Awkwardness is...

having four people stand behind you in line at a public restroom while your 3- and 6-year-old take their time with #2 in both stalls of a two-stall bathroom.

The Friendly Skies

when you have three kids at the ages our kids are at (5 months, 3 years, 6 years), you don't go anywhere without a kid on your person. grocery store? take a kid. get your hair cut? take a kid. get the oil changed? take a kid. pick up drycleaning? take a kid.

you get my drift.

so, i knew when i decided to take this cross-country trek to visit my grad school roommate in colorado, i'd be -- you guessed it -- taking a kid.

make that two.

this is how it all started...my friend, you see, is having her first baby. initially thought to myself, "things are busy. i have a 5-month-old baby. i'll send a gift." but come on. she's seen me get drunk and moon people. that type of bond only comes along once in a lifetime. so, i decided i wanted to see her. and in the meantime, wouldn't it be fun to show my oldest child where mommy used to live before she was a mommy (leaving out the drunk, ass-showing parts of course).

brave? insane? both?

at any rate, i got all my shit and their shit together, which is a lot of shit (including a car seat and car seat base, thank you very much), had hubby and #2 drop us at the airport, and we were on our way.

there are many tips and tricks i have learned over the years when it comes to traveling with small children (i.e., wrap some new toys and have them open on the plane. it'll buy you at least half-an-hour). still, no matter how many things you pull out of your mary poppins carpet bag, when you travel with kids under five you either emerge irreparably scarred and damaged from the experience, vowing never ever to do it again. or, you learn from it and hope for better next time.

i fall somewhere in between. sort of like a hopeful crazy person.

still...traveling alone with kids? this was new terrain for me. and yes, i knew there would be moments that would shake me to the core. and there would be lessons. many, many lessons.

first, expect to get your bag searched by tsa. there is just no way when you have a fussy baby on your hip while simultaneously shoving four of those grey, bacteria-laden trays through the x-ray machine, folding a stroller and making sure your older child has stripped off all apropriate clothing to get through security that the airline gods won't add one more thing to your plate just for shits and giggles. it's just the way it goes. oh, and the guy will condescendingly remind you to take out your computer next time as your baby screams in your ear and your older kid whines that she's thirsty.

icing.

second, expect ryan gosling to sit next to you and your kids on the plane (and, yes, i am happily married to the father of my children, but that doesn't mean i'm blind). or someone that looks exactly like him. and, no, i'm not talking some notebook-ass shit here. i'm talking about having a hot guy bearing witness to your hot mess.

expect to humiliate yourself in front of ryan gosling in some utterly inconceivable way. like you'd never imagine farting in front of a hot guy right? in my case, i fell asleep with the baby strapped to my chest in a baby bjorn and proceeded to drool on his head. let me repeat that. i drooled on my sleeping child. to make matters worse, when you are seated next to a 6-year-old you can't expect to just wipe away said drool and pretend the whole thing didn't happen.

"eeeeeeeew! mommy you droooled on nate's head! eeeeeew!"

"oh honey, i did not. i just spit on him. by accident."

because spitting on your infant is much more attractive to ryan gosling than drooling.

expect to accidentally expose your tits or something that has to do with your tits. best case scenario is that some accoutrement linked to breastfeeding will find its way out of your bag and into the unlikeliest of hands. worst case is that you end up flashing some poor unsuspecting fool as you attempt to wrestle, um breastfeed, your baby. for me, this meant dropping the cone part of my breast pump out of my carryon onto the floor and having it tumble several rows up only to be discovered by a grumpy businessman who proceeded to stand up, turn around, and hold it up while hollering out to the entire plane "did someone lose a funnel?"

crickets. and then...

"that's my mommy's breast pump!"

i raised my hand sheepishly and the guy, who looked like he'd just touched shit, quickly tossed the funnel to me.

expect to trip. probably over a kid. and definitely in front of other people. happened to me no less than three times.

expect that how you think things will go most definitely will not be how things actually go. oh yeah -- and get used to laughing at yourself.

and, finally, if all else fails, remember that this too shall pass. and room service will make it all better.

Growing Up

there is something about age six that is...magical. it's this intoxicating mix of your kid growing and becoming more independent while still remaining your baby.

our oldest turned six in march and since then it has been a whirlwind of "growth" moments. there's all the things that used to invoke a "come with me, mama" or "do it with me, mama" whine --ice skating, swimming, going to the bathroom at a restaurant -- that she now does without hesitation on her own.



there's the fact that her opinions are actually logical now and not just the mad ramblings of a toddler/preschooler. there's that she actually has this wicked, biting sense of humor that has me doubled over on a daily basis. there's that we laugh at the same stuff. and not just poops and farts either, although that stuff is still way funny.

there's that she buckles her little brother (the older one) up in the car when it's time to run errands. there's that she comforts the baby when he's crying by making funny faces. there's that she tells her brother to hold hands when it's time to cross the street. there's that she can read and we don't have much longer where we can spell things we don't want her to understand.

there's that she simply gets it more than not these days. she sort of understands a lot of how things work in our little world and her place in it.

like I said...magical.





and along with this magical age comes a new emotion for this mother: pride. i see her grow and discover and become. and I'm proud. to think...she actually came out of me. i actually gave birth to this chatty little creature. a short six years ago, i was nursing her tiny, wrinkled, red little self. and look at her now. i was excited when she rolled over for the first time as an infant, took her first steps, said her first word...but, man, seeing her read, swim, ask the waitress for more ketchup on her own? it's those first teeny tiny steps she's taking to not needing me anymore...and, just like every mom before me, i'll miss it when she's grown up, but i'll know it's right when she's not clinging to me anymore. and good.



watching her do all these things, i can also picture her leaving home for college, but just for a split second. then I push the thought away. she may be doing all these crazy, wonderful new things by herself, but she's also still holding tightly onto my arm as we walk to the park.

for now, still my baby.

The Meaning of Motherhood

You don't know what true selflessness is until you take a dump with a baby strapped to your chest.

Ode to the Middle Child

"so, what are you guys going to do to mitigate weird middle kid syndrome?"

it was said in jest, of course, but still...can't deny the place of the middle kid in the family dynamic. our second, jack, doesn't have the drama and volume of his older sister or the mushy sweetness of his baby brother. so, where does that leave him? right in the middle. pretty agreeable and mellow. plays well on his own. waits patiently. smiles easily. always ready for a hug.

he's got his moments like any of them, but by all counts an easy kid. so easy in fact that this mommy often feels guilty tending to the other two more demanding children and leaving him to his own devices.

so, I'm bookmarking this page as a reminder. a reminder that just 'cause he's sweet, prefers making car noises in the quiet of his room, and gives hugs whenever you ask, you still gotta try with him, momma. he deserves it...and maybe even just a weeeee bit more since he doesn't demand it.


Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing


Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing


Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing


Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing

What Sleep Deprivation Can Do to Your Favorite Children's Books

So settled down to read my middle child his before-nap story today. He picks the book, we snuggle up, I read.

Today, he grabs one of our favorites.

"Oh, mommy loves this book. Noelle's Treasure Trail," I sing-song cheerfully.

"Mommy, what's a 'treasure trail'?"

Shit.

The actual name of our story? Noelle's Treasure Tale.

Sigh. All I can say is, Mama needs some sleep before she completely desecrates Harold and the Purple Crayon.

Been Awhile...

i can't believe how long it's been since i've sat down to write. so much has happened and it's hard to know where to start. so, i'll start with the obvious. three months ago today, i became a mama...again. the three-kid thing has kept me busy, to say the least. and starting work again a month ago adds a whole new layer of hectic to an already hectic life.

so, for the sake of just getting back into the blogging groove, i'm going to simply describe what is happening right now as i peck away with one hand on the computer: i am breastfeeding my youngest, putting my oldest's hair in a ponytail for soccer practice, and looking for a snack for the middle one. how am i doing all this you ask? i mean humans only come with two hands and two feet, right? (i say feet because, yes, yes, yes you have to use your feet when you have three. bedtime story with two and a fussy baby means you gotta bust out the bouncy chair and get to work...with your feet.)

picture this:

i do stop typing (although now that i think about it, the feet really could have come into play right here). as the baby is attached to my boob, my oldest holds his head in place while i use both hands to tie her hair back as she faces me. done. cradling the nursing baby with my left arm, i reach for a banana with my right. dig my nails in the top (a little squishy banana never killed anyone), hold it with my one free right hand, and peel the sides down with my mouth. done. baby continues to nurse for 10 more minutes. burp him, he pukes. done.

and that, my friends, in a nutshell is my life with three. it's all about figuring out ways to fully utilize parts of my body that, beforehand, i didn't fully consider to be essential in the grand scheme of raising children (knees, feet and hips, for instance).

i often find at the end of a day, when i've been taking care of all three on my own, it feels much like the culmination of an extremely challenging sporting event. i walk down the quiet stairs of my house, hope they all stay the eff asleep, and then, finally, yes finally, hear the applause. i smile and take a bow. No one is there, but you better believe the gold is mine...all mine.

you done good, mama, you done good.

First-Time Mama

So, I have a small group of friends who are either pregnant for the first time or just had their first baby, which has put me in a position that I never expected to be in when it comes to wee ones -- knowledgeable.

You do it once and other pregnant women want to commiserate. You do it a couple of times and they start asking for kernels of wisdom. You do it three times and, shit, you might as well be sitting on Mount Olympus speaking in tongues...baby tongues.

So, one of my friends recently told me she was pregnant for the first time. She had her first obgyn appointment and the Mister wanted to come along. She quickly texted me to ask what the protocol is for having the father of your unborn child in the room with you while another man, although licensed to do so, checks out your, um, girl.

I immediately started laughing, but then soon realized my dear friend was serious. So I got serious. It's a hard pill to swallow ladies...realizing your privates are not so private anymore. I had to break it to my compadre that her life was about to become a Larry David episode of awkward moments involving her vagina.

There was a day when dads sat by, sat aside, sat in the waiting room. Giving birth wasn't this magical, beautiful event to be shared. But no more. Now we got A Baby Story, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant and even an entire Discovery Health channel dedicated to pregnancy and childbirth. There is stuff out there that makes me want to stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes shut and yell "Lalalalalala!" at the top of my lungs to make it go away. And I've actually done the deed...a bunch of times.

At any rate, the question did bring me back. To the first time. A time when I was modest. Ok, more modest.

I remember being very clear with my husband that I wanted him holding my hand, stroking my hair, whispering comforting words...all the stuff you imagine a supportive husband would do while you are doing the unthinkable, the unimaginable. The point is, I wanted his attention above the waist. No way no how was my man going to see the storm a-brewin' below my waistline.

Operation Keep the Dream Alive was on.

And then my water broke. And I was in labor. And some medical students came in for observation while the doctor checked my cervix (which, by the way, is in your vagina). And the nurse threw one of my legs over to said husband to hold. And then I was pushing like I had to poop really bad. And then I heard "See the baby's head?" And then I saw my husband's eyes get really big. And then there was a baby. And then I couldn't give a flying fig what was happening below my waist.

With #3, there has been even more poking and prodding since I am officially of "advanced maternal age" and also have a history of preterm labor (oh snap!). Modesty, shmodesty. Plus, with a full six years of mothering under my belt, there's just things that make me shrug my shoulders that would have made me cringe in a previous life. I guess that's what happens. Not that I'm rockin' The Lindsay Lohan getting out of cars or anything, but when you get into this whole pregnancy-childbirth-mothering thing, you do have more of a hey-whatever-needs-to-get-done-and-whoever-needs-to-be-there-to-get-it-done attitude.

So I told her, let him come. Good practice. And you'll laugh one day. Soon.

Up next? The milk! The milk squirting uncontrollably out of your tits! Oooh, just wait until I spring that nugget on her...

Dear Grocery Cashier Lady

Dear Grocery Cashier Lady, Guy on the Street, Old Lady In the Bathroom at the Mall, Starbucks Girl, Weird Irish Guy at Party and Other Countless Strangers I Encounter Daily:

Yes, I am pregnant. Mutha-fuckin' pregnant. Eight months. I'm due February 8 (well not technically, but nine months is as long as this kid's likely to get a free gut ride.)

No I do not know the sex of the baby. Weee! Aren't surprises fun?

Yes, I know my stomach is big. Very big. In fact, if you ask my asshole or vagina, they both know it too. Go ahead...ask. I'm warning you, though, they've both been in miserable spirits for months and aren't likely to respond kindly.

If I don't know you, please don't touch me. Or my stomach. That has my baby inside. Especially if you're a weird old man. Next time you do, I'm going to feel free to grab your ass. Or kick you in the balls.

When you make noises like "Oooooh" or "Whooaaaa" or "Mmmmmmm!" or "Woooooweeee!" or "Wowza!" that's simply not cool. Just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I'm a free-admission circus act for your entertainment. Fuck off.

Don't stare. It's impolite. I'm not staring at the hair coming out of your nose.

Can we just keep our relationship all-business? I'm just trying to buy some shampoo and I'm in no mood to talk about whether this is my first, if I'm excited, my due date, if I think I'm going to go past my due date, how old my other kids are, or ooooh, wow, am I going to have my hands full. I'm just trying to make it through the day and into my bed where, hopefully, my husband won't breathe too loudly, I won't get a leg cramp, I'll get up to pee less than three times in one night, and I won't wrench my back trying to roll over after sleeping on my right arm to the point where I don't believe blood will ever flow to that part of my body again.

And above all, remember this, when a woman is eight months pregnant or more, she ain't feelin' the miracle. A watermelon sitting on your pelvis is not the easiest thing to haul around and it doesn't put you in the most charitable mood. We've answered your questions about due date, boy or girl, etc. a million times or more over the past five months, and we don't care anymore. I know these days, all I can think about is if I poop, will a baby come out?

Oh, and to the guy in the parking lot who leaned out his car window to get a better look and then proceeded to whisper "Whoa" when I walked by? Bet that was the first time a pregnant lady flipped you the bird, asshole.

Rounding the Bend...

I'm officially past the halfway mark at six months pregnant.

People now feel completely comfortable approaching me and asking when I'm due. It's not a question of if I am pregnant now, it's a question of "Is this lady going to drop a kid on the floor at any point while I'm checking out her groceries." Yes, I am THAT big. Just ask my vagina and asshole. They know best because each morning when I go to get out of bed, they scream at me, "You're going to stand up? Right now? FUUUUCK YOUUUUUU!"

i've also taken to telling people my due date is February instead of March just to mitigate some of the shock of hearing that I'm not due, like, tomorrow. I'm officially due March 8, but I'm truly shooting for 36 weeks at February 8.

And so, as I comfort my asshole and vagina, telling them not to worry so much and that everything is going to be just fine, I'm also resigning myself to the fact that pants are not in my future for the next three months. Not even maternity ones. My belly is sitting so low this time that the pesky seam on maternity pants (right around the hip area that separates the panel stretching from your pelvis to right under your tits, cuts off circulation. Not comfy. And the low-slung ones? No way. I might as well, put a rubberband around my hips.

So, what do I wear? Dresses, leggings, maternity tights. I'm making the best of it, but today for example, my body is covered entirely in sweater material. My tights are cable knit. My sweater is wool. I half expect my kids to start playing house with me like I'm one of their homemade-looking-but-Mommy-really-bought-you-at-the-store-for-way-too-much-money stuffed animals made out knit material.

On that note, I'm off to dive into the very last of my kids' Halloween candy. Toodles...

Happy Halloween!

makin' the most of the bump on halloween...

Didn't Know Anyone Was Actually Reading...

So, I've been served. Legally.

Yes, folks, the estate of C.S. Lewis (you know, the guy who wrote Chronicles of Narnia. Get it?) has issued a nasty gram against my little blog. Yes, my little blog.

When I think about people who see this blog I picture three people -- and I know all of them. I would say anything in this blog to them over the phone any day of the week.

But, the man he see-eth and he heareth. And he wants me to stop taking his name in vain. So, it is with a heavy heart that I must abandon the blog name "Chronicles of Momnia." That's where you come in...I need ideas for a new name...

The best I can come up with is "C.S. Lewis Sucks Balls," but that really doesn't have much to do with marriage or motherhood or me now does it?

Bring it...

Wildfire

So, the first day of preschool for Toddler Boy went swimmingly. It was basically an introductory hour-long session with just three other kids in his class of 10. Not a sniffle, not a tear. A kiss goodbye and he was off for a couple of hours of mommyless parallel play.

Fast-forward to the second day of preschool -- yesterday. Before we even left the house, things were headed south.

"Mama. I don't wanna go anaweeeear."

"Oh, but honey, don't you want to play with those fun trucks at school? Mrs. Matthews is so excited to see you today."

What a crock. My vision of Mrs. Matthews is that at about, oh, 11:15 (school gets out of 11:30) she starts foaming at the mouth, clawing at the door window, and mouthing, "HELP ME" as other staff walk by shaking their heads wishing they could help, but too frightened by what they knew lay behind that closed door.

I got him into the car with an apple sauce squeezie to calm his nerves. (Have you seen these things, by the way? They are like $55 for a pack of four apple sauce packs with a nozzle that dispenses apple sauce directly into your kids' mouth. No muss, no fuss. We are currently refinancing our home to afford weekly purchases of these ridiculous snacks.)

Got to school and he was starting to get excited to play with his favorite truck in class.

"I like-a the front-end loader."

No, trucks aren't just trucks to my kid.

"Great! Let's go see your front-end loader. Mrs. Matthews has it waiting for you!" I say, sounding like Minnie Mouse on crack.

We walked in, up the stairs and immediately, I spotted him. He was one of Jack's classmates. A pretty big 2-year-old, sucking his thumb, clutching his blanket, and eyeing everyone walking by with that I'm-gonna-blow look on his face.

Shit.

The kid reeked of instability. He could really, really throw a wrench into the delicate balance I had going on with J. We were already teetering on the edge. There were some nerves and resistance, but I'd managed to keep things moving without too much pushback. But, this guy. This guy could ruin it all.

I pretended not to see him and steered J away from his obvious nervous energy.

"I hang-a ma Batman backpack."

"Good job, sweetie. Almost time for Mrs. Matthews to open the door."

And right on cue...open the door she did. And there the kid went. It was like slow motion. His eyes turned red, he ripped off his shirt and his skin turned green right before my eyes.

"RRRRRRRRROWWWWWW!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

It was hard not to stare. Even though I've been in that very predicament many a time, when you see a kid losing his noodle like that, it's hard not to think to yourself, "If only he could see what an ass he's making of himself, he'd think twice before pulling that crap."

Shit was bananas.

Not sure how his dad managed to get him, flailing and screaming, over to the open door. But, right when he reached the door, Incredible Hulk did the unthinkable: He racked his own father's balls.

"Ooooh..." his father moaned.

I could not believe the chaos ensuing before my eyes, and all I wanted to do was get my kid through that open door without having him kick me in my...vagina. Ok, maybe not exactly the same thing.

J stood there wide-eyed and I could see his mind racing.

"What the fuck? This kid is bugging. Does he know something I don't? Are they making kid stew in that room or something?"

I knew time was of the essence. I pushed by Hulk's dad, still trying to recover from the unexpected attack on his gonads, gave J a kiss, and said, "Ok, it's time to play with your truck now!"

He looked at me incredulously as if to say, "Yeah, right. You expect me to walk into the pit of death without a fight? Ha. Guess again, lady."

And there he went. Tears, yelling, head tossing. The works.

I gave him a quick hug, said I'd be back to pick him up and glanced backward to see him and the Incredible Hulk, along with several other kids now, taking the term "mass hysteria" to new heights.

I wanted to blame Hulk's dad for the scene, but I knew better. It's like a bandaid. Gotta rip it off. Plus, he'd suffered enough.

I'm thinking next time, though, I'm going to put soundproof headphones and a blindfold on J on the way to class...

Old(er) Mama

It's different being pregnant at 37 than at 31.

First big difference? Fourteen weeks (and, so, yes, it's official that a bun is in the oven for the THIRD time) looks like about five months when we're talking about my gut. The baby is only about 7 centimeters long at this point and the rest I attribute to gas, steak-and-cheese subs and muscle memory. (You know. It's sort of like when you go swimming after being a swimmer all your life and your muscles just kind of know what to do. In this case, my midsection, upon conception, started expanding at a rapid pace because it knew, even before I did, what was coming down the pike.)

I know pregnant women have a tendency to exaggerate so let me just say that when I went to the doctor this past week, the nurse cheerfully asked me, "So, how far along are we now?" I said, "About three months," and she gasped. Gasped. "Holy shit, mama," she might as well have said, "You are going to be HUGE."

Let's get the joy part out of the way. Yes, beyond happy. Like ear-to-ear grinning happy. Like I'm so friggin' excited to see what sort of little ball of craziness is going to land in my lap in about six months (I never go the full term -- nine moths max) I could pee myself. In fact I do. Pee myself, that is. But that has nothing to do with happiness. Which brings me to...

#2 Big Difference Being Pregnant at 37 vs 31: I Need a Diaper
Bladder control is a long lost memory. The idea that I can actually control where and when urine exits my body is a joke. I laugh, I pee. I sneeze, I pee. I burp, I pee. I fart, I pee. I get to the nail-biter portion of Girl with a Dragon Tattoo, I pee.

Not like gallons of pee, but just a little squirt. Enough to make things uncomfortable and to make me feel that giving my toddler's Buzz Lightyear Pull-Ups a day in court is actually a reasonable consideration.

#3 Big Difference Being Pregnant at 37 vs 31: I Am a Sloth
I already have two young children ages five and two.Taking care of them, entertaining them, running around with them used to be a thing I could do even if I didn't feel like doing it on any particular day. In other words, if need be, I could dig deep. With this third pregnancy, I'm cutting corners...big time. I'm looking for an easy way out. Path of least resistance, please. Will they notice me if I lay on the floor here really, really still?

I put my toddler down for his afternoon nap the other week and asked my 5-year-old if she just, you know, wanted to hang out...in my bed...while I put my feet up on two pillows. She looked at me, clutching her army of Polly Pockets, with a look on her face that can only be described as sheer disgust.

I apologized as I face-planted in my pillows. The only thing I remember are tiny jabs on my stomach as I lay on my back. I guess if I wasn't going to play Pollies with her, she was going to use my belly as some sort of makeshift obstacle course for her teeny tiny plastic friends.

#4 Big Difference Being Pregnant at 37 vs 31: Doctors Raining on Your Gestitational Parade
I remember being pregnant with my first and having doctors and nurses fawn over me with happiness. "Congratulations!" "Wonderful news!" "You must be thrilled!"

Now, they're measuring the thickness of skin on my unborn child's neck for Down's and recommending we do a test for spina bifida. Fun. Pregnancy after 35 ain't no joke. You get statistics hurled at you on the regs. Like at age 35, your chances of having a baby with Down's is 1 in 400. Once you hit the big 4-0, that increases to 1 in 100. Awesome.

I know, in my head, that being pregnant at 37 presents risks and realities I didn't face as a younger mother. Still, sometimes you want to just revel in the joy of being pregnant and the anticipation of looking into your child's eyes for the first time without all the worry. It's amazing how for granted I took those untethered joys of my previous pregnancies.

Now before I go believing what my nanny said to me the other day about "Bearing children is for the young," I will say there are things about this third pregnancy as an older -- and hopefully wiser -- woman that make it the easiest one by far.

#5 Big Difference Being Pregnant at 37 vs 31: I Know What the Fuck I'm Doing
Instead of blindly throwing darts at a parenting dart board, I kinda, sorta know what's going to happen and how to deal with it. I know my nipples are going to be sore from breastfeeding, but that will only last for six months or so. I know the baby will wake up for every 2-3 hours for the first several months of its life, but that in time, I will sleep more. I know there will be temper tantrums, but that they aren't some sort of sign that I'm fucking up as a mother.

I know they'll eventually shit in a toilet.

In other words, I know each stage -- easy or difficult -- is not a permanent state. They change. They grow. Things pass. The next stage comes. You deal. You grow.

Things don't last forever. Even colic.

#6 Big Difference Being Pregnant at 37 vs 31: My Husband Knows What the Fuck He's Doing
You know one thing they don't tell you when you have a kid is how annoying your husband becomes. Seriously. When did this guy you pledged to love and spend your life with become the clueless village idiot? Oh, and by the way, when did you become the all-knowing, all-powerful Mother? I guess I should maybe call this part, "I Know What the Fuck I"m doing So I'm Less Inclined to Take it Out on the Guy Who Knows Even Less."

Without getting into all the gory details, my marriage has grown -- blossomed if you will -- as a result of having our children. Not that I guarantee this result for all families or that all families even need what we needed, but we went through some hardcore years of self-discovery and came out the other side as better spouses and parents (in my opinion at least). Our children were the catalyst for this change.

Now, I can say without reservation that my husband has actually taught me a thing or two about parenting. And, I'm sure he'll continue to do so. I couldn't have said that with #1...or #2 for that matter.

I'm sure as time goes on, I'll see even more differences with this third venture into parenthood and the previous ones. They all have their unique flavor. I can say my first child taught me some hard lessons about myself, and what I needed to change. My second taught me to relax and enjoy motherhood. And this third? Well, we'll just have to wait and see. But, I'm guessing that, at the very least, he or she is going to teach me to accept that minivans aren't a sign my life is over.

New Beginnings

There were tears all around. Kids. Parents. Even the clicking cameras sounded anxious and...sad.

I sat on the side smiling at my child. She bit her lip nervously and managed a weak smile.

The night before we sat huddled under her covers, hoping we could shut out today. We'd spent the day combating her first school-day nerves by pumping up kindergarten to be a land of fairies, stories, games and cotton candy; comparing it to preschool and summer camp; relaying our own experiences as equally scared kindergarteners; and answering any and all questions about big-girl school. By evening, we were all kindergartened out.

"I don't want to go, Mommy."

"I know, sweetie. I know you're nervous and scared and I felt the same way when I started kindergarten. But, tell me. If Mama said 'Ok, Marley. You don't have to go to school. You can stay home.' What would you say?"

Holding my breath...I waited. After what seemed like the longest pause ever she answered:

"No Mama. I have to go because I have learning to do."

I kissed her on the forehead and squeezed her tight, holding back tears. I said goodnight, promised her Daddy's famous Saturday-only pancakes in the morning and went off to my room.

I sat in my bed and cried. But, it wasn't because my baby was growing up and leaving me. It was because my baby was growing up and I was proud.

So, there we were, first day of school. The teacher was about to lead the line of kids inside to their classroom. A mother stood next to me with sunglasses on, nose red, sniffling, holding her younger child and staring longingly at her older child.

"Don't worry, honey," her husband comforted. "He's going to be fine."

I felt a small pang of sadness and looked over at my first born. And then she waved to me. Suddenly, that timid, unsure smile cracked wide open.

"Bye Mama!"

"Bye, honey! Have so much fun today!"

And that's how I left her. As I walked away -- no red nose, no tears -- I smiled.

Yes, my child was going to be just fine.

Red, White and Blue

Happy 4th of July! xoxo

When My Ovaries Speak, I Listen

So, my business has taken off. It's been taking off, but I can finally say it HAS taken off and that feels pretty damn good. Lots of hard work, a supportive husband and great clients that refer me new clients...professional life is good.

On the home front, M is finishing up two weeks of her first camp experience, and she has loved every minute of it. Potty training the littlest one is progressing smoothly and now, gearing up for his big boy bed. Summer date nights with the husband where I get to feel like his girlfriend and not the mother of his children are in abundance. Leaving for vacation in a week. Family life is good.

Just as things are settling into a nice rythym, a whole slew of friends have up and decided to either a.) get pregnant or b.) give birth (that baby I'm holding is just one of of the army of infants -- girls by the way -- that have recently entered into my world). I am surrounded by babies. Literally. This has awakened a semi-dormant, but oh-so-familiar drumming on my ovaries that I've been aware of since a year after I gave birth to my second. The message is loud clear:

MUST HAVE MORE BABIES.

Ok, not completely accurate. Maybe just one more baby.

There I said it. I want another baby. Oh, and in case you're wondering about the guy who needs to be on board to make this third-baby deal happen...He wants another one too. And I didn't have to twist his arm. Pinky swear.

I've been treating my baby fever over the last year -- which can only be attributed to biology since anyone who knows me, knows I'm not by nature a baby person -- with regular doses of work, cute clothes that would NOT fit a pregnant belly, and a if-it-happens-it-happens attitude.

More than that, though, the reality of two miscarriages early on has forced me to adopt a more emotionally cautious approach to the possibility of a third child. (Did you buy that? Good. I'm glad someone did because it's utter bullshit. Me. Want. Baby.)

But the reality is, although M regularly tells me I look "like a teenager" (God, I love that kid), my eggs are far from those of a teenager. If we really want to have a third, the time is now. I never thought we'd be that couple where sex would be a means to an end. The first two were definitely just part of our regular, um, routine. (I'll stop there because I know my inlaws read this blog.)

That is the reality, though. In a nutshell, gotta make good use of any remaining youngish eggs I may have left. So we're off to the races...with my doctor in tow. Hoping that ovulation kits, progesterone supplements and baby aspirin will put a little pep in my reproductive step.

Fingers crossed...

What Does She Know Anyhow?

Apparently, we're gross. As in my husband and me. We're especially gross when we kiss.

"It's too mushy looking," she declared today. "Like this."

(See above picture.)

As if mocking our love wasn't enough, she then shivered in disgust at the very thought of our lips touching.

"I think you guys should just stick to hugs."

Progress

I did it. I bought my ticket. Come August I'm headed to Bangkok, Thailand for 10 days with my mom, dad and brother -- sans kids and husband. As I've written about before, my mom is not well and not getting better. So, it was important for me to get off my woe-is-me ass and get there, literally and figuratively.

I'll have QT with my mother, brother and father,which I haven't had in years. I'm looking forward to it, but also combating butterflies. Haven't been away from my kids and their dad for more than a few days since giving birth to M five years ago.

Ten days is a long time.

I've already requested that my husband please, please, please put on his safety hat, do the safety dance or whatever it takes for the 10 days while I'm away. "Pretend you're the nerdy, no-fun parent while I'm away...paaaaalease. When I get back, you can revert to being the third kid...promise."

At the same time, there is something I am looking forward to while I am away...rest. I fully expect to return to the states smarter, nicer and younger after having had ten nights of uninterrupted sleep.

Can't beat that with a stick...

Day 19: Goofin'

Sometimes the most fun you have is when you're doing absolutely nothing. You go out to dinner with the kids to a low-rent, fast-food-type restaurant and simply fuck around.

Bliss...