Motherhood Uncensored

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.

Imposition.

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

Hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doesn't that count for something?

--

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

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

Peas & Carrots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even when she's my age.

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

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

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

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

Liar Liar

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

She has acquired the lifelong skill of lying.

Aw, mommy's little girl is growing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All.

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

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

It Certainly Doesn't Get Easier. Just Crazier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep. Better start the xanax stash now.

Goodnight My Someone

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

Or cursed you, depending the on the night.

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

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

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

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

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

Almost brand new.

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

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

And This is How I Weaned My Son

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

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

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

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

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

But guess what? So did I.

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

There'll Be Days Like This My Mama Never Said

My son poops a lot. This is not exactly a new revelation since he is, in fact, a toddler. And what goes in for most of the day, must indeed come out.

It's not so much the stinky poop stuck to his little white ass like one of those deranged stickers that won't come off. I mean, I survive my own pregnancy induced (I swear) stink bombs on a daily basis. A little bit of poop doesn't scare this pooperologist.

I do indeed know who #2 works for. And it most certainly is not me.

But the knock-down-drag-'em-screaming changing that ensues once I actually get his diaper off leaves me ragged. Do it four to five times a day and I'm ready to run screaming for the hills or at least a place where there are no wiggling, screeching, diaper hating babies to torment me. 

When I attempt to break up the lengthy diaper changing gauntlet, say by playing the "I'm letting his butt air out" card, he shits on the floor. And the carpet. In the exact spot that I decide to step in. With my bare foot.

So, when the babysitter came to relieve me of my motherly duties for a beautiful two hours, I wasn't necessarily looking forward to wandering around Kohls trying to figure out how the hell Daisy Fuentes has a jewelry line or how Vera Wang's spring line looks scarily like a set of my grandmother's curtains looking particularly spiffy in my inside-out shirt (nice touch, eh?).

I was looking forward to getting out of at least one mid-day poop changes.

I know that sounds ridiculously desperate, considering my husband does his fair share of pooper changes (not without a little bit of complaining and a lot of begging for help). But it sure is nice to "de-mommy" for a few hours.

However, as luck would have it, I returned home only mildly de-mommied with an empty Taco Bell bag, two almost identical shades of lipstick (why, I do not know), and a large bag of butt wipes to a not-so-napped son who had not-so-pooped.

Nada. None. Nothing.

That was until the babysitter had just pulled out of our driveway. And then the gates of poopy hell burst wide open, sort of like a welcome home gift, you know, just in case I forgot who I was for those brief moments away from home.

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There are some things a girlfriend will only tell you about having kids, like "kids poop a lot and it kind of sucks" or "make sure you check to see that your shirt is on the right way before you leave the house" Check out our blog blast in conjunction with Discovery Channel's sweet new show "Deliver Me," write your own post about what you wish your girlfriends had told you about having babies (or what they did that saved your ass), and win some prizes!

Lactivist. The New Feminist.

If you had asked me several years ago if I considered myself a feminist, I would have responded with a resounding "No." The image of feminism that was emblazoned on my mind was the bra burning, sign toting activist that may have turned many women away from the label.

But then, I read a little. I took a few classes. And I saw the face of feminism in every single woman around me. The part time student, mom, and bra-wearer who decided to return to school after raising her kids. The lesbian women's studies major who led on-campus rallies. And my doctorate professor who came to our first class wearing a "This is what a feminist looks like."

I quickly realized that I had been scared away from the movement by a stereotype. I had indeed been suckered by propoganda, like many women in this country, to believe that being a feminist meant baring your tits to the world with an angry thrust.

Thankfully, we've come a long way baby, at least in that sense. Feminists can wear skirts, leave their jobs to stay home with their kids, and even run around barefoot and pregnant in their kitchen.

Their choice.

So, when I was interviewed for a story about the whole "Facebook Sucks" campaign that I organized with League of Maternal Justice, I shouldn't have been surprised when the author called me a "lactivist."

But I was, and I quickly corrected her.

"I don't necessarily think I'm a lactivist just because I want women to be able to nurse freely and without persecution and am organizing an online event where women will be nursing live online and posting pictures of themselves nursing."

She quickly corrected me because, as she stated, isn't that what a lactivist is?

And then I realized that maybe being a lactivist is like being a feminist. All along I had this boob flashing mother nursing her 4 year old outside a restaurant in my mind. When really, anyone, mom or dad, who supports a woman's choice to breastfeed anywhere she so chooses is a lactivist.

Sometimes it just takes our rights as women being questioned for us to activate the feminist within us. And similarly, it takes our rights as nursing mothers to be tested for us to ignite the lactivist as well. But that doesn't mean we have to set fires and squirt milk.

Sometimes it's just nodding along in unison with your fellow women and mothers.

It's only taken me thirty-one years as a woman, and three years as a nursing mother to figure that out.

But it's large strides and small victories that make me proud.

And sights like this (at the Park Plaza Mall, Little Rock, Arkansas) that really make my day (sure, there's a bottle next to the word, but it doesn't say "bottle-feeding," right).

Even though I can post what I want on my blog since I'm not in an ad network (did you check out my sponsor and her cool giveaway yet?), I like to keep my thoughts on products and services that people so generously send me on my review blog. I don't expect you to stick it in your feed reader. But it's there just in case you were wondering.

Tossed Aside.

I've been thinking a lot about Eliot Spitzer's wife. And Hillary Clinton. And the millions of women that are traded in every year for a newer, fresher model. Flatter stomach. Tighter ass.

You know, less wear and tear.

That's not to say that either of these women weren't bitches and deserved to be cheated on. But I'm willing to bet that if they are bitches, they certainly didn't just come to that place all on their own.

I'm beginning to think that motherhood brings with it some level of hardness. When you've carried however many children, birthed however many children, and raised however many children, well, it's not the easiest job in the world. The hormones certainly don't help. And the lack of status. And appreciation. And recognition.

So we give all the love and joy and happiness that our poor old bodies can spare to our kids. We try to smile as much as we used to. And we try to be the best that we can be.

But I don't think motherhood softens us as women. In fact, I think in some ways, it makes us tougher. 

I'm a firm believer that an empathic spouse can be the deal breaker for many women's experiences of motherhood. I know they can't be mothers. But they can see the look in our face. The furrow in our brow.

The tears in our eyes.

I'm not saying that mothers should get free rein to be raging bitches. But I do wonder when we'll ever get cut some slack. When instead of fighting back, we'll get an outstretched hand. When society will begin raising people (men in particular) who are empathic to mothers and our experience.

I realize motherhood isn't any harder for me than it was for my mother. And maybe I'm just not as good as dealing with it as she was. Actually, I know I'm not as good at it. But like everything else in this world, we're all not as cut out for everything as we'd like to think. It's a little hard for some of us to swallow. It's even harder for some of us to admit. Some of us need a little more help than others. Some of us need a little more coddling. Hand holding.

Because when you systematically feel like you don't exactly know what you're doing at least once every single day of your life, it can grate on you. The havoc that is wreaked on your mind and psyche changes you. And when you wake up every morning feeling like you will never exactly be able to get everything done or accomplished, it just really sucks, particularly when you're not dealing with your own expectations, but somebody else's.

We must be the someone for everyone. And so, who is that someone for us?

Like anything that's put through the ringer, we need some TLC. A little shining up, a little respite, a little jump start.

That might not be good enough for some people to quit shopping around. But here's hoping that society will take some time to refurbish their mothers before tossing them aside.

We all know that we are more than worthy.

And if you don't, you should said it right now with me.

Oddities.

I suppose everyone has their fair share of quirks, some a bit more life interfering than others. I can proudly claim that mine are extremely limited, most likely due to my extremely laid back mother and well, marrying into the "Quirk Family."

I can sleep quite well regardless of the direction and shape my towels are folded. And, like Sci Fi Dad and I discussed a few weeks ago, any cleaning products are the right cleaning products, made better when used on my floor with your mop and elbow grease.

But that doesn't mean I freak out a little bit when my daughter decides to peek into the "cool silver box" in the public restroom.

We've all got our deal breakers; some of us refuse to shake hands and can't leave the house without lining up the rug tassles. And others of us just don't like to get shocked every single time we grab a door knob so we tend to flick it oddly before grabbing it.

Ahem.

But take the silver box example. I say, "Don't touch the silver box because it's really a little trashcan where people tend to put personal waste that is for their fingers only" (feel free to giggle the next time you are one stall over from me). But then there's the "Don't touch the silver box of death because it's full of germs and now I must wash your hands 40 times over and desanitize you with a wet wipe so start stripping kid."

Eek.

And unless our quirks interfere with us making it out of the house, they really won't ever give us too much of a hassle. Granted, I was schooled in the "correct" way to dry yourself off before exiting the shower, and how to properly hang the toilet paper roll so the paper falls over (God not under YOU FREAKS!).

But hell, we survived, albeit with way less sex, but alive and kicking just the same!

But then kids come into the picture, and I say all bets are off. It's time to quit the quirks. You know, bury your bizarreness.

Because what pains me more than seeing people obsess over something so ridiculous is when their kids do it too.

Now I understand that many of our oddities, or preferences (if we're using gentle language), are personality based and can be related to specific developmental issues. But when kids are demanding four layers of toilet paper on the public restroom seat, I start to wonder if parents aren't letting their own quirks rub off a bit too much on their kids.

Try cover and hover, kid.

Now I know it's one thing to be safe and careful. But when our kids can't eat a perfectly good raisin off the floor in peace and quiet and play in the sand without being vacuumed with a car vac, then what is this world coming to?

Truth be told, I want my kid to be quirky all on her very own. She doesn't need my baggage and she most certainly doesn't need my weirdness. And pain me as it does to explain to her why peeing on top of another family member's (or God help me, poop) is not a big deal, I will do it.

Because damnit someone has to make up for some of the crazy shit my husband likes to think is normal. 

Four-Inch Heel Crocs, Anyone? RuPaul?

Thanks for the tip-off on these beauties. (heh)

Me & My Shadow

I have few authentic memories from my childhood. I tend to believe that most have been made memories from stories told to me by my mother.

My first memory, at the age of two, is being left in a nursery at a ski lodge very young and crying until they gave me popcorn. Then my mom returned to check on me and I started crying all over again.

I remember, on that same trip, ice skating and falling, only to be helped up by another little girl who became my skating partner for the rest of that day.

But mostly, I remember dancing.

Ballet was and always will be my first love. I could have danced every single second of the day and never tired one bit. In fact, later on as a teenager I did.

And so when my daughter came into this world, I admit being anxious to share my love of dancing with her. No pressure, no requirements for her to become something that I was not. Just the opportunity to share with her the joy, solace, and beauty that I found in dance.

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We're asking you post your experiences of engaging in something with your child that you did as a kid. It's in honor of Highlights 60th Anniversary (can you believe that?). Please consider joining us today and heck, maybe you'll win a prize!

And if you're not familiar with Highlights' new publication for 2-6 year olds, called HIGH FIVE, definitely check it out. Quinlan has been getting it for over a year now and it's one of her favorite things to read and enjoy.

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Late addition: I'm trying to wean Drew (almost 14 months) and I need help. Since I nursed Q until 21 months, it was a bit easier. He's fine during the day at nap time (well, if my husband is home), but at night it's a nightmare. He doesn't really like regular milk (will drink some soy), and in the middle of the night when the huz goes in, he screams and won't stop for like an hour. He'll push the bottle away and just point to the door.

Currently he nurses before bed and then around two times in the middle of the night. I really want to wean him in the next few weeks.

Please EMAIL me with your suggestions. Thanks.

Not What, But Who

I'm never one to talk up my own kids. I tend to roll my eyes at the moms that gush about their Chinese-speaking two-year-old who can do yoga and read.

Try toilet swishing. Sass-mouthing. Monster pooping. We'd knock your socks off in the quickest roll and getaway by a 13-month-old during a diaper change.

It's not to say that I don't think my kids are wonderful, talented, and incredibly gorgeous.

Hello. Look at their mother.

Heh.

But it's more that I don't necessarily want them to be known for what they can or can't do. Quinlan, the artist, Drew, the toilet swisher, and Fetus-Hathor, the brain sucker.

I want them to be known for who they are, and quite often that's very hard to communicate to someone else.

How do I really tell someone about my daughter's gentle spirit with a flair for the dramatic. Her patient heart when it comes to her unruly younger brother. Her creative mind that never stops working.

Or my son's twinkle in his eye, particularly when he is doing something he's not supposed to. And his wide, bright smile that greets me and my husband whenever we enter the room.

To some people, that's not impressive. And that won't get them into Harvard. Or make them a million dollars.

But honestly, speaking Chinese at two won't guarantee Harvard or a million dollars either.

And while nothing can guarantee happiness and personal fulfillment -- two things I desire most for my children -- I'm betting that a little less of the yoga, and perhaps, a little more focus on your child's spirit and strengths, might do them way more good than downward facing dog.

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We're collaborating with the Strengths Movement and author Jenifer Fox, hoping to spread the word about her new book and this exciting educational movement that focuses on the various strengths your children posess rather than their limitations. I hope you'll consider bragging about your own kids today (damn, it felt good), and perhaps win some of the fantastic prizes we're offering.

It's also the last day to enter an amazing giveaway from Julian & Co. Someone needs to win and by golly, why shouldn't it be you?

Save My Pants!

Okay. So over the last few weeks I, like another fantastic mommy blogger many of us know and love, have adopted a mom uniform, much to the chagrin of my husband.

Enter my J.Crew track pants.

Now, these bad johnnies have gotten me through two and a quarter first-trimesters in what I thought was a fairly non-imposing (meaning, not stylish but not frumpalicious either) manner. They're comfortable and the best part, they're long enough for my 35 inch inseam.

Do you know how hard it is to find track pants that are long enough?

I don't usually wear them out of the house, but I have, on occasion, made a trip to the grocery store wearing them paired with sneakers and a vest.

Look! They can be easily paired with an Argyle t-shirt! (That's hot this season. Ask Liz. She knows).

Okay. So they have an elastic waistband. But c'mon. Are you really looking at that or my cute 8-week pregnant belly? (On second thought, don't answer that. It's rhetorical).

So, if you think I should let my husband burn them, then feel free to say so. I'm a big girl. I can take it. But if you think that they're not so bad and you, by chance, have worn something worse (and have picture evidence to prove it that you will generously share on your blog... ahem), then speak now.

--

Separately, help out my friend who is trying to finish her dissertation. She really needs your help.

Are you a mom?  Do you blog?

I am a mom trying to finish my PhD; and I need YOUR help!

I am conducting academic research FOR you and ABOUT you. I have a particular interest in studying those things that make the transition to motherhood easier, or at the very least, better understood.  The growing number of “Mommy Bloggers” has piqued my interest and I am researching the experience of blogging for mothers of young children.  Your help would be greatly appreciated and go a long way toward increasing the knowledge of the ways in which blogging can be meaningful for people like mothers.

Please complete my survey and let me know about your blogging experience.

Please click HERE to learn more.

I know your time is valuable, thank you so much for participating.

Racists and Sexists Won't You Come Out Tonight

I have to admit that I'm pretty surprised that race and gender have not played a bigger role in the primaries. Could it be that our country has finally moved past the race and gender issues that have plagued us since the beginning of time?

Please.

Until we see equal pay, equal rights, and equal treatment, we're still stuck in the same "one step forward, two steps back" dance our country has perfected.

Personally, I just think no one feels comfortable talking about it.

Granted, I'm not a Rush Limbaugh listener, nor am I a Hannity & Colmes or Bill O' Reilly connoisseur, so I might have missed their terribly insightful rampages on the topic.

But from what I can tell, it seems as though the pundits are skirting around what I think is the big elephant (no, not that one) in the voting booth.

Will this country be able to elect a black president? or a female president?

Some might say that Obama's winning streak indicates that yes it's going to happen. And with Hillary still maintaining some steam that it might just be possible. But quite frankly, it's really not that surprising that in a male-dominated society that a black man is beating a woman (even though she's pretty dang white). Or, in a race-driven society that a privileged white woman is still in the race.

So I must say that I'm extremely curious to see what happens when the mano e mano (or womano) race is on. Will it bring out all the closet racists (or sexists) in our country? Will we begin to address what I believe people, pundits, and parents need to be open and free to talk about?

That we all have race and gender biases that affect how we live, how we react to others, and how we raise our kids.

Why is it so surprising that it might affect who we deem worthy to be our president?

Never Give Up

The only reason I know motherhood is hard is because I've done it once before. Otherwise, I might have been sitting in complete darkness, holding a fussy and still-stuffy one-year-old while bawling my eyes out and saying to myself "what have I gotten myself into?"

The only difference now is that I know what I've gotten myself into so I don't have a really great excuse for crying anymore.

It's been a harrowing week of travel, illness, restlessness, allergic reactions to crib mattresses (cripey!), more travel, and more illness. Like a drug, the highs of seeing friends and my own mother last only momentarily and then I come crashing back to reality -- a sick husband, a mischievous and snot-infested toddler, a sweet but extremely loquacious three-year-old that appears to be incredibly bored, and an impending pregnancy that has only yet caused me to want to puke and weep.

Sometimes at the same exact time.

I try to enjoy this ride with these tiny precious children because I know it will be over all too soon. My daughter won't ask to be cuddled and held. My son won't be around for me to clean up after. And in some weird way, when I drag myself out of bed for the third time to let him chew on my nipple and pull on my hair, the knowledge that this time won't last forever consoles me.

And no matter how hard it gets, I can rest assured that I won't ever give up. It's the creed of mothers everywhere. It's the one constant in our everchanging state of being.

They can wake us up ten times a night, talk us 'til we're blue in the face, and tell us they hate us or don't want us anymore, and we'll still look them straight in the eye and tell them we love them.

Every single time.

And I take comfort in knowing that that's the one thing about this crazy job that will never ever change.

Rage Against the Vaccine

I am a pediatrician's worst nightmare. I am the mom who comes in with a list of questions that will take longer to answer than the ridiculous amount of time I had to sit in their waiting area. I'm not trying to be a pain. I'm trying to be a parent.

I had the distinct privilege of speaking with Dr. Paul Offit or who I like to call, the "Vaccine Man" a few weeks ago. Calling him "Vaccine Man" saves me from having to list his 4,000 credentials, that include "creator of the Rotavirus vaccine" and other things that I can't spell without looking up in a dictionary.

Due to a highly controversial debut episode of Eli Stone, where a family sues a drug company because their child got autism from a vaccination, Dr. Offit along with the organization "Every Child Under 2" decided it would behoove them to speak to bloggers in the hopes of putting a kibosh on the possible boycotting of vaccines by desperate parents everywhere.

Cue public health crisis. Cue resurgence of measles. Cue pediatricians everywhere doing one hell of an "I told you so" dance for parents who so as question a vaccine.

You know, if doctors actually did such dances.

In other circumstances, I probably wouldn't have cared much. The show itself looked pretty dumb to me, with all the George *I'm desperate for attention that doesn't have anything to do with me shaking my wanger in public* Michael appearances. But thanks to the writer's strike, there is nothing new on television except reality shows (God help me another Survivor?), and I could see their concern.

People were desperate for anything to watch and would probably tune in.

So in response to the controversial show, several news outlets featured articles debunking the claim that vaccinations, specifially the MMR, causes autism, and Dr. Offit spoke to bloggers, kindly answering all my 22.3 questions.

In that vein, he is owed much credit (although he did say my birth canal was full of over 2000 bacteria -- but I won't hold that against him).

To be honest with you, I wasn't as concerned about the relationship between the MMR vaccination and autism. As someone who has worked with children with autism and their families for many years, I'm aware of the arguments. I'm also aware of the ten plus studies that show no relationship between the two. 

Ten totally flawless studies, of course.

We are all inclined to believe the good doctor, and should, because quantitative research in this country has afforded us answers to many difficult questions. And ten quantatitative studies providing similar results is pretty damn good. But being a researcher, I just have to say that unless you've got robots conducting the research, collecting the data, and analyzing the results, there is still a possiblity for error.

We are humans after all.

So the studies say the vaccine doesn't cause autism. Families continue to say that something wasn't wrong before the vaccine and something is wrong now. And conducting a qualitative study about the experiences of say 4000 families with video analysis of their child before and after takes up way too much time.

We believe the studies. Or do you?

When you decide to vaccinate your child, it is an issue of public health. But it is also an issue of personal health. And until I am forced to vaccinate my child on a specific schedule, no questions asked, then I will take what I have read and the opinion of my doctor, and form the decisions that I feel are right for my own child based on my own situation.

I want an honest answer when it comes to injecting my child with a shot that will cause him a full-week of fever and discomfort. Has there been a resurgence of Polio in our area that I need to give my child the IPV? Does my situation warrant me to get the DTaP, a shot that almost every single family member on either side has had a negative reaction to? 

But if you've tried to ask your pediatrician about a vaccine, then chances are you may have had the guilt trips, the "bad parent" speeches, or my favorite "if they die, it's going to be your fault" comments.

Yes. I've really gotten that one.

The response from the panel is that pediatricians are busy. They see upwards of 40 kids a day and there's not enough time to have indepth discussions about each and every vaccination.

Fine. I get that. Let's get a democrat in the office and change our fucking health care system. (Can I get an "amen"?).

*But with the cases of Diptheria in this country at 20 last year (20!) and Tetanus at just a bit higher, why are we still giving the highly reactive DTaP, when really, the most prevalent illness, at least for our children right now, is Pertussis.

Convenience (to quote Dr. Offit).

Is that good enough for you? It might be. For me, it's not.

I realize I'm a responsible parent who keeps track of everything. So, it's not a huge issue for me. But for people who don't have access to regular medical care, and whose work schedules and everything else they have to do to survive don't allow for them to keep regular doctor's visits, then I get why they need that DTaP right on schedule.

But that's not me. Can't there be a marriage of public and personal health, without making the parents feel like asshats?

Take the Hepatitis B vaccination, given immediately after birth in the United States.

As I was reminded by Dr. Offit, there are 9,000 cases a year of Hepatitis B.

"But who are these people?" I probed.

Half are children of mothers with venereal diseases, and the others are just kids who contract it from somewhere, somehow.

"And the other half are upper middle class kids, right?" I asked, knowing what his answer would be.

No. These are low income kids from urban settings.

So yes, the vaccine is pure. And yes it might be worth getting. But depending on your situation (like how many genital warts you're sporting, or preferably not), they may be just fine without it.

My rage about this topic is that parents are not given adequate information by their pediatrician to make an informed decision. Currently, it's still our right to agree to or refuse vaccinations (depending on your state school requirements, your child will have to be vaccinated for school unless you use a religious exemption).

So don't give me a hard time when I ask questions that you don't have time to answer. Many folks feel comfortable bringing their kids in and completing the vaccination schedule as is. And many parents do not. That does not mean they are against vaccinations. It just means they need more information.

I look at my own situation. I am a wife of a pilot who travels domestically to large urban cities, but not internationally yet. My children do not attend daycare or school. We do not travel overseas often, nor do we live in an area of high immigration. 

I am less concerned about Hepatitis B. I am more concerned about Meningitis, possibly Polio.

You've got to look at the odds. Of course, vaccinations nowadays are incredibly "pure" (as Dr. Offit stated), and are much safer than they were even 10 years ago. And the benefits of not contracting a disease greatly outweigh the risk of the vaccine (if you believe the 10 studies, or don't and delay the MMR vaccination until post 15-months which many families are doing).

I pay high premiums and cheap co-pays for "personalized" care -- you know, the tender-loving care that requires them having to look at the chart to remember who I am and why I'm standing there in front of them with a half-naked baby. And if my trusted pediatrician (who I've found in the 'burbs of Atlanta, thankfully) looked at my situation and said "your kids really need this vaccination" then damnit, I would get it.

But don't push me aside and ask me to hold my child's legs still without offering me some type of respectful explanation. Because one man's pure vaccine might be one parent's pure nightmare.

And that's enough for me to ask questions.

*I'm well aware that the low numbers of deadly disease are, in part, due to vaccinations. However, when it comes to a vaccination that kids often have an adverse reaction to, I think it might behoove us to take a better look at why we're giving that vaccination the way we are.

[Check out these books for more information on vaccines, as well as the PBN reviews on Dr. Offit's newest book]

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Separate and unrelated note: I loved this book. I forgot to link it yesterday.

Stay Undivorced.

I've been fairly candid about my marriage. But it's my space, and I made the decision a long time ago to use it that way.

I'm the first to admit that every story, every disagreement, and every fight has two sides.

This is mine.

That doesn't mean that I'm not at fault. I've never hinted that I'm absconded from any type of blame or responsibility when it comes to the state of my marriage.

So, instead of grabbing some edible thong, a bottle of chocolate massage oil, and some organic rose petals, I'm going to make an effort to change my bad habits. For the sake of my children, and my own health and well-being, it's time.

Let me introduce you to my new line of products that was sort of inspired by this incredibly brilliant marriage-saving tool.

No Yellers

These multi-use signs work well in any situation -- rude subway folk, inconsiderate shoppers, and even bratty little kids at the playground. If you can't say it nicely, hold up a sign that will.

No Yeller: Ass Series

Ass size and asshole customization available.

Coming Soon! No Yeller: Road Rage Special Edition

Don't Yell. Use a No Yeller! (Patent Pending, Testimonials Available Upon Request).

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And make sure to check out another questionable saver. Okay. Try savers.

I Tend to Like a 5 o' clock Shadow. Just Not When it's On Me.

So I decided with the exactly 62.8 minutes of totally uninterrupted no-child bliss I would tackle the extremely important and life altering task of changing my blog profile picture.

I mean, it's pretty and all, but since having another baby, living with my in-laws for a year, moving twice, and enjoying a week long "chocolate for breakfast" phase, I'm just way more gorgeous.

Heh.

And therefore, I decided that I must spend my precious childless alone time attempting to take another picture of myself.

Who needs clean underwear in this house? I must update my blog!

Plus, I want people to giggle at my picture, and not stare longingly at me like I'm a really hot model or something.

Right.

Except I didn't do my hair. Or my make-up. Or, as the picture I decided to use clearly emphasized, wax my man-stache.

Thankfully, Katie has effectively rigged my blog so I can only change the template when the moon is in the 7th hour and Jupiter and Mars are in perfect alignment.

Otherwise, you would have been greeted with this beauty the next time you clicked through to my blog.

International Symbol for .... [you fill in the blank, you smartass readers you]

And feel free to tell me if you see my man-stache shadow. I'm a big girl. And apparently, a hairy one. I can take it. 

Toilets and the Positions of Classical Ballet (and a few others just because no one actually does the positions of ballet on the toilet)

In honor of my two extremely close and personal friends, I would like to share a few ballet positions of my very own. But since I don't have access to herds of cows or a cooperative dog, I figured I'd pick something everyone could relate to, particularly since we've been battling one hell of a stomach flu for the last week.

The toilet*.

The "Hoping for the Best" position

But "Prepared for the Worst."

The "Here Comes an 8 Pounder" Position

The "Mommy's Busy Leave Me the Hell Alone" Position

The "15 Years and a Shit-Ton of My Parent's Money on Ballet Lessons Got Me Something" Position

The "Now I'm Just Showing Off" Position

The "Don't Bother Me, Mommy is Doing Her Important Reading of the Day" Position

The "Phew. Glad That's All Over" Position.

*I was not actually using the toilet at the time this photo was taken. I enjoy good potty humor, but not when it actually involves we using the potty.

By Gum, It's Gum!

I gave in to my daughter's pestering request for a piece of gum.

I know, first it's gum, then it's a padded bra and a Bratz doll. But what's so bad about minty fresh breath wafting from the tiny mouth of a three and a half year old?

I mean, she's talking all the time anyway, her breath might as well smell like a mighty spearmint wind.

I'm not sure what did me in. It could be the overwhelming guilt that her brother keeps ripping all her princess stickers to bits. Or that she stuck her hand out in an "Oliver Twist can I please have some more" way and I couldn't help myself.

But there she was, chomping away on her little tiny spearmint piece of Trident.

I felt like I had just taken her shopping for a training bra.

"Don't swallow it," I said about 40 times, her eyes in shock as she tasted the sugar-free chemical goodness of her bright green gum.

"Now look. It's not candy, you just chew it over and over and over and then swallow your own sugary spit until it starts to taste like ass cardboard and if you're done with it by god don't swallow it or throw it on the ground because that's bad for the earth because it's made from a combination of weird substances that even your stomach enzymes can't tear apart."

Then I realized how incredibly gross gum is.

And then she asked for another piece.

[Dare I ask if you let your preschoolers chew gum?]

And This Would Be Why I'm Not a Food Blogger

Is it me or does the whole entire blogosphere cook with pretty beautiful foods that turn into entire meals that are edible? Yeah. Well not me. I'm proud to say that I will never ever ever have a food blog (and after you see this post, why I will never have a photography blog).

But since we're sharing vegetarian recipes as part of NoMeatPo week (put down the bacon, my friends, and win prizes), I offer you my 100% vegan meal (ala Pioneer Woman style), perfect for breakfast, lunch, hell, even dinner.

The Cast of Characters: Organic Peanut Butter, Bread, All-Fruit Natural Jam (just don't call it jelly, please), and Applesauce (starring as a sidedish, or dipping sauce if you're a freak).

Bread placement is key. If you go too quickly, you can use the wrong side of the bread, creating leakage of ingredients from the actual sandwich. This is not a desirable result. Therefore, carefully place the bread on the plate.

Evenly spread peanut butter on the bread. You'll know when you have the desired thickness when you can write a word, in this case I chose "Yo"* (it was the first thing that came to me, but any word will do) and as you can see, I didn't cut through the peanut butter.

Then you spread the jam. Remember, don't call it jelly. Fruit spreads tend to be difficult to spread, which seems sort of odd, since it's called "spread" and not "lumpy pieces of fruit chunks in a jar."

Put the sandwich together and cut it in half.** I've seen some folks attempt the triangle cut, but since you're using a butter knife for spreading purposes, I suggest a vertical cut for better precision.

Open your halves so there is a room for the applesauce and place it on the plate.

Take off the foil applesauce top and find a spoon. And there you have Peanut Butter & Jam with a side of Applesauce.

*I don't generally write words in my peanut butter, but I figured this was going to be one hell of a boring post so I figured I'd add a little something fun in there to make it interesting.

**I know I skipped a step, like putting the actual bread together to form the sandwich, but it was taking too long to make the damn sandwich and I was hungry.

Apparently It Does Matter if You're Black or White

I might be the last person in the world to write about politics thanks to my extremely eloquent and well- informed counterparts who do it way more justice, but after Obama's huge victory in South Carolina last night, I had to say something.

Clearly he has a beautiful message. And I'm almost certain that he could whoop the ass of any of the Republican candidates.

But, for folks to say it's not a "black vs white" issue is wrong.

Why do we continue to deny racial issues in this country? The black vote is extremely important to candidates and it should be. And for many black voters who have never voted before, seeing a black candidate is a motivating factor.

It's just a good thing he's got decent policies.

Am I saying that black voters are uninformed?

Yes. But so is the rest of the country. We know more about the American Idol contestants than we do about the presidential hopefuls.

I am one of them. 

Few people are truly honed in on what this country needs and who has what it takes. We're more likely to vote for an attractive President than an ugly one, regardless of what he or now she stands for. And considering Obama took 81% of the black vote [corrected], I don't think I'm making a far stretch to say that we might just vote on race.

But what about gender?

I was reminded about the hard road Hillary has, thanks to our still male dominated society who would probably pick a black man over a white woman. If Obama has a struggle bringing in white voters (which I honestly don't think he does), Hillary has a problem with the male voters.

Are men going to vote for her?

I suppose if she was a hot white woman, with large breasts and a sweet smile, perhaps. But her eye bags, large hips, and sometimes aloof demeanor probably isn't appealing to the slew of uninformed male and even female voters, regardless of what she stands for.

And there are still a lot of men in this country who do not believe a woman can run it. They use the "Hillary" excuse. But it's not about Hillary. It's about her private parts.

The truth is, even when it comes to reality shows, we don't vote the issues. We vote who we thought was cutest, or who we thought did the best that one night.

Are we really going to treat the Presidency of the United States like a call-in singing contest?

It's amazing to see the two biggest issues in our society, race and gender, come into play. It's the most fascinating race I can remember.

So if there is a year to care, my friends, this is it. Granted they're not singing out of tune wearing some robot costume, and they're not eating boiled bull testicles on some remote island.

But they are going to run our country. That's got to matter more.

Other posts and blogs of note*:

Obama Predicted to Take it

Skip This One if You've Got an Elephant Bumper Sticker on the SUV

Momocrats

The Parental is Political (great bulleted list on each candidate)

*Yes. I'm biased. Last time I checked it was my blog.

New Mission: NoMeatPo Week

And That's All the Thanks I Need

I've come to learn that birthdays have little to do with celebrating the actual birth of your child. I mean who really wants to celebrate those moments. Besides, I relive many similar ones (with hardly as good a result) on the toilet almost daily.

But what they do allow us to celebrate is making it through another year of parenting. That candle on the cake and the icing on the face means that we survived. They survived.

And that, my friends, is definitely worth celebrating.

With Quinlan, I wasn't sure if I would make it to her first birthday. Then I didn't think there would be anymore first birthdays.

For totally different reasons, I wasn't sure if I'd make it to Drew's first birthday.

I know I've said parenting is a thankless job, with no honors or special certificates. But seeing my son's bright face as it's smothered in icing and bananas is the best thanks that I could ever get.

Happy Birthday, Drew-boo. So pleased that you graced us with your presence. Our worlds will never be the same. And for that, I am so very thankful.

Taps

I spent all morning trying to find something for Quinlan to do while we're here.

And all I came up with is tap.

Tap dancing, that is.

I don't really like tap dancing. I know... Savion Glover, Shirley Temple, hell 42nd Street bla bla bla. How can you hate on Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain" you ask? Sorry. It's like learning to play an instrument without getting the music theory. Tap as an offshoot of dancing is fantastic. But as the thing that starts my daughter on her career as a famous dancer?

Not so much.

I admit that as a young three year old ballet dancer, I envied the tappers. They always had better costumes, complete with swingy fringe and a plastic hat. Plus they got to wear those loud shiny black shoes and slide around the floor. And their music was insanely catchier.

Damn you Good Ship Lollipop! I WISH.

But it always seemed like the girls that were in tap were the ones whose parents just wanted to put them in something to keep them busy and burn off some energy bouncing around in their little clappity clappity shoes doing steps that just looked like they had lost complete control of their feet.

But ballet? That was where the serious three year old dance types were. Hair in a bun, black leotard and pink tights, and pink ballet shoes.

None of those shiny blue leggings, crazy skirts, or ponytails.

Honestly, I still remember my first ballet class. In fact, my daughter is hopping around in my actual first pair of ballet shoes right now. I loved every single thing about my classes -- Miss Charlene, the beautiful overly made up anorexic ballerina turned teacher. My pink polyester leotard that my mom sewed my name in that I later accidentally-on-purpose pooped in.

After years as a semi-professional ballet dancer (didn't you know?), ballet was and still is, the love of my life.

So, it can't be tap. It just can't. My child will not shuffle off to buffalo before she learns first position. And she won't time step before she jete's. 

But considering it's the ONLY thing I've found (no Music Together, no art classes, no nothing), I might have to suck it up. Because in these parts, I hear it's either that or Tae Kwan Do.

And since I'm already getting my ass kicked by my preschooler AND my near-one-year-old (can you believe it?) on a daily basis, I don't want to give them any more opportunities to hone their skills.