Random Things that are True about Me Today

1. I have been sleepy since I got up. I didn't sleep well last night, and I ache all over. It's not the flu, though and definitely not swine flu.

2. My shirt is torn. I knew there was one little hole in it when I left the house this morning, but there are three. Also, my pants won't stay up. I haven't worn these since two summers ago, because of having maternity-clothing-goodness last summer and I forgot that these need a belt.

3. I want to crochet. I haven't crocheted in weeks and I am missing it severely. There has been so much to do, though and I had that crappy bookclub book that still isn't finished. We meet tonight, and I still have 20 pages.

4. I have had more ibuprofen today than I had in the week post c-section. That probably isn't true, but it feels like it.

5. I couldn't come up with anything good to blog about today, but I missed yesterday, so meh...

When I Die

One of my great fears in life is dying alone. I don't know why. I can't explain what seems so horrific about that. And sure, I know "we all die alone." Or whatever. I mean physically, I want someone there when I move from this life to the next. Period. No metaphor.

No one feels great about car wrecks. I'm sure of that. Well, except for demolition derby drivers and I bet they still don't like wrecks on the real, live road. I don't think that most people are as afraid of them as I am. I am terrified to have a wreck with my kid/s in the car because what if... It's horrifying to think that something might happen to them, or even to me and they might be scared and upset and I might be unconscious.

But, to have a wreck alone in the car is almost as bad. Because then no one would be there. I would be all by myself, bleeding and dying on the side of the interstate, unable to dial my phone and say goodbye to my husband, my kids or my mom. (Nevermind that most wrecks are fender-benders and no one dies.)

But, when I die, alone or in a crowd. I hope that people cry over me. Let me explain.

Today the chair of the board of the organization I work for (whew) stepped down and the new president stepped up. Very exciting and all. We all love her bunches and I, for one, will miss her voice on the phone. Of course, people keep reminding me that she's still on the board, she still loves us, yadda-yadda. I know she won't call as much. While there was sweet speechifying going on, she started talking about our founder. He's dead now; I never met him.

Her eyes welled up with tears as she spoke about him and his dedication, his determination, his weird sense of humor. Before long, everyone at the table who had known A was wiping tears from their eyes.

I don't want wailing and gnashing of teeth. Please, please don't cry at my funeral. (In fact, if my wishes are followed completely, there won't be a funeral at which to cry.) I hope that everyone laughs and drinks and eats and remembers, but in a happy way.

But I do hope that years after my death, my life will have had such an impact that people still cry when my name comes up. I hope that I have touched people in such a way that they will miss me even if it's just in passing while they are talking about something else. Even if I don't ever accomplish everything I want to do. Even if I don't manage to rebuild all the bridges I've stupidly burned, even if I just am who I am right now. In other words, if I die tonight.

But really, no crying. And no organ music either.

My Kid Hates Me

You should understand before you start to read this that I know I am a self-pitying freak. I know that I need serious help. I also know that my kid does not now, nor has ever hated me. I also know that I am being ridiculous and over-reacting. Okay? Okay. Good, now that we have all of that established, read on, dear readers, read on.

My kid hates me. It's because I'm terrible and heinous and I can't do anything right. I know that. I mean, just to give you an idea of how freakin' hard it must be to live with me, I offer you the following examples:

1. I like to do things. Like fly kites and go to the zoo and dance around the living room. Apparently dancing around the living room is what Satanists do with their children. Or Nazis or something else really terrible. No one wants to dance around the living room and I am therefore evil for trying to talk her into doing it.

2. I live in a big boring house, and I make her go there too. Apparently there is no place on the planet more boring than home, unless of course, it's 7 a.m. and then home is tons of fun, home is Disney World on crack, home is Miley Cyrus and that wizard chick and Phineas all rolled into one!

3. I make her eat terrible, terrible things. Like broccoli. and peas. And waffles. And macaroni and cheese. And I won't let her eat her weight in chocolate until she has had at least three bites of something healthy.

4. I want to watch cartoons with her and hang out in my room and eat popcorn. All of that is booorrrring. Playing on the computer and jumping on my bed, now that's fun. Why can't I see that?!?

But, by far, the worst thing that I do, ever is:
5. I pick her up from YMCA. She wants to stay there forever and never go home and I come, every single day, and ruin that dream. How will she ever learn to play dodgeball and marry Mr. Rob if I keep picking her up? And if I can't pick her up, then why can't I at least take her to Pizza Hut. Every day, please.


Brynn and I have been at war for the past week. Nothing I do is right and everything I do is either evil or boring. (I am about to strike boring from the house vocabulary. It will be banished along with stupid and I-know-everything.) Now, don't get me wrong. I expected this, from my teenage daughter! Isn't she like ten years early for hating me?

All week long, I have been carrying her screaming, kicking, miserable body out of Montessori in one arm, carrying Maren's pumpkin seat in the other arm and balancing the lunch plate, jacket and myriad artwork on my head. Parents look at me like perhaps I am Satan. Kids snicker and point. Some parents have the decency to smack snickering kids. The staff pretends not to notice. I have been an absolute parriah at YMCA for a week.

I could deal with that if we could get in the car and get over it. But no. We can't. I have the radio too loud, or too soft. I have the car too hot or too cold. I am not driving her to Pizza Hut. I took the Hello Kitty hairclip out of my hair after I dropped her off at Montessori. I am not a giant talking cat. Then we get home. And it starts over there.

Every once in a while I try to do something so spectacular that she will love me forever, remembering that one day when mom... But it never works.

I can't wait until she grows up and has kids just like her and I can laugh and laugh and laugh. I will spoil and snicker and giggle. I will remind her of doing this to me.

I keep having these moments, these being-a-parent-is moments and here is mine from today:

Being a parent is always trying to make someone happy who will only be happy when they are too old to enjoy it.

Why Write Anyway

One of the things that fascinates me the most about the blogosphere (not to be confused with the Buffyverse for those keeping track) is the trends. One week, I'll read 15 posts about stomach viruses and the next week, I'll read 12 posts about cats. I am not making this up.

What amazes me more is how I get sucked into them. I am not a trendy person. See my closet, my CD collection, my minivan or my jewelry box for confirmation. And yet, after the 10th or so post, I feel compelled to chime in. To lend my voice to the cacophony hollering on and on about ring tones, or whatnot.

This week's blogoverse (see what I did there) wide theme is why do we do it. Why do we sit down at our computer keyboard everyday (or every other day, every week, every once in a while or every ten minutes, whatever) to spill out our thoughts and feelings, diary style. Who are we writing for anyway, and what do we expect them to get out of it.

Her Bad Mother (see the links to the side, because I'm hating the stupid linking tool today) asked if we were all making each other miserable by over-sharing our pain. Maybe. There's also been a recent flurry of plagiarism, making people ask why people even care so much for their rambles.

Immediately, I think to myself that I am writing this for me. I am writing because I love to write, because my book is going slow it's only a few minutes to feeling accomplished. But, if I write for me, why do I care so much that I only have one reader (Hi mom!)? Why do I keep putting myself out there, "promoting my blog?" Why, in fact, do I even publish it in the first place?

And here is my answer (this ten minutes, you understand). Because reading and writing is a relationship. See we have a relationship here. I write, you read. It's a two way street. There is no purpose to my writing if it's never read. That's why I never kept a diary. I always loved the idea of a diary, but I never wrote in it more than two days because, well, what's the freakin' point. Instead, I wasted my expensive pink diaries with locks on them and scrawled poetry in 99 cent notebooks. Compulsively (you should see the stack!)

Stephen King (insert girly screaming) uses the phrase "Constant Reader" always capitalized like a name. He uses it in forewords and afterwords and yadda, yadda. And when I read the phrase Constant Reader, I feel like he is talking to me. To me! Not to you or to my husband or the 50 people who read this one copy of the book from the library before me. ME!!!

You see, Stephen and I, we have a relationship. Albeit, a I-would-so-stalk-you-if-I-could-move-to-Maine, kind of relationship. But a relationship. He writes, I read. When I pick up one of his books, an oldie but goodie that I've read 50 times or a new story, I feel like I'm having coffee with an old friend. I fall into the book, the way you fall into bed at the end of a really long day. I read the way he writes and it's comfortable to me. Because we have this relationship.

Some relationships (like mine and Stephen's) are like a 50 year old marriage. They are home and they feel comfortable and safe. Some relationships are new and fledgling, rocky and exciting all at the same time. But that's what happens when you read, you start a relationship with the writer.

And that's what happens when I write. I start a relationship with you. Everyday, all over again, because I don't really know you (Hi Mom!). So, I have to just put myself out there, laid on the line, filleted like a fish, so to speak. I don't know if you exist, but I want you to. I don't know if you like me, but I want you to. I don't know if you'll come back, but I want you to.

Do you get it? Do you hate it when I go three weeks without writing anything funny? Do you hate it when I think I'm being funny? Do you wonder what I'm whining about anyway? I just don't know.

Maybe that's the excitement of blogging. The reason everyone and their brother's dog does it. Because I don't know if you care, but I hope you do. Because I love that part of the relationship where everything is new and sparkly and every word you hear is a new discovery. And I love that part in the middle where you think there are no surprises left but there always are. And I love that part where you've been together forever and you can read in your pajamas without feeling naked.

How You Know You're Old

I've been having an age crisis lately. I don't know why it's hitting me now, but I feel really, really old. My little brother just went to prom. I keep seeing kids who should be babies, but aren't, they're real live kids. My music is on the oldies stations. It's a litany of reminders that I am no longer who I think I am. I am no longer a kid trying to figure things out. I am an adult either succeeding or failing.

My newest gauge of my age is music. But not in that, "I can't watch MTV anymore, who are those people." kind of way. To understand my current crisis, we have to travel back in time. When I was 14.

When I was 14, I was a weird kid. Born and bred on country music and just currently discovering the world outside. Don't get me wrong, I was as into Tiffany as the next kid when I was seven and I knew all the words to "Funky Cole Medina." Then my step dad introduced me to the world of heavy metal. I developed a love (that has not died) for hair bands, especially Poison. I would melt for Poison. But I knew the songs I heard on the bus, and I knew my mom's country and I knew Jerry's metal. I didn't know anything of my own. When I started high school, I discovered that there was something else. And it fascinated me.

It started with R.E.M. then They Might Be Giants, the B-52's. I was amazed to discover that this stuff had been around for a decade. That it wasn't new. I memorized "It's the End of the World as We Know It" and I started hording Violent Femmes. Next was '80's punk. Sex Pistols, the Ramones. And then, 70's rock.

Led Zeppelin was my favorite. I could listen to "Black Dog" until my ears bled, but almost anything would do: Eagles, Queen, The Who, Skynard, Aerosmith, CCR, Steve Miller Band... I approached my mom. My mother has a drool-worthy vinyl collection. She has two overloaded boxes of 45's alone. She had to have something, right? No Zeppelin, no Sabbath, no Blue Oyster Cult. She had The Carpenters and KISS. She had Johnny and Waylon (who I appreciate now much, much more than I did then) and she had disco. But she didn't have what I wanted. She seemed so old to me, then. Older at that moment than she has ever since. At that moment, her style had lapped her. The music that was popular when she was in high school was back, but she wasn't.

I have been waiting for that moment since Brynna was born. The moment when Brynna wants to borrow my Chuck Taylors or my Docs and a flannel shirt for a '90's party. The moment when I catch her raiding my CD collection digging out the Nirvana and the Green Day. I've wondered what will survive. What will make it into the caricature of our time. What about Kurt Cobain's green sweater? Or cat's eye glasses? What about "Breakfast at Tiffany's" or Oasis. What will be the impression that other's take of my decade.

I didn't understand until I was an adult that the 70's was undoubtedly more complicated than punk vs. metal vs. disco. It was never simply bell bottoms and headbands. It was more than Dazed and Confused. And what will happen when I am watching my kids try to relive something they have never lived. Will I try desperately to explain what it was like? Will I roll my eyes when she is amazed at what my CD collection doesn't contain? Will I try to sell her on what I think is better music from an era past?

I definitely appreciate my mother's position on the '70's more now than I did then. I understand more what it must have been like defending her teenage self to her teenage daughter.

But for all that clarity and reason, I thought I had YEARS to go before I had to deal with that. At least a decade, right? Wrong.

Instead of my daughter growing to care about the music of her mother's era, her mother's music has come to her. I have spent months searching for a kid's They Might be Giants CD. Because it's funny. It's funny that this band that I loved and obsessed over is making kid's music. Is singing the theme song to Higglytown Heroes and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Is making the world of preschool music much, much tolerable to moms of my generation everywhere.

In short, I thought it was cute, an aberration. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, we got a Lisa Loeb CD from the library. Brynna loves it. She sings camp songs, like Father Abraham and Peanut Butter and Jelly. Her signature glasses are still on her cover art, but the short skirt with the thick tights are gone, the insecure yet sexy is nowhere in sight. I wonder if she sometimes still sings "Stay" at concerts. Just to give us moms a thrill.

Additionally, I've found out that Presidents of the United States of America (or POTUSA) has come out with a kid's album under the new name of Caspar Babypants. (I guess Pot USA was a little controversial for the kiddies.) Devo's got a kid's album out. And Dan Zanes (who I kept thinking - I know that guy on Disney channel) is the former lead singer of the Del Fuegos. Los Lobos and Leadbelly are weighing in, too. And that's just people who have done full albums, I could write pages of people who have done a single song for a compilation or appeared with one of these guys.

I'm so old that the bands I used to listen to are making kid's music. That's worse than Ringo being on Thomas the Tank.

Colors

My little brother and my dad swear, I mean SWEAR that there are only 16 colors in existence. (You basically take your little basic box of eight crayolas, add the words light and dark to the beginning of each of them (except black - substitute gray and red - subsitute pink) and you've got all the colors in creation.

Don't even try to talk to them about teal or aquamarine or salmon. They won't listen.

Today, I have found the coolest "proof" of their color inadequacy ever!! http://tx4.us/nbs/nbs-a.htm

Go ahead, click on it, you know you want to. What you will find on this site is a long, long page of color samples. I love Abbey (the very first one) I want to paint something that color. Maybe my basement. That's a good basement color I think. Keep scrolling and you'll find anthracene violet, which I am also quite fond of. Keep scrolling some more and you will discover the best surprise ever!! It's only the a's. There are 25 more long, long pages of colors. I mean Q and Z are kinda short, but not as short as you think.

I want this crayola box. Seriously. I am in love with this site. Go click.

Note: I didn't get a picture of crochet taken last night so I'll post what's in my crochet bag either tonight or tomorrow. I still haven't taken the inside out sleeve off of that sweater, either. I hate screwing up and I never want to take all the time and energy to correct it. I almost feel the need to just toss the whole freakin' thing, but considering even with the sleeve drama I've only got about an hour's more work to do on about a ten hour project, I think I should suck it up and fix it.

I think I'm going to hibernate for summer

I have been in all-out hibernation mode for the past week. I don't know what's wrong with me. I want to yell and scream to my inner bear that her clock is all screwed up and it's April for the love of all that's good and holy!

I can't seem to stop eating. And I am eating all of the wrong things. I don't want pasta in a light sauce or salad or fabulous sandwiches. I want pot pie and macaroni and cheese and scalloped potatoes. I want comfort food. I want winter food. And I don't know WHY!!

This is usually my healthiest time of year. I automatically start eating fruit and salad and I make the best darned sandwiches you ever did see. I get sad about my lack of grill and I start trying to make things taste like they were grilled even though they weren't. I am most likely to try fish in April. In addition, I am flooded with an unholy desire to walk everywhere. "It's Saturday, let's walk to the store!" "Why, what are you getting?" "Who cares! Let's walk!"

I also drink water like it might disappear from the Earth tomorrow during a normal April. But not right now, right now I am repulsed by the thought of a nice glass of ice water and I want Coke, dammit. Coke is good and friendly and full of hibernating sugar goodness.

I am going to gain 40 lbs. over SPRING!! I never gain weight in the Spring and in fact, I always weigh less in the Summer than the winter, so none of my summer clothes, which I did not ever LOOK at last year are going to fit!! Whine, whine, whiney, whine, whine.

Maybe it's the insanely cold spring we are having here. Usually by now, it's bordering on hot. I am digging through drawers trying to come up with something warm weather-y without going after my stored away summer clothes. But not this year. This year, I am trying to keep Brynna in warm clothes despite the fact that all of her sweats are 2 inches too short and she still hates jeans. (If someone can explain to me why size 5 sweats are too short and size 5 jeans are too long regardless of brand, I'd be much obliged.)

If spring doesn't spring soon in my diet, I am going to lose my mind. In the meantime, I'm all out of coke and cookies so I have to go now. I'm going to try for water and almonds, but I bet I end up back with coke and cookies.

Morning Memoirs

An excerpt from a recent drive-to-school-conversation:

Brynna: Mommy, what's that?

Me: What's what?

Brynna: That

Me: Brynna, you're not pointing, I can't tell what you are looking at.

Brynna: That thing. Behind the fence.

Me: I don't see a fence.

Brynna: We already passed it.

Me: Oh, I don't know then.

Brynna: Mooommmyyyyy. What is it? What is it?

Me: Honey, I don't know, but I promise to look on the way home.

Brynna: Noooo, I need to know before school. What is it?

Me: I don't know.

Brynna: Pllleeeeaaassseeee tell me. I neeeeed to knooooow. What is it? What is it? What is it?

Me: What did it look like?

Brynna: It was sharp and shaped funny and behind the fence by the tractor.

Me: Oh, well it was a farm-y thing, then.

Brynna: Oh.

There are plenty of days in my life where that wouldn't have worked. In fact, 90% of my days that wouldn't have worked. I celebrate the little things.

By the way, she was right to be persistent. It was gone when we were going home.

Faith and Babies

Her Bad Mother pointed out something I have been feeling lately: too many babies are dying. Maddie and Thalon in my bloggy community. More on the news and more all around me. I don't deal well with it. I mean, no one should and I don't think anyone does, but it really just haunts me more than it did before I lost my Ethan.

Her Bad Mother asked if faith made it easier or harder to deal with loss, though, and that's what I want to answer. For me, at least, because I can't speak for everyone or even anyone else.

It seems almost like the time to be thinking about it since Easter just ended and I've all been thinking about death and resurrection and how to teach a four year old about what Easter really means without scaring her to death and giving her crucifixion nightmares.

I know, from the depths of my soul I know, that I would not have survived losing Ethan if I had not had my faith. I know that The Husband and I wouldn't still be married if we didn't have that faith between us and I know that I would never, never have been able to go on and have my darling angel daughters.

I, actually, don't understand how people move through life with children at all without faith in something. I can't fathom getting up and fighting those kid fights: school, sickness, hurt feelings, bad behavior, without knowing that it's all for something.

For me, that's what faith boils down to. It's believing in a purpose. I may not always see it, in fact, I rarely do, but I know it's there. I know that there is a reason that I lost Ethan. I don't understand it, but I know it's true. I also know that if there were an easier way, a more painless way to accomplish whatever his death accomplished, he'd still be here.

I know that things happen the way they do because there is a plan. That plan doesn't remove my responsibility for my own actions. I still determine by my behavior, how my kids will turn out, what will happen to me, etc, etc. But, I know that I can't screw up the end result. No matter what I do, God will find a way around it and the plan will still come to fruition.

I know that the plan is good. Whatever it is, it is leading to somewhere good. We all have to suffer for that, but it'll be worth it in the end.

When I was little, we did an exercise in Sunday School to demonstrate that no one really knows what heaven is like. We were each asked to describe our heaven. Our perfect place. We were kids, so there was a lot of pizza, a lot of friends, family, dogs, sunshine, music, etc. My heaven has changed. I believe that if we get to pick our own heavens, if I get any say in what it'll be like with all of eternity washing before me, I will see the plan. I will get to look down on it, so to speak and see all the intricacy, all the cause and effect, all of the movement from one place to another. I will understand why good people die young, why we have to lose babies, why Ethan was taken from me and why the answers are so hard to find. I will understand why people are so often imprisoned in their own minds and bodies and why suffering exists in the first place. Because I want to understand it all.

I will also hold my son. I will cradle him and tell him face to face for the very first time that I love him and that I missed him and that I will never, NEVER, let him go. For all of eternity.

And no matter what happens, no matter how bad things get, no matter how much I hurt and ache, I know, I KNOW that I will get that. And that is what keeps me moving. What gives me the strength to continue at all.

So Many Projects, So Little Time

I don't have to work tomorrow. Nee-nee-na-boo-boo.

Now that that's out of my system. My boss asked me this morning what I was going to do with myself tomorrow. Which brings up an interesting point. I don't get a lot of these days, days where I can stay at home the whole freakin' day and never leave the house if I so choose. (I never so choose by the way, it's just nice to know that I can.)

The only thing better than those days are the ones where I am all alone at home and don't have to leave the house all day if I so choose. School is out and the babysitter is closed, though, so it'll be me and the girls.

But I digress. I don't get a lot of these days and I always have WAAAYYYY more to do with these days than a mere 24 hours will permit. And once you figure in that I've got to eat, sleep and make sure the children eat and sleep, well, I'm just screwed.

So, here is a list of what I would like to accomplish tomorrow, in no particular order (if I prioritized this list, that would take away all the fun.)

Laundry (I have practically no clean clothes in the house)
Gardening (I'd like the get two more beds ready for planting)
Walk (preferably to the park and back with is almost two miles)
Re-arrange the basement (I have a feeling this one will get cut, but I've got to do it soon)
Spring cleaning (I haven't done it in about 7 years, so it's really time)
Read (I've got this bookclub book I'm not enjoying, but I've got to finish it or I'll never get to read anything else.)
Crochet (I still haven't finished that sweater, I need to start on a wedding present I'm planning, a baby present for a baby who's here already and I just downloaded a really cute poncho pattern for Brynna plus my church group is going to start making chemo hats, so I'd like to work on that.)
Watch daytime TV (not like soaps, but like all the canceled prime time shows I used to watch that are in syndication)
Cook (something fun, like brownies)
Organize all the kid's clothes
Get out everyone's summer stuff

What do you think? Is one day off enough?

The Kid Competition

Yesterday was Maren's 4 month check-up. While we were there, I got Dr. Q to check out Brynn's ears and make sure the tubes were still doing their job and she jumped on the scale and the height guy because she hates to be left out. She was more than happy to be left out when it came shot time, though, I can promise you that!

Maren is a big baby. She is in the 90% for both height and weight. She has a tiny little 75% head, though. Brynna was the same way. In fact, I think her head was in the 50%, while she was always in the 90's for height and weight. Brynna and Maren were also born with, and kept (at least so far) a good amount of beautiful hair. They both have met milestones at or ahead of schedule. Brynna was behind on talking, but all the others, she was ahead on. Maren so far is at or ahead on everything.

I am a competitive person. I say this as a preface to what I am about to say. I will kick your butt and taunt you mercilessly if you are ever privy to play a game of Trivial Pursuit or Scrabble with me and I have been known to cheat at Monopoly. The whole reason I did well in school was that I wanted, no needed to have the highest grade in my social group on any given assignment. I had a pretty sharp little social group, too.

But I hate, I hate, I HATE the mommy competition. You all know what I'm talking about, so don't pretend you don't. Percentiles were invented for the mommy competition. "Oh, little Suzy started walking at five weeks old, isn't Brynna walking yet?" Or "Paul is 20 lbs already and he's only a month old. How much does Maren weigh?"

I have no patience with this. In the first place, I don't believe it. I really don't. I am currently dealing with a grandma who insists that her 3 month old grandson is up to about 25 lbs but he was only 7 lbs. when he was born. If that's true, wow, do I feel sorry for that mom. Also, I'd be looking into that. I don't think it's normal. She says, "Well, he breastfeeds, so he's just eating all the time and that's why he's such a big baby." Which is her way of saying, "My kid is a better mom than you and you can tell because her baby is so much bigger, i.e. healthier than yours."

When, by the way, does bigger quit meaning healthier and start meaning fatter. I'm just curious.

Anyway. I'm not saying she's lying. I'm just saying I don't buy it. Maybe she's confused or exaggerating, or maybe he weighs 25 kilos or something, but I am just not buying it.

Secondly, as I mentioned, getting ahead of myself up there, the whole point is to make me feel like crap. I'm supposed to run home and go, Oh-my-goodness! Give me something to feed this baby because I am clearly not doing my job here. My child is so skinny!! I'm supposed to think that the other mom is a better mom because her kid is bigger, or walked two weeks earlier or says 10 words to my kid's 3 or whatever. I'm not gonna. I'm not gonna feel bad about the fact that my kid is different than yours. Because, you know what, I think my kid is better than yours, period. Just better. And you think your kid is better than mine and that's the way the world should be, so quit trying to prove to me that your kid is better, because I'm never going to believe it.

Thirdly, the mommy competition has no winner. What is the point of being competitive about something if you can't win? I don't see one. When Brynna was a baby, we went to church with a couple whose baby was just a few weeks older (or maybe younger I can't remember) than Brynna. Every little thing was held under the microscope. Brynna was bigger but S was babbling more. Brynna had more hair but S knew sign language. Brynna was walking first but S ate more table food. It never ended and it was always even. Because that's how kids work. It all evens out. How many kids without developmental issues go to kindergarten without walking? If you can't think of one, then why worry about the fact that my kid walked at 9 months and your 11 month old is just starting to walk holding onto stuff. Because you know what, your 11 month old could hold a crayon at 10 months and my 13 month old is still working on that - or something.

I try not to participate, but I kinda can't help it. Once a mom starts and I say that's nice about six times and she says "Well, how much does Maren weigh anyway?" I can't help but feel cornered. Like I have to defend myself and more importantly, my kid. And it bothers me. It sticks with me.

You only have to take one little look at Maren's fat rolls to know that she's not starving, but I go home and I try to weigh her on my little bathroom scale and I stress and I worry and I try to get her to eat more. Someone said something about how "tiny and petite" Brynna is the other day and I haven't been able to get it off my mind. Petite technically means that she is short, not skinny, and the kid is not short. She is in the 90th percentile for her age. How can that be short? But maybe they meant that she is too skinny, some people use it that way. But she's not really skinny, either. She's pretty much perfect from my perspective.

What's funny is that I would gouge out my right eye for someone to call me tiny and petite, but call my kid that and apparently I spend two weeks worrying and fretting that it was an insult.

I would like to wrap this up by saying that I just won't play anymore. I'm taking my ball and going home if you start up with that "my baby's this and my baby's that" stuff again. But I won't. I'll try and again I'll get sucked in, because dammit I'm proud of her. I am proud of them and I won't have anyone insinuating that they are anything less than spectacular.

Parenting Moments

This was a rough morning in my world. Brynna didn't care to get dressed or wear clothes to school. We go through this every once in a while. After a while of begging, cajoling, bribing and trying to force clothes on her squirmy body, she informed me (smugly, I might add) that I wasn't about to take her to school naked, so I might as well accept that we wouldn't be going to school today.

Hmm...

I tried again. Again, I met an immovable brick wall. Point 1 - I would not take her to school naked. Point 2 - I would not leave her at home alone. Therefore - no school.

Hmm...

Fine.

I went into her room and gathered together some clothes and stuffed them into my purse. Then, I went into the kitchen, gathered her school stuff and Maren and took them to the car. I came back in the house and grabbed my mostly naked child (she was wearing tights) and carried her out to the car and sat her naked butt in the car seat. (Have I mentioned that we have snow on the ground?) Then I went back to the house and shut and locked the door.

When I turned back to the car, she was looking at me like my head had caught on fire. "Are you cold?" I innocently asked. Nod. "Do you want to get dressed?" Nod.

I helped her (as quickly as possible) pull on clothes and get tucked tightly into her car seat and buckled into place. Then I pulled the emergency blanket out of the backseat and put it over her lap and handed her the rest of her breakfast that she hadn't had time to finish. I shut the door and went and got in the car.

Then I started worrying. Did I do the right thing? Would this forever scar her? Was it acceptable to take her outside mostly naked to prove that she was going to school no matter what, or was that over the line? Was I cruel? Would the neighbors call social services?

Okay, I still don't have an answer to that last question. But as soon as the car was rolling, Brynna was happily babbling away about playing with her best friend and who was coming to her birthday party and what her favorite song is and how snack day is her favoritest day of all, so I think she is probably unscarred.

When we got to school she climbed into my seat with me and kissed and hugged me before hopping out of the car and grabbing the snack box. Then she sat the box on the ground and said "Love ya mom" and blew me a kiss.

I will never claim that toting that angry naked preschooler to the car was my finest parenting moment, but that moment later with the completely confident, composed (and, yes, fully dressed) kid blowing me kisses and walking away without worrying about anything in the world except sharing her wealth of bananas with her classmates may be.

Last week (I know, long, long ago, when last I wrote) I talked about the parenting roller coaster. This is it, people. Things sometimes go from heaven to hell in an instant. Sometimes they go from hell to heaven in an instant. I am sure that there was another way out of my predicament. I am sure that I could have eventually gotten her to school in clothes without exposing her to the cold wind atop our hill. But that's what I did. And for better or worse, there's no turning back.

Around the World in 80 Clicks

I am going to participate in a project where moms from all over the world are encouraged to answer a simple question: "Don't you just love being a mom?" That question where only one answer is truly acceptable, but for many of us isn't quite true. If you want to read the beginning of the story: http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/world-according-to-mom.html.

By the way, I'm supposed to tag an international mommy blogger. I don't exactly get the tagging thing, so I'm trying to figure it out and I'm sure I'm doing it wrong, but I'm tagging http://www.sleeplessinkl.com. She is a Filipina married to a Malaysian living in Kuala Lampur. I couldn't be that cool and confusing if my life depended on it.

So, here is my answer. First of all, I want to say that I think that people answer and ask that question the same way they say "Don't you just love life." Notice the period and not a question mark. Sure I love being a mom sometimes. Sometimes, like tonight when I was weeding and Brynna was rescuing all the earthworms clinging to clumps of roots and moving them to another flower bed. Or sometimes when I'm holding Maren and her hair smells like bedtime bath. Or sometimes when Brynna is working hard to make Maren giggle and Maren finally obliges and starts laughing and then Brynna can't help but laugh. Those times I love being a mom.

Sometimes, though, like when Maren cries for no reason for two hours just because it's 9:00 and that's apparently cryin' time. Or when Brynna throws a fit and refuses to leave her aunt's house and I have to chase her down into the dried out creek. Or even when Brynna somehow needs 7 bedtime stories if you expect her to sleep one little tiny wink. Those times, I don't love being a mom. No sane person would.

By the way, every one of those examples has happened since I got off work today. Every freakin' one.

And that's what being a mom is. At it's heart, it's a terrifying, exhilarating, magical mystery rollercoaster. (On a weird side note, did you know that the term Helter Skelter that Charles Manson used to describe his imaginary race war was a song by the Beatles that was about a rollercoaster named Helter Skelter? That's a good name for a rollercoaster and a good name for momhood.) It's up, down, upside down, inside out and those ridiculous curves where you feel like you're lying on your side.

Even in the worst of times, even when you've been thrown up on, pooped on and bled on within a ten minute span, even when you think it would be easier to pull your hair out by the roots than brush out the day old infant cereal, even when you suddenly realize you don't remember your last shower, even then I love my kids and I wouldn't change anything. There has never been a moment when I wished I could go back to my pre-mommy days. On the other hand, there have been plenty of days I couldn't wait until they were 18 and going off to college.

Being a mom isn't easy. It isn't perfect and it's sure not skipping through a flower meadow holding hands in white eyelet dresses, but it is the greatest thing I've ever managed to do with my life. It's who I was meant to be. I never would have really met me if I hadn't met the two most fabulous little girls on the planet. It may be all cheesy, but I wasn't done until I had them.

So, no, I don't just love being a mom. But I love my girls and that's worth more in the long run anyway.