Brain sucker

I still pee on sticks. Can't help it. Just have to make sure those lines aren't fading. They aren't. It's not that I don't feel good about this or have hope. I do. I just need to see those lines popping up faster and faster. It's beautiful.

Yesterday, no - Wednesday, Little Bird and I went to the Farmer's Market. We tasted every strawberry there was to taste and bought four quarts of our second favorite. Our first favorites were being sold by a man who got mad at me when I asked if the fruit had been sprayed or just the flower. Too bad. They were good berries, but I'm totally willing to go with second best if they weren't loaded down with pesticides and fungicides.

We also bought sweet onions that look like the onion weeds in our yard on steroids. We found our favorite Mediterranean squash, zucchini for bread, purple and green asparagus, more herbs to pot, pork chops, and milk. I love the Farmer's Market.

I loaded up the back of the Jeep with all of our spoils and turned to see Bird stuffing an entire strawberry in his mouth, stem, leaves, and all. I tried to extract the leaves from his mouth, unsuccessfully so. In the meantime, I had dropped the keys to the Jeep in the back with the produce. I slammed the hatch closed and wheeled Bird around to the back seat only to find that the Jeep was locked.

Good news: Little Bird and my cell phone were not in the locked car. Bad news: Diaper bag and all of my purchases were, and Bird was wet and hungry.

He began screaming as soon as he swallowed the last strawberry. Kevin works way too far away to come and rescue me from the Farmer's Market, but that didn't stop me from leaving him pathetic voice mails. In the end though, it was wonderful Cyndi who saved me. I called her to ask her to look up numbers of a car thief for me. Instead, she reminded me that USAA would help and gave me their roadside assistance number.

They had someone at my car in about 20 minutes. I love USAA.

Later that day, Little Bird and I went to the park. I was very careful not to lock my keys in the car. In fact, I left the hatch wide open. Completely forgot to close it after I got the sand toys out of the back. Just left the diaper bag, gps, and everything in the Jeep wide open. Luckily, nothing was stolen while Bird and I romped obliviously around the playground.

Really, if you think about it, I suppose I don't need to keep peeing on sticks. This little embryo is already sucking my brain dry.

Climbing

This one is sticking around. I hope for a long time.

HCG is climbing, and I've been told to stop worrying. It's possible the nurse who told me that is not a mother.

Next stop, ultrasound in a few weeks. Until then, I have a few other things to keep me occupied.

As in, Little Bird has decided he knows how to match pitch. Maybe this seals my fate as a complete music geek, but I totally shed tears of pride and happiness. He isn't even 16 months old, and he can sing back three pitches accurately to me.

Be still my heart.

My oldest is singing, and my youngest is hanging in there. I am a lucky mama.

Sticks and lines

Obviously I'm distracted. I wrote this earlier today and accidentally hit "save now" instead of "publish." This is my 627th post on this blog. You would think I knew the difference in the buttons.

Monday morning. There are still two lines.

On Friday afternoon, the nurse told me my progesterone looked "fantastic." This morning, I'm going back in to see if that is still the case.

That's about it.

I'm a little preoccupied.

Can you hear me in there?

Dear little squishy block of cells,

I think you have a fighting chance. Your due date? The same as your brother's. That means that you are still so tiny, without much form yet and with so much uncertainty.

It's strange though. As Little Bird and I hung out in the kitchen today watching the "vroom vrooms" in the backyard pouring concrete, I felt your presence. You were real to me. So I picked up the phone and called the nurse. I laughed off how I had peed on a stick too soon, but that it was definitely positive.

Two lines.

Tomorrow morning I go bright and early. We'll look at drops of blood and ask them to make sure there are things there to keep you stuck right where you are for the next nine months. You have a fighting chance. I will fight for you.

That is a promise. I got them to agree that if I show up first thing, they will rush results so that if needed, I can start meds over the weekend. No chances, Baby. You fight the good fight in there, and I'll fight it out here.

I sure would like to hold you one day. So stick around, okay?

Love,
Mama

I know the risks. I know what might happen. I also know that it doesn't hurt any less when I try not to attach. It's my choice, and I'm choosing to start loving right now.

Ditto junior

At church, we pass a dignified attendance pad in which everyone on the pew writes their name, and we all pretend not to be too interested in it as it comes back down the line. If you are too interested, you are nosy, but if you don't look at all, then you are aloof.

Damn Presbyterians.

I always look. In a church with 4000+ members, I want to know if I'm sitting next to visitors or not so that I can speak to them appropriately. I would hate for someone to visit and not be spoken to at all, even if I'm not currently the most active member. I can still say "hello."

This past Sunday, two men sat down to our right. When the attendance pad came back down the pew, I peeked at it and noticed that the man on the end had entered ditto marks for his name, followed by, "Jr." I laughed out loud, which was incredibly inappropriate, but whatever. It was funny.

It immediately made me think of Little Bird.

As his mama, I have the extraordinarily difficult task of caring for him day to day. I have to make sure that he is learning as much as he can learn, being nourished, resting, developing social skills, and that he stays safe. A mama's job is a hard one and is the most responsibility I have ever borne.

However.

Bird wants to be exactly like his father.

Bird wants to be the ditto marks that follow his daddy around. When Kevin was installing the baby gate at the top of the stairs yesterday, Bird sat mesmerized by him. He picked up a screwdriver and began trying to "help" Kevin put the screws into the wall. He mimicked Kevin using the drill, and he tried his very best to pick up the exact same screws that Kevin picked up.

I think that Kevin has the much more difficult task when it comes to parenting. If he trips and yells, "shit!" then the next word that Bird will learn is, well, you know. It is not unlike the unrelenting paparazzi where if you do that one very uncouth thing? They are going to catch it on film. That is what Kevin's life with Bird is like now.

It is a huge responsibility, and I can tell that it is already weighing heavily on his mind. Kevin wants to be the kind of man that his son can model. He wants to be someone that Bird can learn from and imitate to become a good man.

What he doesn't realize is that I have always known that he was. It is one of the many reasons I fell in love with him in the first place.

If my son can learn to be half the man my husband is? I will be so very proud.

Final Halelujah

There is something I promised a friend several weeks ago. A promise made over the phone as I was parking the Jeep at the mall.

"I want to see that picture with the Easter Bunny!" she said.

"I promise!" I replied as I hung up in order to park within the lines.

I fell through on that promise. On the one hand, you could say that my friend is probably used to that. She has been let down a lot. She is honest and forthright and expects nothing less from others. People haven't been kind to her. Plus, she has essentially thrown herself in front of semi trucks in order to keep peace and to make other people comfortable.

As much as I love that about her, it is hard to watch. My momma has always said that I'm loyal to a fault. The loyal friend in me has spent a lot of time banging my head against the wall when I've been unable to help her. Sometimes all you can do though, is be there. Listen when there is something to hear. Reach and reach back.

Today we are saying goodbye to her blog. I'm not saying goodbye to her. I'll stalk her until she takes legal action. But I know how it feels to feel pushed out of your own space. I know how it feels to shut down. It may be "just a blog," but it was her blog. Her words. Her space.

And it was beautiful.

So, for what it's worth, Girl, here's your photo. You'll love it because it's horrid. It's dark and the rabbit was ridiculously tiny, so they used the dollar store footstool to prop her feet, and just wow. It's bad. Professional photographers. They're everywhere.

I'll miss your space, your words, and your photos.

























P.S. Just in case you want to see the first time I admitted to stalking Girl, here's the post. We've come a long way from me stalking her from afar.

Love and attention

It's been an awesome day. Not only did both of my boys go to church with me this morning, but Kevin even watched Little Bird so that I could take my time getting ready. That meant a date with the flat iron and complete eye makeup. That meant moisturizer, Avon Magix, AND foundation. That meant painted toenails. I felt like an actual woman.

After church, Kevin made brunch, including hollandaise sauce. From. Scratch. He even fashioned a double boiler our of one of my stainless steel bowls and a pan. Aside: I guess I could unpack that box of kitchen stuff now that we aren't moving. Bird was being particularly grumpy today, and had refused his nap, so he joined us for brunch and had an English muffin with peanut butter. After brunch, he went down like a champ.

I came back downstairs to find Kevin sitting on the floor - which I had cleaned yesterday - scrubbing the fronts of our kitchen cabinets. He had already finished the dishes, so why not, right? Sweetheart.

For the rest of Bird's nap, Kevin and I lay on the couch and watched The Business of Being Born, which I think was a good Mother's Day selection. Bird woke up in the middle, but we brought him downstiars and finished it anyway. He loved looking at the babies, and when they would nurse, he would point at the TV and say "nuh-nuh," which is what he says for "nurse."

After that we went to North Hills, which is a fabulous outdoor mall less than a mile from our house, and had some Ben & Jerry's before we hit the Target for some baby forks and some other random stuff.

Following our outing, we came home, Bird rode in his new car and I planted some Hybiscus, some parsley, and tarragon. It's a good day that ends with dirt under Mama's nails and a baby with dirty knees.

There was a card, and a hand soap & lotion set for my kitchen sink - just what I asked for - and as much as I appreciate them both, the day would have been complete with just the company of my boys. Their love and attention is all it takes to make for a fabulous day.

Yard sale happiness

Momma and Susan have delicately pointed out that I'm a slacker blogger these days. Of course, that's not at all what they said, but that's how I'm going to think of it. It will help light a fire under me a little better.

I would love to get back up to a post a day, but I'm not promising anything. It's so much harder now that Little Bird is GOGOGOGOGOGOGO all the time. During nap time, there are so many other things I need to get done, and well, Twitter. I blame Twitter.

Today's news isn't horribly interesting, but looking through my archives, that never stopped me before, so here goes.

We loaded up Little Bird and went down to Glenwood South to an open air crafters market. Why is it that these markets are 90% jewelry these days? And not even very unique jewelry, although most of their names include the word "unique" somehow. Unique boutique. Beaded Uniquely. Unique Creations. If you can't come up with a more clever name than that, I'm thinking you aren't very creative anyway.

The only booth I found interesting was a quilter. I thought that I was totally uninterested in quilting when I started sewing. Then I started saving my fabric remnents. Then I joined a fabric co-op. Now, I'm thinking I had better learn to quilt or my home is going to become overrun with fabric.

On the way home, I spotted a yard sale with a faded Little Tykes car near the driveway. I asked Kevin if we could check it out. Bird loves the trucks with steering wheels at Marbles, so I had been thinking of getting him a car for outdoor play. This little car needs some tlc. It's faded and dirty and the steering wheel is loose, but it was only $5. For another $5, they convinced us to take home a tricycle.

The trike is missing the pushbar, so I looked it up just a minute ago to see if I could order just the pushbar. I can, and it's $18. Turns out the tricycle new is $180. Seriously. I had no idea. We came home with a Kettler trike for $5. I'm not believing it. Probably helped that it was almost noon. Everything out on their tables was priced really high, and I can imagine that several people were interested in the trike, but they were asking too much early in the morning.

Score for us. Bird lurves his new car so very much, and I'm going to order the pushbar this afternoon so we can take walks on his "new" trike.

It's a good day.

Little Bird makes friends

We've been in sunny Florida. Kevin's aunt/godmother lives near Sarasota. Little Bird and I had never met her, so it was high time for us to make a trip.

It didn't look good last week. First I realized that I had booked our flight for PM instead of AM. That put us in Florida a little past midnight with our 15 month old. How fun does that sound? Then I couldn't remember which car rental I had reserved a car with, and we hadn't received an email confirmation. So after many frustrating phone calls last Tuesday, we decided to try and get on standby in the morning and I found we had a reservation with Alamo.

Flying with a 15 month old in lap is an adventure. You really need 2 laps for said 15 month old, so I was glad Kevin and I always had seats together. Also? Still nursing that 15 month old was a lifesaver. That "neh-neh" really kept Little Bird happy on take off and landing.

For the most part though, Little Bird was an excellent traveler. He has this really cool mix of wanting to be with Mama and Daddy, but at the same time, being very curious about the people around him. He will smile at a stranger, play peek-a-boo with them, or keep waving until they just have to smile back. It doesn't matter what they look like or how old they are.

The older hippie sitting across the aisle from us on one leg of the trip became fast friends with Bird. Saying their goodbyes, Bird waved enthusiastically, and Professor Surf told him, "Goodbye little dude. Go doing something great one day."

And considering how my child can draw a smile out of everyone he sees, what I wish I had said to him was, "He already has. He creates joy."

Vocabulary

By no means am I a child development expert. In fact, I only know what I have read from a stack of baby books, and we are past whatever information I garnered from them.

Something that I love to see Little Bird do is take a sign or a word and expand it's meaning to fit a broader communication need. His sign for "more" has morphed into "I want," and that has led to us being able to add the "please" sign to his vocabulary in just a couple of days.

Yesterday, he had his 15 month check up where we ended up waiting quite awhile to see our doctor. Bird was as patient as a toddler can be, and when he had finally had quite enough waiting, he went over to the door and started waving "Bye bye." He turned around and said, "Buh bye," and I knew that he wanted to leave.

It fascinates me to watch him put concepts together and figure out how to communicate. He doesn't really have many words right now, but he tells me a whole lot. It seems to me that the communication is more important than counting the number of words. Any child development people care to weigh in? I would love to hear from you.

What I can tell you

I can't tell you a thing about last night, because I'm a member of the BlogHer ad network. Even though they only send me about $20 every six months, I still like being a part. It's not about the money, it's about belonging to the most amazing group of women bloggers online. They do have their rules though, and one of them is that I'm not supposed to blog about anything that I receive in which the value is over $40.

So I can't talk about last night, but I can talk about today after 11:00 AM, because we totally paid for that ourselves.

We are at the new Great Wolf Lodge in Concord, NC. Their amazing marketing team blitzed the Triangle region a couple of months ago, and I was hooked. Granted, I am a marketing person's wet dream (remember the Cindy Crawford skincare? Totally bought it and love it), but just in general, their marketing is great.

It's so good, that before I had been here or knew I was coming, I recommended it to a friend. She checked out the website and brought her family. Boom. Marketing circle complete.

I tried to book us a trip for when Lovely was tracked out, but Kevin's work . . . blah blah blah. He hasn't had a moment to take off before April 23, so we were stuck at home for track out, but here we are now.

Really though, it's not like me to want to go to the theme park and "join in." I'm a lapsed rock star, remember? I'm not really a "mommy" in so many words, and I'm far too cool to follow the masses to a waterpark.

Insert large amounts of laughter here.

I'm totally buying the whole kit and kaboodle. Why? Because my kids are having a blast. While my husband and I sit up on our dueling laptops, our kids are Passed Out Cold. Lovely and her daddy rode water slides all afternoon while Little Bird and I hung out in the wave pool and kiddie splash area. We would meet up, smile a lot, and get back to business. If Little Bird watched the giant bucket fill up with water and tump over on people once? He watched it a million times. Loved it.

Yeah, it's a little cliche. Yeah, it's a little cheesy. But only if you are too cool for your own good.

Past the cheese and cliche is a really nice place to bring your family. I mean super incredibly nice. Like worth every penny nice. I know this because of the people I met and the attention to detail they have shown. But getting into that part won't happen here; it will happen at Triangle Mamas after I'm home and have a moment to do them justice.

This trip though, this little weekend getaway, has proven once again that I am Mama first. Bring on the family entertainment. I love nothing more than to watch my kids have a great time. There will be time for trips to Sonoma and Napa after they are grown.

Except that typing that last sentence just broke a tiny corner of my heart. . .

Commence the commenting about balance please. Meanwhile, I'll be stopping at Ikea on the way back to Raleigh. And truly, like I Twittered earlier, "Wish you were here."

Small things and smaller me

Yesterday, I was doing some cleaning upstairs after Little Bird's nap. Usually when we work upstairs after a nap, he just plays or runs up and down the hallway, but yesterday, he was watching me. I was unpacking some shelves for pictures, and placing the wrapping on the floor for the trash. Just to see, I asked him if he could throw the trash away. He smiled, picked up the trash and started looking around. I pointed to the trash bag hanging on the door of the closet, and he walked over and proudly put the trash in the bag. Then he came back for more.

It's a small thing, I know. But every time there is two way communication between us, I get so excited. I love that he answers "yes" or "no" questions now, and I love that he can follow simple instructions. I love watching him learn and grow. It's amazing to me.

********

In other news, I've jumped on the bandwagon. Today was the first day of my 30 Day Shred. The shredheads have been inspirational, and I'm ready to say goodbye to the last 10 pounds of baby weight. Which I plan on putting back on soon, but there are swimsuits to wear between now and then.

I'll be blogging my shred, but not here. Until we have "after" pictures to go with my "now" pictures, I'm not sharing with the general population, so it's password protected. But if I know you, or you can tell me who you are, and you would like to follow along with my shredding, just shoot me an email, and I'll send you the password.

In which I refrain from hijacking Abby's comments

Last week, Little Bird and I had a wonderful morning at Marbles in downtown Raleigh. We spent most of our time chasing our toddlers through the area that used to be Playspace with a fire engine, a store, train tables, and all sorts of things for pretend play. Before heading our separate ways, we popped over to Roly Poly and grabbed some lunch with the boys.

What do bloggers talk about at lunch? Why, blogging, of course. Abby asked me if I thought quality or quantity was more important on a blog. She has already written about this, and the comments that the post received prompted me to want to weigh in a little further because I read them and just slapped my forehead and said, "Well, duh."

My plain and simple answer was "quantity." This answer, given while feeding a child with no bib and an overdue need for a nap a peanut butter and jelly wrap, obviously needed a little more explanation.

In context, I was telling Abby that I felt quantity was important. When Abby writes a grocery list, it is good writing, so there is a level of quality that is already assumed. There are so many different styles of bloggers out there, and I thought we were mainly talking about blogs with a certain level of quality already there and not craptacular ones written in the voice of a two year old or holding a giveaway every other day.

In that context, when I think of quality, I think of those posts that stand out on Chicken and Cheese or Motherhood Uncensored that come along and take my breath away. While those writers find the time to post something almost every weekday, some days it is a short post with a picture and a punchline. Or some days it is one paragraph with a recent observation. While I'm not saying the shorter posts aren't quality, I was considering them not to be something that was left in draft for days while the author crafted sentence structure and carefully chose just the right words to insure that their thoughts would leave a lasting impression on their readers.

A subtle difference between craft and creation.

I guess I considered it a given that Abby and I would both be reading blogs with general subject/verb agreement, correct spelling, and posts that frequently envoke a deep thought or a deep feeling. I think we were, but I'm not sure when the question "quality or quantity" is asked to a general population of bloggers that the same thing is assumed.

I know there are bloggers out there who hate the term "mommyblogger." It's just a label though, and you can't control what other people call you. What I think they hate more than the word is the association with such a vast diversity of bloggers. There are mommybloggers who are fantastic writers, and write about life, not just motherhood. There are mommybloggers who blog mainly for family and friends, and it really doesn't matter how thought provoking they are as long as there are plenty of pictures of little LuLu in her Easter dress. There are mommybloggers who blog through their photography or their crafting. There are mommybloggers who don't know who they are and seem to change to fit the current trend every few months. There are mommybloggers who just want a free bottle of shampoo and something to give away to their "readers," who are really just people stopping by to win something.

There is also the problem of quality being subjective. I know good writing, and honestly, that's not always what I'm looking for in a blog. Most of the time, I'm looking for a connection too. Are you a blogger who has a homonym problem? Fine. I can overlook that because something else has made me interested in you and your family. Do you occasionly use your space to pimp out a product? Alright then. Because I already read you and care about your life, I don't mind the diversion.

That being said, I don't read terrible writing or dishonest writing. I don't read blogs whose authors aren't genuine or who have proven to be frighteningly crazy. Political conspriacy posts popping up in a normally well written blog? Might just be enough to convince me to remove that blog from my reader. Giveaways or sponsored posts making up the majority of your content? I'm likely to not stay interested.

But for me, blogging is about connections. And like the friend who always waits for you to call them, some bloggers just don't post enough for me to feel like I'm still invested in their lives. If their blog is the only connection I have with them (no emails, no Twitter, no Facebook), then surely it's understandable that I won't stay invested if they only post once or twice a month. I think Abby's first commenter, who also happens to be her very smart husband, put it in better terms when he suggested that quantity didn't have to refer to the frequency, but rather that regularity in which posting occurs. I can agree with that.

Obviously, this is something I've been thinking about a lot lately and not just over lunch with a friend. I've been thinking about it because using my blog to talk about what Little Bird and I did yesterday? Not why I started it. See, I wasn't even married when I started this blog. I wasn't a mommy. I wasn't a mommyblogger. This has always been a space to talk about my feelings and my life, and now? It's a mommyblog. I haven't been sure what to do about that.

I think I know now though. I keep writing. I keep writing as me, and because the people that read my words have connections with me? Then yes. I should write about what Little Bird and I did yesterday if I want to. Even if it was just snuggle and play. Because there is a base level of quality to my writing simply because I have a good English background and was never without a book in front of my face for the first 18 years of my life. However, I like incomplete sentences and I don't worry too much about ending a sentence with a preposition. But that's not the point. I'm not trying to win any writing awards here. I'm not trying to get a book deal.

I'm sharing and working things out in my words. And sharing requires some amount of "quantity." It's part of a working relationship, and part of my view of blogging.

What about you?

Impostomom

The other day, a plumber stopped by the house to give us a quote for moving our gas line. After he was done looking around, he started to ask me a couple of questions about the logistics of the project. Before he could finish one of them though, he stopped and said,

"I'm sorry, should I be asking the couple that lives here these things?"

He thought I was the nanny.

Heather agreed with me that it's because I'm hawt, although I won't leave the door shut on the possibility that it was because I look stupid young with my hair cut like it is and running around in rock'n'roll themed t-shirts. Whatever.

That is how I feel when we are out and about some days. Like the nanny. I definitely feel like I'm the woman who knows the least about being a mom.

At the playground today, a new mom (new to the playground, not new with a newborn) joined me in the sandbox. Her little girl was a month older than Little Bird, and her son was three I think. Her children were lovely, and she was very pleasant. All that to make sure that what I'm about to say doesn't reflect on her at all. It was totally me.

I was so nervous talking to her because I felt like at any moment she would come to the conclusion that I didn't have a clue about what I was doing. You know, as a mom.

The thing is, I do have a clue. I actually have a lot of confidence that what I'm doing for Bird is good and right. I see him flourishing - signing, talking, problem solving, dancing, singing, figuring out how things work - and I am so proud.

I guess what it boils down to is that I don't feel like I know how to be "a mom," but I'm pretty certain I've got being "Bird's mama" down pat. I can be comfortable knowing that is where my expertise begins and ends. With my Little Bird.

Not permitted

We have permits now for the work about to be done on our house. It took two trips to the office; one to get the paperwork and another to return it. The first trip that Little Bird and I took to the office took a long time because the permits lady was being incredibly helpful. And I don't say that sarcastically. She really was helpful.

The whole time she was meticulously gathering every scrap of paperwork I needed to obtain a permit from the city to even pee in my own yard, I was chasing Bird around the empty waiting room. He was intently interested in the goldfish and the telephone. He refused to be held, and I didn't have the stroller. He also enjoyed the water bottle they had on the floor by the front window - I guess to water their plants.

I kept retrieving him and trying to give him something else to be interested in, but he just kept going back to that damn phone. After every apology I issued to the lady helping me, she would say, "That's alright. He's not hurting anything." Still, I kept him under a tight thumb, because it was a place of business.

Today, I returned with moola and all the paperwork filled in. I also had my Babyhawk in tow. Before we went in the office, I strapped Bird onto my back and handed him his most favorite toy as of Sunday, the wand for the bubbles. He was so much easier to contain while strapped onto my back in his baby straightjacket.

It took forever because of the new lady at the office and because they stop to do whatever else in the middle of what they were already doing. Which is inefficient and annoying. It bugs me when I'm standing right there and yet three phone calls that came in after me get their attention away from what they were doing for me. That's what the hold button is for, people.

After everything was finally completed and we were about to leave, the woman who helped us on the first visit begins to tell me how much cuter my child was today. I honestly thought maybe his hair was brushed or she liked his shirt better or something. I wasn't sure, but then she said,

"Yes Sir, you are much cuter today than you were when you were tearing up my waiting room. I'm glad I don't have to spend all that time cleaning up after you today."

Um, WHAT? Did you seriously just say that to me and my baby? First of all, he didn't tear anything up in the waiting room. I wouldn't allow that. Second of all, I moved the telephone and the water bottle so that he couldn't reach them anymore, and I put them back just like I found them before we left. I even took a once around the room before leaving to make sure that everything was in it's place.

I replied to her, "I'm sure that I put everything back before we left, but I'm sorry that he bothered you."

Then she just said how much cuter he was again.

I guess I really am too sensitive, but she pissed me off. He's a baby for crying out loud. Babies get into things. He's curious and loves to explore. He was just being a baby. And I was just being a mama - balancing letting him be a baby with making sure that we were respectful to their workplace.

There is only one thing I know for sure, and it is that THAT woman? Doesn't have children. And I just deleted the nasty reason why I could have written. I'll keep that to myself.

Have you heard?

Did you know I have become crafty since giving birth? Did you know that I started blogging about it? Did you know that you can pop over and laugh with me through my attempts at sewing?

I have, and you can.

Today you can see some cutie pie t-shirts I whipped up for Little Bird. Come on over!

Reaching In

I don't know how to explain it, this grief that has permeated every thought this week. It's not like I knew her. We are fellow bloggers in the SVMoms group. Twitter friends. Internet acquaintances.

But the grief is real for her and her husband and everyone who did know Maddie. Everyone whose life she touched, and that includes mine.

The thing is, it didn't matter how well we knew her, how long we knew her, or if we knew her in real life or not. Maddie's eyes, her smile, warmed our hearts even as they brightened our screen. Her passing is beyond tragic.

There begins the cycle. I mourn for Maddie, and then I think about the unimaginable pain her parents feel, and I mourn for them. I know that I wouldn't be able to handle it.

Then this morning, the first email I read is one with the news that Shana lost her baby boy, Thalon yesterday. I'm so tempted to close down my computer and not come back for a week because I just can't bear the sadness. My stomach feels like a bowling ball has taken up residence, and my head hurts from holding back the tears.

But I won't shut down. Because whatever I feel, is only a tiny tiny fraction of the agony that Heather and Shana must feel right now and forever more. Being here, leaving comments, donating, praying, and supporting however I can is what I have to offer these two families whose pain is felt across the world by people who have never even met them.

This community - we feel what we feel deeply. We, if I may boldly say, shoulder some of the pain when another of us hurts. Every time I have lost a pregnancy, an unborn baby, the community has come together and woven a blanket of support to warm me. We helped carry Susan through a horrific battle with cancer. We do these things for each other as fellow mothers, writers, Twitters, bloggers, and friends.

So when Heather or Shana need a break from holding up the weight of their grief, I hope they know that there are thousands of hands, reaching in to hold it up for them for as long as they need us to.

Triangle area March for Maddie

Donate to Shana's family

Madeline Alice Spohr

Love and support is needed. Donations can be made to the March of Dimes via the button on Heather's page.

Be sure to stop by Maddie's page and learn more about the little girl who will be so missed.

Edited to add: Their blog is down right now, but you can donate in Maddie's memory directly by this link.

Home team

I have never cheered for a team where I went to school. College, that is. There wasn't a big competitive sports scene at the woman's college where I spent the first part of my higher education, and the second part - well - I was into my own scene, let's just say.

My family are die hard bleeding maroon Mississippi State fans, myself included. Great greats and grands, my father, uncle, brother, everyone - except moi - went up north to Starkpatch to get their higher education. There is even a dorm which bares my maiden name.

Momma and Daddy always had season tickets to the basketball games, and when my dad couldn't go, my mom would often give me the chance to ride up with her and see the game. Or see who I could see, was usually my agenda.

One trip up was a race against the clock to get me back in time for the SubDeb Formal. I think I got home with about 15 minutes to get ready. The pictures show it too. The Bulldogs were playing LSU, and my mom said it was going to be worth the drive to see the game. Not because it was going to be a good game, but because a little dude named Shaquille O'Neal was playing for LSU. Momma said that we shouldn't miss seeing him playing college ball. She was right.

Anyway, my NCAA bracket this year had my Bulldogs going up against the Tarheels for the Championship game. I tend to make my bracket out by who I like best. It usually doesn't go well, for I never ever advance any team from Florida and I definitely never advance UCLA no matter how good they are supposed to be.

Of course the Dawgs were knocked right out in the first round. We knew they would be, but I had to root for them anyway. They were my home team.

Were.

I sit here tonight, rooting for the Tarheels and feeling at home doing so. It's not my alma mater. It's not Kevin's either, but they do ever so graciously employ him. More and more Carolina blue has been making its way into our home. A sweatshirt here, a t-shirt there. We are becoming a Tarheel family through and through.

And it feels good. It feels good to be able to let go a little bit more of the things that keep me from being completely rooted here in North Carolina.

It feels good to be home.

On Notice

Little Bird grows faster than I can type apparently. He turned 14 months old last week, and I've barely had a moment to write about him.

During the day, we are too busy. I have a moment here and there to check in on Facebook and my moms' board, but to sit down and write an entire blog post? Get out of town. It ain't happening.

At night, I'm exhausted. Too tired to craft sentences that might possibly be artistic or meaningful. Some nights, that second glass of wine after the baby has gone to bed just wipes me out for any thought process. Plus, we recently got cable. I haven't had cable in years. Years, I tell you. It's amazing. Within the first few days, I already found myself ordering some skin care crap because Cindy Crawford told me to. I am too freaking gullible to have cable.

Anyway, Bird has been up to some tricks lately. It's amazing really. Everyday, he will do something new that shows me how much he is learning. They are little things to record, but such big things to a mama.

If he sees a set of keys, he picks them up and goes to the front door to try and "unlock" it.

He sits with a book in his lap, turns the pages, and "reads" out loud.

On his Music Together CD's, there are rhythm and tonal call and response exercises. He now "responds" to them, even if it isn't on pitch or rhythm yet.

He gives fishface kisses all day long.

When I get out the blender and start making a smoothie, he comes running and grabs hold of my legs in a big bear hug. Then, when I actually turn the blender on, he lets go of me and starts doing this little dance around the kitchen until I give him his straw cup full of fruity goodness.

If I forget to put the latch back on the cabinet doors? He tries to do it for me.

He is figuring out so many things all the time now. It is amazing.

Yesterday at our music class, a new session was starting. As we went around the room and introduced ourselves, I got to say that it was his year anniversary at Music Together. Watching him in that class now just blows me away. He knows the scarves and sticks and instruments. He knows when it's time to dance, and he knows when it's time for the quiet song. Little things, but big things for my Little Bird.

I notice these things. I guess because I'm his mama. I noticed when a couple of months ago, he lifted his arm to help me put it in his sleeve. I notice.

I hope that I never get too busy to notice, and so this space sits idle sometimes for days longer than I would like. But I can't help it. My little boy is growing up and I have so much to notice.

So proud

Tonight, Kevin,Christopher, and I went to the Food Lion near our house. We bought a lottery ticket, a 12 pack of beer, and some Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Classy.

Right now. Right where I am.

I'm crossing the line of another "I never" tonight. I'm going to play bunko. Although I have no idea what bunko actually is, I do know that until now, no one I have ever wanted to hang out with has played it.

Things change.

Kevin and I have decided to stay in the neighborhood where we are now. The house isn't as big as he would like. It isn't as new as he thinks I would like. It isn't as close to his work as either of us would like. However, it's ours. We remodeled it together to be just as we wanted it, and we love it. Well, I love it anyway. I love this house.

When we made the decision to stay, I made the decision to try and become part of the community that we live in. Here, wrapped safely in my words, I have no problem becoming a part of the community. I may flit from branch to branch within the community, but I do feel a part of it all.

Tonight I will have to wear something other than my written words.

My doula said to me last week after a reiki session that I needed to talk. That writing was fine, but there was a certain power given to words when they physically come out of the mouth. I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. She is so right.

Me don't talk so good.

But these are the women who are raising their children around mine. They are the women who play at the park. They are the women who will be at the neighborhood pool this summer. I want to know them and be a part of their community, and I want for my child to be a part as well. I think that it's important. Besides, I really like the women I have met so far, and at the very least we have motherhood in common. I find that motherhood can be a huge common ground.

I shouldn't forget to mention that having the coolest across the street neighbor to usher me into the community doesn't hurt. Maybe I'll change clothes 18 times before I leave tonight, but I'll leave with a little more confidence because I've already made a friend.

Now I must go stand and stare blankly at the content of my closet, hoping to find something that has less peanut butter on it than the jar I am wearing at the moment.

Silver linings

I'm not pregnant.

I won't have another miscarriage this month.

Hoo-freaking-ray.

There will be rainbows

I finally watched The Business of Being Born. I have both been looking forward to it and avoiding it all at the same time. I was pregnant with Little Bird when it was in theaters around here, and I wasn't brave enough to go and see it. I knew the basic message was in the over medicalization of birth, and I really wanted to stay with my OB. For some reason, I thought that she was wonderful and would make rainbows appear at Bird's birth.

If she had been at Bird's birth, then maybe she would have. Since she wasn't, we'll never know.

Instead, Dr. Jackass attended Bird's birth.

There is one thing I will not do, and that is question the way Bird came into this world. He and I got him here just like he needed to arrive.

However, there are things I don't have to do again, and won't be doing again. They are as follows:

• I will not be spread eagle in front of Dr. Jackass and have him roll his eyes at me for not pushing the way he thought I should push.
• I will not be in a position where I have to argue in the midst of my questionable pushing on whether or not a scalpel will be taken to my ladybits.
• I will not return to Rex Hospital where I had to fight the nurses day and night to breastfeed my child.

There are other options. I am capable of birthing my babies. I will make choices out of confidence and not fear next time. I will not second guess my ability to nurse my babies.

I will be strong, prepared, and accepting. My baby and I will make our own rainbows.

Now, I just need to stay pregnant.

Goin' to me happy place

Happy St. Patrick's Day from Little Bird, who seems to have taken up Irish Dancing.

Thirteen going on fabulous

A teenager lives in our house now. She moved in last Wednesday and kicked out the little girl who used to be here. So far, she has been just as sweet and delicious as the little girl, and honestly, I don't expect that to change. I'm not scared of these teenage years.

Lovely is now thirteen. On her birthday, she came home to a yard full of flamingos wishing her a "Happy Birthday!" She had requested shepherd's pie for her birthday dinner and also wanted a homemade chocolate cake with chocolate icing. She got both. I even whipped up some peanut butter mousse to put between the four layers of the cake to surprise her. And, to her amazement, I managed to write legibly, even nicely, if I do say so myself, on the top of the cake. She almost didn't believe I had done it.

Her daddy wanted some pictures made for her birthday. "Thirteen is special," he proclaimed. I think that can be loosely translated, "I would like to have one last shot at my baby girl," but I could be wrong.

The young woman she is becoming is quite remarkable. She has been through a lot the past few years, yet she continues to love with an open heart. She is also able to stand firm in her beliefs, and that will really suit her well as she enters high school.

As an example: a couple of weeks ago, I asked Lovely how her piano lesson was the night before. (I had been helping her with her music because she had a lot to accomplish in a very little amount of time, and because,well, quite frankly, she just wasn't being taught.) She opened up and talked for almost an hour about how her teacher had been telling her to lie to her father and me. She was to "forget" her assignment book so that I couldn't ask questions and was told to not let us know that the teacher had failed to register Lovely for a festival she had been preparing for.

Lovely said, and I do quote because I will never forget it, "It's not right for a teacher to ask me to lie to my parents."

Right on, dearie. That is an incredibly mature realization. If I had been able to stand up for that when I was even 17, I would have had a much easier time of things. It was so brave of her to open up and let us know what was going on and that it made her really uncomfortable.

This girl, this young woman, balances loving her brother and me with the knowledge that her mother tells her that she shouldn't. She balances loving her father and her mother with the knowledge that they don't love each other. She must know how much we all love her, or I don't see how she could do it.

She hasn't been dealt a fair lot as a child. But instead of it ruining her childhood, it is already apparent that she is using what she has learned about life to become a beautiful, remarkable, strong, loving, and courageous young woman.

I am proud to know her, and I am so grateful that my son has Lovely for a big sister.

Hello, My Name Is Anger

I'm angry. I should have known. The shortness, the depression, the feeling of being overwhelmed. The impatience with everyone, including strangers.

When the happy salesman came to my door this week, he rang the doorbell and then did an enthusiastic drum cadence with his knuckles as well. The dogs began barking, and the baby monitor hissed out the sounds of a just then napping baby rustling in his crib. I bolted to the front door and opened it just enough to stick my head out and snap, "I've got a sleeping baby in here. I don't care what you are selling." He jumped all four steps down from my stoop with his apology left hanging in a speech bubble that dripped with shame.

He didn't deserve that from me.

Someone attacked a friend of mine yesterday on a blog. Granted, I am a fiercely loyal friend, but it made me far more angry than it should have. I ached for her and wished that I could take on that other woman face to face. The things that ran through my head to say to her were cruel and hurtful. Very hurtful. I didn't say them, but I dwelled on them.

I told Girl this morning that I was feeling mean. She suggested that what I was feeling was really anger. She is so right.

I don't handle anger well. I have pushed it so far down into the places I never reach that when I do feel it, I don't recognize it. Anger doesn't wear disguises; I just don't know it. It stands quietly in front of me, waiting on me to give it the right name tag. I hand it, "Hello, my name is MEAN," or "HURT" or "SAD," and it patiently places each new tag on top of the other one, but answers to none of those names.

When I think about expressing anger, it frightens me. If I say that I'm angry that my parents and my brother's family get to celebrate everyday together, be it Valentine's Day or a talent show, I'm scared I will be misunderstood. It worries me that by feeling a jealous anger, they will think I'm angry at them. Which I'm not. Right beside the jealous anger sits gratitude that they have that time together. They make odd bedfellows, but there they are.

I just wish that I had that time with them too. And stepping back, I don't know if that emotion is anger or not. That one may be sadness. It's hard to tell.

Plus, expressing anger opens up a vulnerability. Back in September when I shut my blog down for awhile, I kept hearing, "Don't let her know you are angry. Don't let her think she got to you." I get that. I get that for some people, knowing you've made another person angry is some sort of victory. But that's not my problem. Was I angry that someone used my blog to violate my husband and try to ruin our first night out since the baby was born? Of course I was. Anger was an appropriate response, but I didn't show it because for some reason I thought that would make me weak.

I don't think anger wants anything from me. I don't think it expects me to dance with it, write songs about it, or paint with it. I think it just wants me to give it the right name tag. I start today.

I'm angry that I lost two more babies. In a row.
I'm angry at loss.

I'm angry that the best my doctor had to offer was, "It happens."
I'm angry at helplessness.

I'm angry that my parents can't come to see us and that I can't get to see them often enough.
I'm angry at disease.

I'm angry at the adults in Lovely's life who don't see her as her own person. Who make decisions for her based on their own desires and bitterness.
I'm angry at selfishness.

I don't live in the anger, but I have been living around it. Skirting it. Giving it all the wrong names. In that, I have given it stayability. I don't want that. Giving it all the wrong names lets it seep out into my everyday life and stain the relationships I have worked so hard to polish.

I name you, Anger, and I give you notice. You are only a feeling. You will not rule my life.

Oh, Gawd. Bewbs again.

For those of you who know me in real life, I hereby warn you that I am about to talk about my boobs. Again. You may click away now, or read at your own risk.

Catherine breastfed another woman's child this weekend. If you don't know the story and would like to, it can be found here. It's not directly related, but it's got me thinking.

I have two breasts. My momma has one. My friend has none. I still have two that I should be grateful for.

They are mine. I grew them. I have lived with them for almost 25 years now. For most of those years I hid them. I wore baggy shirts and sweaters that were too big. I was uncomfortable with the attention they garnered.

It was more attention than I ever received myself. In fact, this space is even overshadowed by them, with the most searched hits coming from "ginormous boobs" or some incarnation thereof.I suppose that is also because I continue to talk about them.

The first time my husband, then new boyfriend, saw them in just a camisole, he blurted, "My God! They're ginormous!" I quickly put the baggier shirt back on and slunk down in my seat. I wanted the focus to remain on me, not them. Betrayed by my breasts once again.

Only I wasn't. After the initial shock, he went right back to talking to me. My face, rather. He held my hand, put his arm around me, all without copping that oops-feel that even some of my friends' husbands have been guilty of copping. Later, I learned that Kevin's reaction to the girls and their girth was in fact just shock. He actually just considered it a big bonus and gave me reason to believe it too. And since my mother reads this blog, I will stop there.

After I became a mother, I expected to have an epiphany about my breasts. Learn the "real" purpose they serve. Open the heavens and sound the trumpets: breastfeeding. My boobies were created to be a food source to my babies. I would magically begin to respect them and they in turn would learn their place in this world. Which was about four inches lower than I had hoped for, but whatever.

The thing is, I don't think the heavens opened, and I don't think they were made just to feed babies.

You see, I have these hands. Two of them. They type, they play the piano, they change diapers, they bathe a child, they prepare meals, they clean this house. They do a multitude of things for every different part of my being. The writer, the musician, the mother, the wife, all use these hands.

It is the same with my breasts. They are functional; feeding my child. They are sexual; just ask my husband. They are decorative; clothes fit better with them than without them. They are all of these things to me.

The boobies belong to me. If I want to use them to feed my child, I can. If I want to use them to pump milk for another child, I can. If I want to use them to nurse another child, I can. If I want to use them to try and sell albums, I can. If I want to use them to reach orgasm, I can. If I want to use them to keep my toes warm, I can in another few years, I'm sure.

They belong to me. Yours belong to you. And no one. No one should be telling us what we should or shouldn't be doing with them.

Reconsidering the reasons

BlogHer, the conference, is something I assumed I would attend this year. I've been twice now, and it helps me give credit to what I do here, and here, and here, and here.

The first year I attended, I roomed with an amazing woman and got to hang with some super cool bloggettes. It was validating to be around so many great writers and to learn more about the craft and the business. I was inspired.

Then I got a little busy having a baby and all. There wasn't as much time to do the reviews I had been doing for Props and Pans. I got tired of always being down and dragging my blog through the muck. I kept up with it, but only half-heartedly.

By the time summer came, I was feeling a little better about things and Little Bird and I took off for BlogHer once again. We met my momma there, and she helped watch after Bird while I attended the conference.

Here's the thing. I didn't feel connected. Most of the people I knew and had hung with the year before were all attending outside events that I didn't know about and wasn't part of. It's hard to say that without sounding like sour grapes, and you certainly can't say it right after the conference or people get terribly defensive, and you get labeled a whiner.

I'm not whining, I'm just stating some facts. Facts that have been influencing how I look at blogging. Besides, what affected me was not that I wasn't invited to events, it was that I wasn't missed. As in, no one noticed that I wasn't there or included. I felt invisible. Plus, I didn't get to visit with the people I really wanted to visit with because they were busy. With these other things. Maybe invisible isn't the word, maybe it's just disconnected.

I've been doing this for a few years now, and I know that "canape" is one of those names that illicits the, "Oh yeah, I've heard of her," response. I also know that I have a small (but fantabulous) readership. I'm okay with that. I will not find my fame and fortune with blogging. I never intended to.

There are bloggers on every level who I consider friends. They are terrific women who I'm humbled to have personal relationships with. The thing is, they have their own circles of friends, so even though I have friends, I don't have a group of friends. I've had this issue my whole life. I can be friends with a jock, a geek, a freak, and a brain, but I never have fit in with the whole group of jocks, geeks, freaks, or brains.

I stand alone, in the end. Always alone at some point or another, but yet never forever. I'm working on learning how to be a part of a group. There are some women who have been schooling me in that for about 18 months now. It's a good lesson to learn.

In the meantime though, there is the question of BlogHer. It has come down to this for me:

• I am not ever going to do reviews for a living or on this blog.
  
• I will never have enough traffic to sell adspace here, nor will I be changing my writing style and content to make it so.
• While I love reading several different blogs, I have lost the urge to connect with every single blogger that I love in real life. I don't need to meet the musicians whose albums I love. It's become the same sort of thing.
  
• I have a bigger desire for the real life connections I make via the internet to happen locally. There are some amazing bloggers right here where I live, and I would like to cultivate relationships with them.
• For what it would cost me to go to BlogHer, my family could spend a week in the mountains.

That is the bottom line. Do I value networking and the possiblity of making a few more connections over giving my family some much needed time off together? Do I really think that I can accomplish enough at BlogHer to justify choosing it over a week off with my boys?

I just don't think so.

Having said that, I am not against going with a sponsorship. If some company wants to pay my way and have me wear their name plastered on my behind, that would be alright with me. I think the conference is a wonderful thing, and if I end up there this year, I would do some things differently.

I would be a little more outgoing. I would find out ahead of time what was going on and when, and I would get myself included. Because in the end, most of the events surrounding the conference weren't exclusive - getting left out is way different than being excluded.

We'll see. For now though, I'm going to book that cabin in the Appalachians and look forward to some quiet summer days with my family.

And I'm going to keep writing and reading. Because that's what this is all about in the end.

The big scary Bible

Little Bird and I like to go to the library. We read in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night before bed. We love books. I quickly learned that books are expensive, and that even though Mama gets bored of the same board books morning, noon, and night, it just isn't in the budget to keep buying books. And why should we when we can just go to the library?

Our trips to the library are short, as Little Bird mainly likes to pull books off of the shelves and place them in the bins around that are for reshelving. He also likes to stand at the little short shelves of board books and pull them out one at a time, examine the front and back of each book, and then hand it to me. I put some back and pull some to check out and take home.

The very first book Little Bird "selected" yesterday was a big sparkly book about Noah's Ark. We haven't started learning Bible stories yet - unless you count him chucking the baby Jesus from his Fisher Price nativity set with me crying out, "Noooooo! Don't throw the Son of God!" so I thought it would be good to start. I'll bet the Reverend Nana agrees.

When we got home, we sat down on the couch to read. I opened up the Noah's Ark book, and began,

"Noah was a good man.
He lived a holy life.
He had three grown-up sons,
And a kind and loving wife."

Okay. That's a nice story. Next page.

"God will send a frightening flood
To cover all the land.
And as the water rises,
There'll be no place left to stand.

I have to wipe the world clean
Because my people are so bad.
But I'll save you and your family,
So Noah, don't be sad."

Holy crap. I know the story. I went to a Presbyterian day school. I know all the stories. It hadn't occurred to me how freaking scary they are until now.

Evil snake in the garden. Cain and Abel. Job and the series of unfortunate events. Daniel getting thrown to the lions. Jonah and the whale. Then of course, the torture and crucifixion of Jesus. They are all freaking nightmare stories.

I believe in a God of grace and mercy. I want for my son to know of the goodness and kindness. He should know of the grace.

I guess that you have to tell the stories like these to get to the grace. I mean, the story of grace in my life involves death, divorces, and miscarriages. It's not a pretty story, it's just a happy ending. But without the first part of the story, there can be no grace.

Tell that to a 13 month old. No thanks. For now, I'm skipping over the story of the flood and just talking about the animals on the big boat. I think I'll leave out drunken Noah too, just for good measure.

Snowed in. Figuratively.

The posts lie unfinished in draft form. That is so not like me. I just can't seem to finish anything I start online lately. I owe someone a review, but it's going to be a bad review, so I can't get motivated to write it. I have posts about new mamas, posts about nursing, posts about reading, all in the hopper - unfinished.

Since I never got around to posting pictures of our snow day in January (at least, not that I can remember), I'm going to brighten this page with a few shots from today. Little Bird is a Snow Bird. He loves it. Poor old Gibson - it just made him nervous. He kept trying to nose Bird up out of the snow and clean off his little hands for him. That dog worries way too much about the baby.

These women who I love

There really has to be a better terminology than "in real life." You've probably seen it online - IRL - to denote between what is real and what occurs online. I used to use it. I've decided I'm done with the phrase.

The friends I've made via the internet are as real as the friends I get to see face to face. Granted, there are differences to the relationships, the history, and how they play out, but they are just as real.

It's my birthday. Yup. Today. Fat Tuesday. I freaking love it when my birthday falls on Mardi Gras. I get to stick a candle in a King Cake and dance around like a fool. It's awesome.

I got the best present this year. I had to beg for it, but I got it.

Kevin took me to Baltimore to see some of my friends. Some of my real friends. We spent the afternoon with a crowd of them, and then spent the night with Nita and her family. It was absolutely wonderful.

These women have invested themselves in my life. They have trusted me and given me reason to trust them. They have stayed with me through my cliched darkest days and brightest ones as well. We have grieved together and celebrated together. I honestly love them.

Gail, Amy, Jill, Nicole, Heather, Jessica, Nita were all there. I had never met any of them in person before, and yet there wasn't a moment of awkwardness. Well, except when I cried during my first Gail hug. Or cried again when I was telling Jill goodbye. Or when Amy texted and said that she was going to make it after all. Okay. So it was awkward when I kept crying. I couldn't help it though. I was too too happy.

Thank you, Kev, for going with me and meeting these fantastic women. I hope next time that the whole group can be together. The whole group of real friends.














Happy birthday to me. I'm a lucky lucky woman. And yes, I'm aware that my child is only 1 and is already a boob man. That has to be my favorite picture ever.

Happy birthday little Pippi

Little Bird's first friend turns one tomorrow. Her mama has a new blog, and it's a rather nice place to visit, especially whilst I gather myself again. I think you'll find though, that you'll want to stick around.

Add another to your reader, you know you want to.

First kiss

One of the best things about motherhood is that no day is completely and totally horribly bad. This day has tried its best, but it's just not making its way into the suck ass column.

My labs are back. Still pregnant, but not for long. Honestly, I don't know if the nurse said they were dropping or that they weren't climbing like they should be. After I heard, "Dr. Howell said to tell you she is so sorry," I sort of zoned out for the next part. All I know is that it's not a viable pregnancy, and I have an appointment on Monday. I guess I just hang out and wait to bleed now. Fun.

I got this news on the way to my La Leche League meeting. This is the meeting I first went to when Little Bird was 3 weeks old, and I've been going ever since. I did miss December because he was sick, and we missed January because I didn't realize the third Friday of the month wasn't the second Friday, thereby leaving me feeling stupid on the fourth Friday.

While turning around and going home was my first choice, I decided that I could use the company and it could help me take my mind off the bad news. So I kept going. And when I got there, no one else was there. I sat for about 10 minutes just in case they were all running late (unlikely), and then gave up.

When I came home, I looked up the meetings online, only to find that meeting has been completely deleted from the roster. I've been attending it for a year now, giving my contact information each month, and they didn't feel it necessary or even polite to contact the regulars to tell them they were dissolving that group? I'm not impressed.

What's left for a day that is starting out in full crap mode? A trip to Target, of course. Here's where the day starts getting better. Pushing a cart around, staring into the eyes of my little guy, I can't help but smile. He's reaching for things, talking up a storm, and basically warming me up from toe to head. A couple of swimsuits and a new toy later, our retail therapy session gave way to the need for a nap.

Here's where the bad day loses it's grip for sure.

Little Bird wakes up from his nap and begins chirping to himself in his crib. He talks to Mr. Bear, and plays with the mirror thing tied to the inside of the crib. I love it when he wakes up like this. I give him a few minutes to himself and then go upstairs to get him. I lean into his crib and tell him I'm going to get kisses when all of the sudden, he lays one on me.

My little boy planted a big smooch right on his mama's lips. Then he backed up, grinned, and threw his arms around my neck for a hug.

First kiss. I may not remember my first kiss from a sweaty pubescent suitor, but I will never forget this first kiss. It turned a very bad day into a much more bearable one.

Sorry, Cliff

It had to go. About 10 inches of hair hit the floor today. How very liberating. Clifford, I did put it off and think twice, but in the end, the shears won. If it makes you feel any better, my child cried and screamed when he saw me and clung to his Papa for dear life for what seemed like hours to me. He was not a fan of my new do.














In other news, my HCG levels were at 41 today. Which means that I'm pregnant. The nurse says reassuringly, "That's a good number," I guess because I don't sound very excited over her congratulatory call. It's hard to get excited about that when I was just telling everyone last month that I was pregnant. Then not. It's all becoming rather anticlimactic.

Humph. I'll believe it when - well - I was trying to pick a week, but I can't. Eight weeks? Twelve weeks? Twenty-four weeks? Who knows. Right now, I'm hopeful and scared. We would like for this to be a baby that comes along into our family say, Octoberish. But still. Humph.

Maybe, Baby.

Yakkity Yak

I blog in my head most of the time now. For some reason, I haven't been able to pull together cohesive posts as frequently as I used to. I blame it on busyness. I could blame it on distraction. The TV is on at night more than it used to be. Little Bird is awake more and eager to go go go.

It is worth noting that we have survived the first middle of the night vomit episode. Bird woke up Monday morning around 2:00 AM, and his cries were much more than just some nighttime stirring. I opened the door to his room and was hit with the putrid smell of acidic banana yogurt and cheese. Bird was covered in banana and noodles. He stood there in his crib, with this stunned look on his face, and then yakked up some more.

Needless to say, I've been a little busy with my boys. His daddy woke up as soon as I got back in bed around 4:30 AM, and ran to the bathroom to throw up. Both of my guys have needed extra loving care, so the post I have brewing about some amazing friends will have to wait just a little longer. It deserves more attention than I have to give it right this second.

For tonight, I give you some of the photos from Little Bird's one year old photo shoot. Which, of course, was almost a month ago. I am so behind on things. Enjoy.

Everything else can wait

Last week I found myself at a monthly gathering of women. It's mostly social, but the women on the invitation list are all very politically and community minded. I haven't been since I quit my job as director of a local non-profit. For some reason, I decided it was time to go back last week.

I baked my brownies to take, prepared dinner, and made sure that Kevin had everything he needed for Little Bird and himself before I left. Kevin was going to feed and bathe Bird and then I would be home to nurse and rock him to sleep.

When I arrived, I found the friend who I knew would be there. Getting to catch up with her for a few minutes was the deciding factor in my attendance in the first place. However, I didn't want to monopolize her entire evening, so after catching up for a few minutes, we moved on to join some other conversations.

After the common pleasantries regarding the wine, the food, and the view from the amazing downtown condo, the next question was always, "What do you do?"

I would answer, "I have a one year old. I stay at home with him."

Crickets chirping.

Chirp.

Chirp.

Chirp.

It is just the conversation stopper I had heard it would be.

Looking back on it, I could have said, "I'm a musician," or even "I'm a writer." Both are true, even if they aren't full-time work for me right now.

But the truth is, I do stay at home with my son. I am a mother first, and everything else comes after that. It was my natural reaction to answer that what I did was to be a mama.

The conversations didn't stop long. I was perfectly fine asking them about their jobs, talking about the economy, and even slipping back into conversations about the grants process and the state of arts funding in our community with a city councilwoman. Talking about what I used to do came naturally, and fit in with the evening, so I did it.

I don't want to only talk about what I used to do though, and on the way home, I thought it might be time for me to think about getting back into non-profit work. Maybe look into doing a little lobbying. I got excited driving home with possibilities of working for the community once again playing through my head.

As I walked through the front door, I had my mouth open, about to call out for Kevin. Before I could get a sound out, He came running on tiptoe down the stairs. Without the baby.

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" he said. "I've just gotten him to sleep."

All of the swirling thoughts that were spinning in my head dropped like anvils, and I started to cry. No rocking. No nursing. No Mama. He just went to sleep without me for the first time.

I realized right then that there was no job I could do that would be more important to me than being here for all the little things. Nothing that I could accomplish out there that would make me feel more fulfilled than to spend as much time with my son as possible right here.

Everything else can wait.

One Little Sheep

There is a story in the Bible about a shepherd with 100 sheep. One night, he is putting all of the sheep back in their pen and only counts 99 of them. He secures the 99 sheep and then goes to search high and low for the one missing sheep.

My heart hurts today for that one missing sheep.

Some of you know that I used to be the executive director for a non-profit music school for children from low-income families. Hundreds of children who were considered "at-risk" youth came through the school while I worked there, and for the most part, I have all of these warm fuzzy feelings about success stories. Children who decided to go to college. Children who earned places in the premier youth orchestra here in town. Children who got music scholarships to college. A clarinetist who ended up the top player in the state and is now at Harvard. Children who I when I bump into them, still give me a hug and have something good to say about their experience at the school.

Funding was granted because of our successes and our mission. Who could say no to giving music lessons and instruments to at-risk youth? Even the White House thought the program was super and in 2004 I took one of our students there to accept a Coming Up Taller Award from Laura Bush. I was proud of the work we did and the families we helped.

This morning, I turned on the news and saw the other side of the coin.

About six years ago, there was a little boy who had all the cards stacked against him. He was withdrawn. His mother got him to lessons late if she got him there at all. He was unresponsive with his teacher, although he really really wanted to learn to play. He was 10 years old with a tough guy attitude already trapping him behind a thick defensive wall. When his lessons were over though, he would come see me while he waited for his mother who often had to be called long after his lesson was over and told to come pick him up. We would talk, rather, I would talk and he would give me one word answers and at least one smile every week. He was the kind of boy that I knew had it in him to do great things, but had no support system. I fought like crazy to keep him in the program. Convinced his teacher weekly to be patient with him, rode his mother to get him there and get him there on time, and skirted around the attendance rules so that he wouldn't be kicked out. By the time he was 13, he disappeared. Phone disconnected, mail returned. Lost from our radar.

Last night he was arrested for murder. He's 16 years old.

It breaks my heart. It reminds me to look at the kids who get into trouble with the law and remember that at some point, somebody believed in them. It reminds me that most of the time, these are kids who had insurmountable issues at home, if they even had a home. Sure, they made their own choices and have to answer for them, but somewhere along the way, he was let down by the people who should have done right by him.

When I saw his mugshot on the news, I didn't see a murderer. I saw the little boy who never lost his drumsticks and always wanted to have his lesson even when his ride dropped him off so late that the next student had already started.

This little boy had potential to succeed, and the adults in his life failed him. Then he failed himself. I'm just so sad. I wish that I had tried harder to find this one sheep and keep him with us. Keep him in a program where he could learn self respect, good self esteem, and self discipline.

The 99 continue to make it worth all the work, but my heart is broken today for the one little sheep.

Cross posted at Triangle Mamas.

Respect the blog

"I may be just a little fairy, but I have a big vocabulary!"

It's my favorite line in Abby Cadabby's song "I Love Words." Christopher and I watch that video on the Sesame Street website at least three times a week. He sits on my lap and bounces while I sing along.

Although I haven't followed the 'no TV before 2' rule, we read far more than we watch TV. He gets about 15-20 minutes of Sesame Street in the afternoons, and on Sunday morning, we usually watch a weird little show called "Lomax, the Hound of Music." However, in this house, books rule. I want for my children to love words as much as I do.

I love reading words. I love writing words. I love prose, poetry, song lyrics. I will read anything. Cereal boxes, recipes, old letters that I've read 100 times before - it doesn't matter. I am fascinated by how words fit together like puzzle pieces to create exactly the right picture. Even when the words are crammed together like clowns in a tiny car and don't quite seem to work? I still love them.

I don't pretend to be a writer. Well, maybe I do, but not a good one. A few months ago, I took an online creative non-fiction class. The instructor was quite good, and I enjoyed the assignments very much. Truth is, I don't have the discipline to be a good writer right now. I would much rather sit down at my blog and type out what I could pay someone $200 an hour to listen to than craft rough draft after rough draft.

However.

The importance of these words cannot be discounted. I have found my words splogged across other sites. Ideas I have had and started here continue on without a mention of where they began. It's not cool. It's disrespectful. It needs to stop. Especially the particularly nasty sites where some perky titted naked chick poses above one of my posts about my baby. Creepy and wrong.

Kelly is spelling it out. Her writing made for a lovely article in The Times online. Only they didn't link to her. They mentioned her, but used huge amounts of her material without even a single link. No respect.

Mommyblogging is a radical act. We've discussed it. We all know it. We are telling the stories of motherhood in a new day and age. Connecting across boundaries that once were too far and too wide to reach. There is power in our writing and in our community.

It's time for us to respect ourselves and demand it from others too.

Respect the blog.








Go on over to Don Mills Diva and join the revolution. You deserve it.