or more accurately, was an ardent breast-feeder, nursed ‘em both well into toddlerhood, publicly, proudly.

That said, five or so years in the maternal trenches had introduced me to all sorts of wonderful mothers who did things differently than I did titty-wise, some by choice, some not. I wasn’t too keen on drawing lines in the sand, especially in such a generalized, public forum. The editor, sensing this, quickly let it slip that another writer was already on deck to write the pro-bottlefeeding portion of the article, and that this writer considered public breastfeeding to be “disgusting”. Hmm. I suggested that I would be willing to write the other half of an article if I could focus on confronting these sorts of nasty cultural assumptions about breastfeeding. “Sounds great!” the editor said, and I was very glad to hear it, as they pay more than just about anybody and I was all like, ooh, I’m a big freelance writer now, y’all! So we banged out the details regarding deadlines and word count and as we were saying goodbye, she chirped, “And feel free to really knock the bottle feeders!” Which was the end of my interest in writing that article, though I’m sure she had no trouble finding somebody to say yes.

 

The sad thing is, that person probably was a first-time mother, whose baby was maybe two or three months old, who hadn’t met many other mothers and who was desperate for both confirmation that her choices were the best ones, and an opportunity to demonstrate that she was more than just someone’s mom. Someone in a position to be hoodwinked by an agenda that has much more to do with increasing circulation than supporting mothers. Let’s watch each other’s backs and resist that sort of shit.

Freedom

The plane carrying my children and I touched down in a city in Upstate NY. As we landed, my mother looked at me from across the aisle and said, "Welcome home!" Tears shone in her eyes. I think it was at that exact moment that I kissed my freedom goodbye.

For the last ten years, I have lived away from home. I finished college, and headed straight to graduate school in My mother cried and stormed and swore that she would disown me if I left, but I had already been through enough therapy to tell her that I while I was sorry that she felt sad about my decision, I was going anyway. I was paying for it, so I was free to go. She didn't disown me, and I spent the next few years proving to her that leaving home didn�t mean discarding relationships.

Lizzy flew for the first time when she was just three weeks old. But we knew that, for her, the city could not be our home. We began to sense that staying close to family and BEING close to family were two distinctly different things, but there were some loose ends to tie up before moving home: three years of my husband's fellowship.

So it was onto Minnesota, where we bought our first home. We had Teddy there, and bought the dog. We knew it wasn't permanent, but we were free there to learn how to be a family. Roots began to penetrate the soil of our days even as we told everyone we ever met that we weren't from here, and we weren't staying. Without realizing it, we built a life for ourselves free from the bonds of family. We have our own schedules and our own traditions.

Before we knew it, those loose ends were neatly tied in a bow. The fellowship is finished, and our first home now belongs to someone else. We are free from Dirk's sixteen years of schooling. My mom came out to help with the kids during the packing process, and she and I flew them home today. We will now live a little more than a mile apart.

I love my mother, in spite of and sometimes because of her shortcomings. She was a great mom when I was young, but as I have grown she has grown fragile. She is often not as helpful as she thinks she is. She has threatened to disown me more than once. She has not always been kind. She spoils my children to a point that is unhealthy. She refuses to be responsible or accountable for her behavior.

She will now live a little more than a mile away.

Our move brings a great many freedoms with it: freedom from financial insecurity. Freedom from the airplanes and airports that shuffle our children through major holidays. Freedom from my mother's hurt that we chose to live in a faraway place. But for every ounce of freedom gained, there's a tradeoff. There's always a tradeoff.

Karen is work-at-home-mom. When she is not acting as a referee, cook, or seamstress, she is covertly blogging at Mommy's Dirty Little Secret. And I'm keeping her place warm today while she moves in, so hop on over and check out my piece and her ROCKIN' blog (full of lots of secrets...).

The other writers can be found in the link on the my sidebar. So, find some new blogs today and ENJOY!

What's in a Name?

Welcome my June Blog Exchange Partner Mayberry Mom... (If you didn't read this yesterday, um, you should. So get to it and leave her a comment! I'll be back later).

The moment of truth came not at the altar, when I said “I do.” Nor did it come during our honeymoon, or when we crossed the threshold for the first time as husband and wife.

In fact, Jeff was miles away when it happened. The Moment was between me and the desktop support guy at my new job. It was my first day, and he was there to configure my computer and set up my email account. He asked, innocently enough, what my name was, so he could create my username and address.

I froze and fumbled for an answer. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. It was three weeks before my wedding, and I still hadn’t decided whether or not to take my husband’s surname. Now, suddenly, my feet were to the fire. It was time to make my choice.

I’d thought about it a lot. Way too much, probably—for years before I even met my future spouse. On one side, my feminist beliefs. Why should I change my name, sublimate my identity, just for some archaic, patriarchal tradition? Why should I have to go through the hassle of getting a new social security card, changing my passport, alerting every friend, relative and creditor I’d amassed in the previous 30 years? Plus, I already had an eight-year career as a writer and editor. I had a stack of clips with my maiden-name byline. Plus, it is a nice name—alliterative, easy to pronounce and spell.

But there were compelling arguments the other way too. If I chose not to change, I’d always have to correct people when they called me “Mrs. Jeff’sName.” I might feel like being married was no different from living together, as we’d already been doing for over a year. And what would happen when we had children? I wasn’t about to give them a five-syllable, hyphenated last name. They’d get his name, and then I’d be the odd woman out in my own family.

I pondered it day and night. I envied my friend Laurie, who married a man who happened to have the exact same last name she did. I thought about using my maiden name for work and his name for everything else. I wished I could fall back on my college-era plan, which was to marry someone with a one-syllable last name so I could use both mine and his (2 + 1 = manageable; 2 + 3 = not).

When I landed the job, fairly unexpectedly and so soon before the wedding, the balance started to shift, ever so slightly, in favor of making the switch. I was at a new company in a new industry, meeting a lot of new people. No one knew or cared about my byline. But in the end, the winning argument was the thought of my future children. I very much wanted to share a name with them. So in my first act of Mommy sacrifice, I gave up my maiden name. There in my cubicle, the die was cast, and I’ve been Mrs. Jeff’sName ever since. I don’t regret it, but I still miss my old name.

A few weeks after the wedding (conveniently after the email address was up and humming and all the other bureaucratic paper had been chased), he told me how much he liked my maiden name. And that if I’d wanted him to, he would’ve taken MY name instead. Now why didn’t I think of that?

Mrs. Jeff’sName, also known as Mayberry Mom, now shares her last name with her husband, two kids and a dog.

 

This post is part of the June Blog Exchange on the theme "What's in a Name?" For more, visit the other participants!

Mrs. Fortune

Soul Gardening

Another Mommy Moment

Mommy's Dirty Secret

Chicken n Cheese

A Mommy Story

A Crack in Life

Divine Calm

Three Sunsets

Orthotic Contessa

Mayberry Mom

Taste the World

Mama Mama

Knitting Spells

Binkytown

Elissa Lerma

Cheap Chocolate

 

And if you're interested in participating for July, email me.

Guest Post from Mom-101

Countless times, Kristen has mentioned here how much she loves checking her sitemeter, analyzing her hits, tracking her visitors. So I feel a profound obligation to help keep her numbers up while I'm housesitting. Maybe even add a few new ones to the fray. I'd hate to be that rude guest who’s all, "hey, thanks for letting me crash here while you were away. Oh, and I killed the plants and theres nothing left in the fridge. Later."

I have an obligation to take care of the place in her stead, and I take
this obligation very very seriously.

One way to keep those hits coming is to make sure Kristen is heard beyond the wide community of mombloggers who already know and love her. But how to do this? I am only one person and a pretty busy one at that. I could email this post to a few friends, but that¹s not going to give me the reach I need.

And then I remembered the magic phrase: google search.

I can lure clueless google (or msn or yahoo) searchers here by planting a few key phrases in a post.

For example: I LOVE MISSISSIPPI! Well we all know exactly how Kristen feels about Mississippi. She talked about it just last week. In fact, she has an entire categorydedicated to her very prolific sentiments on the topic.  But now, every person searching for MISSISSIPPI IS THE GREATEST or MOVING TO MISSISSIPPI or RAISING CHILDREN IN MISSISSIPPI can come on over here and get the Motherhood Uncensored point of view as well. I look at it as more than fulfilling my responsibilities to Kristen while I' m here; I see it as a public service for the world.

I also think mothers looking for PUSSYCAT DOLLS ON SALE! should make their way to Motherhood Uncensored. If only to see just what Kristen’s hilarious opinionated audience of readers has to say about them. I mean, if you really want DISCOUNTED PUSSY CAT DOLLS for your future slut-in-training, by all means, stop by. Give us the chance to at least talk some sense into you first.

Finally, I would hope that anyone googling SPANKING CHILDREN or SPANK MY CHILDREN or SHOULD I SPANK MY CHILDREN will stumble over here. If only for the spanking porn on that post.

Hey look, I said porno! Now that's a whole other category of web surfers heading your way, Kristen.

My job here is done.

Read more from my blog-pal and CMP partner in crime at her blog Mom-101.

Don't Tickle Me.. Seriously Dooon't… ~ A Guest Post from GingaJoy

A week or so ago Kristen wrote to me and said "Joy, your perspective as a mother, a feminist, a Brit, and intellectual-type is always so enlightening and provocative. And I really like it when you use big words like "social-constructionism" and "wankfest," would you very much mind creating a post for Motherhood Uncensored that details the postmodern condition of contemporary motherhood during my brief absence in mid-May?" 

And how could I say no?  And this is why I bring to you a post I have been ruminating on for many, many weeks (indeed, a lifetime).  

Re: The extremely sad and sorry state of my pelvic floor before, during, and very much after my first pregnancy, OR: Why you should all be buying stock in Depends in the near future.

Well, this is Motherhood Uncensored, after all, and I thought to myself "why take the time to write a post about my tendency to pee myself on my own blog, when I can dirty up Kristen's with all the leaky details instead?"

My propensity for leakage has plagued me since early childhood. I was one of those kiddies who could not possibly tear themselves away from a game for anything as tedious as using the facilities. So I would hold on, and hold on, and on… until I was eventually forced to contort myself into some bizarre position (normally involving squatting somehow, and "sitting" on my foot). I'd had it if classmate (and bully) "Melanie" caught me in my signature position.

"Tickle her" She'd hiss, and her minions would be on me like a swarm of school-uniformed piranhas. I would get to go home in gym knickers with underwear safely wrapped up in newspaper "for mummy to take care of."

As my weak bladder took on legendary status well into my teens, my mum and aunts liked to comment on how I had better get some control "in that department" " because otherwise when you're pregnant, you'll be in real trouble, love.  You need to be able to stop in mid-stream when you're pregnant"

Stop?? In mid-stream?? You've got to be effing joking. Once this dam is untapped, there is no halting the mighty torrent, nothing at all. Indeed, no one ever explained quite why you needed to be able to stop midstream. Just that you had to…  When pregnant.  When I was with-child with #1, I conducted a few ineffectual trial runs at "stemming the tide" in my own loo. No joy. 

But the routine trips to the doctor's office soon educated me on the whys of the matter—i.e. "we don't need a gallon of your piss for testing purposes, thankyouverymuch." So I devised elaborate systems where the "sample-cup" would be swathed in toilet paper, and I would yank the receptacle clear halfway through the process.   The cup was always a little damp all over, and the marker always a little blurred, but no one ever hunted me down, called me a dirty girl, and asked me to pee, then stop mid-stream, on demand.   Which, of course, was my primal fear.

Fast forward to about one year two months postpartum when I decided to embark on an "enfirming" exercise routine. (I had to get rid of this swinging flesh-apron somehow).  I enrolled in an aerobics class, and when commanded to burst into jumping jacks I discovered a horrible truth. A truth of the "sling your sweatshirt casually about your hips as you leave the premises" nature.  A truth that denotes a lifetime of wearing "protective undergarments" for anything that remotely involved jumping up and down (or sneezing, or laughing, or coughing, or running to catch my son as he charges up the sidewalk in front of me). Or, a lifetime of reminding myself to intermittently "pelvic squeeeeeeeze" while I sit at the computer, peel the potatoes, or go to the hair salon. (And is it just me or do kegels make you feel weird down there when you do 'em???).

Last week I found myself in the doctor's office after experiencing a "scare" of the spotting variety in my 11th week of pregnancy with #2. In order to determine that all was well (and it was, thankfully), I was instructed to consume 64 fluid ounces of water 45 minutes before coming in so they could conduct an ultrasound. Now I was an old pro at this with #1, but now with the pelvic floor even more an adversary, the very act of getting into my car, parking, walking into the office, and sitting in the effing waiting room for 20 minutes (and all the while panicked that the worst might be happening)--it was sheer bloody torture.

By the time the nurse had called me, well… I was sitting in a contorted position, and like my 6 year old self, using my foot as an effective barrier between me and surefire public humiliation. I gave her a pleading look along the lines of "can't… get… up… gaaaaahhh" and then summoning all my might, I got to my feet, and sort of squatted to the ground (feigning a close checkup of my feet).   Somehow I managed to get upright--in a primordial, butt-thrusting kind of manner--and waddle over to the nurse, who thinking I was enduring hideous pain, asked if I was all right, to which I disintegrated into tears and wailed "I'm going to PEEE myself. Waaaaahhhhh!!!!" She kindly ushered me into the bathroom, and invited me to "empty your bladder as much as you need to be comfortable."  

"You mean stop halfway?" I whimpered.

"Just as much as you need, honey." 

And so I pissed mightily and lengthily. And it was good.

What have we learned from this little missive, ladies?

a) Kegels. They're not just about "enhanced pleasure for him and for her..." 

b) Pelvic floor--you don't want that thing flopping round your knees do you? Squeeeeeeze, at every opportune moment. Only you will know what you're up to, you dirty girl..(but take that bloody look of your face, for god's sake).

c) Ultrasound/Water Consumption.  Lies, I tell you! Lies!  They conducted the ultrasound quite fine without that extra 64oz sloshing down below, and next time I will simply sip on a perriere and avoid the agony. 

d) Cannot write d) as have suppressed the urge to wee-wee more than I should, which means must now find a graceful means to waddle down the hallway past my colleagues and take a slash... Buh-byyeeeeeaaaah..

Read more from Joy, my favorite PhD-holding, kid-leash using Brit, at her site, Gingajoy.

Guest Post ~ From Binky (8-hours)

I’m proud to be guest posting today on a blog that I enjoy for many reasons, not the least of which is its title. Two words can say a lot when they’re as loaded as the decadent duo displayed in the new masthead. Motherhood. Uncensored. With nuts.

The best mother bloggers get that way by unwrapping truths and not worrying about who’s going to bite. They write about real issues that aren’t always sweet—depression, loss, relationships, careers, bad sex, bad hair, relocations, homecomings. But because they aren’t perfect, just like we aren’t, we do bite. And we all share the guilty pleasure.

I’m all about a life uncensored; or, as Howard Stern would say, with no bullshit. In our house--where I dwell with my husband, my 9 month old daughter and our American Pit Bull Terrier--the first amendment of the United States Constitution is held above all else. We (my husband and I, mostly) believe in freedom, political and social. It extends to the most personal aspects of our existence. We’re honest and straightforward. We don’t hold back because to do so would destabilize the strength of our convictions. Some people like this about us; others don’t invite us back to their parties. But everyone knows where we stand, even if they would prefer it not be on their property.

When it comes to motherhood, what I like to speak the most freely about is how tenuous my grasp is on all things parental. Mom-101 personalizes the concept like this: I don’t know what I’m doing either. Redneck Mommy talks about her realization that life is short, sweet and all too often, not what was expected.

Bloggers like those two, and so many others, allow us glimpses into lives that we would never have access to if they existed behind the same walls that separate so many women from each other. When the walls are up, it’s easy for me to convince myself everything’s better on the other side. That the people who live there are smarter, more beautiful, more adept at time management and more valued by those who love them. Not that Kristen, Mom-101 and T aren’t hot mamas who can multi-task and win over friends with the best of them; it’s just that their candor helps me realize that I am all those things, too.

None of us know what we’re doing. It’s not what any of us expected. But we’ve all made lives for ourselves, and made lives for others, that are built more on the honest act of living and telling about it than any insistence on doing it right the first time around.

MU is brought to you today by the number 8.

8 years since I met the man I married.

8 months since I started blogging.

8 hours of uninterrupted sleep would be nice. Really.

Blog Envy ~ A Guest Post from Lucinda

Today, I checked out Motherhood Uncensored and learned that Kristen is writing for yet another website. This time, it’s The Imperfect Parent.

Damn! I thought to myself. How did I miss that one?

I like to think that Kristen and I have a friendly competition going on to see who can write for the most websites. We both write for Dot Moms, Mamazine, The Whole Mom, The Mommybloggers and Fertile Ground Zine. She got me with The Imperfect Parent, but I'm going to counter with The Mother’s Movement Online. She started Cool Mom Picks. I’ve got a new web project with a few friends that’ll debut soon.

The fact is that people like Kristen help spur me on to try and achieve bigger and better things. When I’m feeling listless or my brain is on empty, I see something Kristen’s doing and think, There she goes! I’ve gotta get with the program.

You could call it envy. Productive envy. I’ve had it all my life. When my friends do something great and get recognized for it, I definitely feel a little bit of why-can’t-that-be-me-ness. But it’s almost immediately replaced by I’m-sure-glad-she’s-my-friend-ness, coupled with a renewed desire to do something spectacular.

What I don’t understand is the flip side of envy, the side that makes some women attack the ones that spark their jealousy. We’ve all seen it. When a female blogger gets popular, she can expect to be unfairly criticized from time to time by other women about everything from her weight to her writing skills. I’m sure you’ve seen these trollish comments and thought the same thing I have- ‘That woman is just jealous.’ But what is it about these women that makes them behave like jerks?

It seems to me that if we could just admit our envy rather than try to assuage it with backbiting, the whole blogworld would be a better place. Wouldn’t it be refreshing to see comments like these on Dooce?

-I wanted to tell you that your nose is too long and your breath smells bad, but the truth is that I work 12 hours a day and think you are unbelievably lucky to be able to blog for a living. I’m just jealous, okay?

-The other day, I wrote and said your posts were stupid and I was never coming back. The truth is, I’ve come back about ten times a day because I can’t believe how many comments you get when I’m getting like, zero. Good job.

-I was going to comment about your ugly template and ads, but then I 'remembered' that I actually tried to put ads on my site and couldn’t get any advertisers. I guess I envy your ability to make so much money off your ads when I can’t make any.

So now, in the spirit of positive envy, I present to you:

My Blogging Envy List

-I envy Kristen because she is seemingly inexhaustible in her efforts to take over the blog world and I have trouble keeping up. Consarn it!

-I envy Mom-101 and Lisa of Niihaus because they’re both fairly new bloggers and they already have loads of readers and bigtime bloggers visiting their sites. Merde.

-I envy Elizabeth because she’s a better writer than I’ll ever be. Dangit!

-I envy MommaK because she sent me pictures of her beautiful new house and I can’t stop thinking about it. Waaah!

-I envy Christina because she’s so incredibly talented. Damn it to hell.

-I envy Amalah because she’s been approached by several literary agents and now is working on a book. Fuck.

-I envy Jen Lancaster because she published a book that’s been reviewed by all the major critics and I even saw it in In Touch. Double fuck.

You know what? I feel better now. And I bet some of the women I named feel a little bit better to know they are envied. That’s as it should be.

I encourage all of you to list any bloggers you envy in the comments. Because envy can be a good thing. I’m just sure of it.

You can check out Lucinda, my blog alter ego (except with way better eyebrows and a daughter with way more hair than mine) at her awesome blog Suburban Turmoil.

PS ~ Kristen is over at Mamazine today (in spirit, people). Check out her column.

Messy Bessy ~ A Guest Post from Nonlinear Girl

Sitting on the couch staring at the aftermath of brunch with six adults and three children between 10 and 26 months, I had to admit something to myself. My house is a mess. How do people deal with the mess of being a parent? I'm not talking germs. I am resigned to germs. I let my daughter Ada eat off the floor, play in the dirt . . . Heck, I once even let her mouth the nose of some stranger child. I figured if the boy and his mother weren't horrified that Ada was going for him, I could be calm about it too. Plus, there was no visible sign the child was ill. (I do draw the line at the ingestion of strangers' snot.) I try to parent with the idea that germs and dirt are good for the immune system. Plus, if I was really worried about germs we'd never go anywhere that might put us in contact with other children. For Ada's sake, as well as mine, we need to go to the playground, library and grocery store. And although I am not excited by our weekly grocery store trips, I imagine we'd get hungry after a while. So I have decided that a relaxed attitude toward germs is the only way to live with a child.

At this point, some of you are reaching for the antibacterial gel and wondering if my lax attitude could itself be infectious. But I wasn't going to write about germs. No, I'm concerned with mess: dishes; food caked on the high chair and the floor around it; the ring around the tub from Ada's daily bath. Just a regular day with my daughter generates so much extra work. I try to restore order while (if) Ada naps, but let's be honest - I'd rather blog or read or garden than clean. The days I am home alone with Ada, her naps are my only alone time, and it feels unfair to have that time filled up with so much drudgery.

It isn't that I don't clean. It feels like I clean all the time. Ok, not all the time. I remember reading that the average woman spends 19 hours a week cleaning. And again I say, when? Where do people get these hours to spend on cleaning?

I worked with a woman in Chicago who cleaned obsessively. I'm sure you could have eaten off her floors (not that she would have let you make that kind of mess in her house). I always thought of this commitment to clean as a reaction to her difficult life. The state of her home was one of the few things she could control. My house was reasonably clean, but I figured that since I had more going for me, I didn't need the extra help feeling good about my life that I might get from a permanently sparkling shower. I could afford to have lower standards. Ok, and at the time I could also afford a cleaning lady once a month.

Now there is no paid cleaner. Ada's dad helps, but I'm home more and it's not like Chris is rushing home to wipe down the counters. When we were a carefree, childless couple we had a routine. We let things get messy over the course of a week, cleaning in a big effort once a week. Well, at least every couple of weeks. But now we have a daughter and we are simultaneously more vigilant and more awash in mess. Keeping up with Ada's toys, the food she drops over the side of the high chair as a signal that she's done eating, the extra laundry . . . I can't really muster enthusiasm to take care of these things and then empty the crumbs from the toaster. So the toaster stays dirty.

My parents' house is clean; clean in the way that the home of people without young children can be. And they have Dennis, their cleaning guy, come twice a month. My mother is an economist who believes with every fiber of her being that time is money, and that her time is too valuable to be spent cleaning. She hasn't washed a floor in maybe 15 years, so I knew that she was expressing sincere love when she offered to clean the bathroom on the last day of her most recent visit.

With Dennis's help, my parents’ house is clean and neat, but it used to be a challenge. My sister and I left things everywhere. The night before Dennis came we'd scramble to put stuff away so that he could vacuum and dust. At some point my mother instituted the "Saturday Box." Anything left out when we went to bed went in the box and could not be retrieved until Saturday. It kind of worked, but I'm not sure it taught me to be a self-motivated cleaner. With the mess generated by my daughter and our efforts to feed, bathe and diaper her, it feels like the night before Dennis here everyday. Since Ada does not walk yet and is thus limited in her reach, I know it things are going to get worse before they get better.

When Kristen suggested I write something for her blog, I thought I would write about how realizing that my daughter will grow up as an Oregonian has me thinking about how a place becomes "home", but I realized that a post about mess is really more me. While it might gross people out that I'm lax about mopping the floors, that there are toys and books strewn around three rooms, and that the microwave has not been wiped out in longer than I'd like to admit, I think (or at least hope) there is a good reason the house stays messy. Like my mom, I value my time. Time with my daughter is wonderful, but time with the dishes is decidedly less so. I love playing in the park with Ada, taking walks to the library with her on my back, and sitting on the floor with her as she sorts blocks and babbles to herself. I enjoy cooking and love watching her play in the bath. I don't want my time with her to be about cleaning and straightening.

Lest people think I am Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout, I should mention that Chris and I do try to clean up at night. Although we pick up and vacuum and wash, I know that our house will never be the tight ship that many people run. And if Ada learns to be messy like me? Though I kind of hope she'll rebel by being neat, if she does take after me, at least in 34 years she won't be writing in her blog about how messy her mom was when she was a kid.

Read more from one of Portland's finest at her own place.

Oh Baby ~ A Guest Post by Kvetch (Orthotic Contessa)

I am having baby dreams. Real honest-to-goodness pregnancy, labor, delivery, babe-in-arms, choosing names, looking at their faces, kind of dreams. And these are not reruns of my own way-too-eventful deliveries that are long-ago and far away.  These are brand new baby dreams with brand new babies coming out of same old me.

Same old me who is  single mother living life in Mayberry with a modicum of discretion and class (at least in public).  Same old me who only ever had baby dreams before when I was actually (let's all whisper) pregnant.

With that thought in mind, I proceeded to spin ever-so-slightly out of control.

When DID I buy that last half empty box of tampons? When WAS the last time I actually had sex?  Was failsafe birth control FAIL SAFE? Did I get my period last month or was it spotting..it was very short.  Oooh, was that a gas pain?

And had it ended there I think I'd have laughed it off  and continued with my day.  But  I started thinking about those women.

You know, those women who go birthin' their babies and say they never even knew they was preggers to start with?  You know, those women whose water breaks and they say they thinks they dem just pee'd in dere pants is all?  Or even the more normal ones who simply continue getting their period and then find out they are, like, 16 or 18 weeks along?  And how about the ones just simply in denial?  You know, those women who end up on either Jerry Springer or Maury or Judge Judy looking for child support from the winner of the paternity test?

Could I be one of THOSE women?  Was I teetering on the edge of suburbia with one foot in the trailer park? Was I only 2 degrees of separation away from becoming white trash?

So, I did what any self respecting upper middle class educated white Jewish single mother of two would do.

I squeezed my boob.

No pain.  My boobs hurt like nobody's business as soon as I was pregnant both times.  OK, but now I am OLDER.  Maybe I'd have different symptoms (yes, like totally losing touch with reality, I know).

And then? I tiptoed over to my local mega drug store and bought a pregnancy test.

Hidden in between America's favorite chocolate bar and a couple of magazines, I had my generic brand chemistry set in a box.  I walked around choosing nail polish colors and a new mascara.  La dee da. Then I went to the front of the store and laid it all out on the counter, hoping there would be no one I knew nearby.  I was matter of fact like "this couldn't possibly be fore me" or "of course its for me, you got a problem with that?"

And of course I held it in all morning so that if indeed there were any of those little pregnancy hormones lurking, they'd be all joined together ready to pounce. 

So, I went home.  And peed.

And before the pee even hit the test stip the little stick screamed, "AAAAAAAAAARe YOU NUTS?"

Of course it was negative. Never faster had a blue You Are So NOT Pregnant line come across a test results window.

And like only a single woman can be, I was relieved.  For a moment.

Then I realized, that I will never be pregnant again.  That part of my life has passed without fanfare while everything and anything else was going on.  The decision to have two children kind of just happened.  And while I'm not aching to have a baby - I don't swoon when I see one - or get a jolt when I see an expectant mother - I know I'd have relished my last pregancy much more had I known, or even thought, it would be the last.   I loved being pregant.  And I love being a mother, even with all it's twists and turns and absurdities.

Well, I am only 42.  Women are having babies into their 50's these days.  Into their 60's if you read The Enquirer.  The right man, the right circumstances...maybe...just maybe...

And then, the moment passed.  Whew.

I won't be needing Jerry Springer, or baby wipes, after all. 

But, if you need a sitter, and find yourself in Mayberry, feel free to call.

Enjoy more greatness from Kvetch at her blog Orthotic Contessa.

I've Been Promoted

I made it back in one piece and to my delight, I'm an honorary Mommyblogger today. Some of my favorite bloggers said some really kind things about me. And, check out my fun interview today (5/1/06) and speci