mommyhood is...

Aiming all of the air vents toward the back seat on a 100 degree day (bonus points for being 7 and a half months pregnant).

Leaving the bedroom door open all night to be sure to hear those first little noises in the morning.

Timing your showers with an episode of Elmo's World.

Reading Sam and the Firefly 4,767 times. Which is probably about 4,765 more times than you actually wanted to.

Wanting to go in and watch your sweet sleeping one's face... but not as badly as wanting them to stay sweet and sleeping.

Relating to the parents of reality show contestants sometimes even more so than the contestants themselves (hey, proud mama crying in the audience... I totally feel ya).

Taking more pictures and videos over a year and half than the other 26 years of your life combined. And thinking everyone surely wants to look at them as much as you do.

Becoming fluent in toddler-ese.

Realizing a dream by driving home a Toyota Sienna, humming the "Swagger Wagon" song to yourself as you pull out of the lot (past all of the hot convertibles... which are just SO not practical right now).

think on this

If you are a mommy (or a daddy), most especially of the stay-at-home variety, read this. I found that it said a lot of the things I have said or though about the importance and difficulty and monotony and wonder and drudgery and joy of being home with kids all day in such a beautiful, empowering way.

territorial

I've been determined since the moment I found out I was expecting #2 that I would keep up my gym routine this time and not turn into a York peppermint devouring walrus. So I've been half successful. (I love me some York mints, especially when I'm busy growing a human.) I still hit the gym 3 or 4 times a week, rocking it out on the spin bike or balancing my pregnant self on an exercise ball to do some chest presses. Not gonna lie, I expect people to be a little impressed when I waddle myself into an hour long group exercise class. I notice the double takes and a shoot back a hell-yeah-I-can-grow-a-human-AND-pump-it-up-WHATUPSUCKA look. It's a look I've really begun to master. I've got the pregnant girl at the gym act down pat. It's one of the perks, folks, what can I say? Doesn't hurt that there's not really any competition.

Until today.

I walked into my usual Thursday morning spin class and started setting up my bike and stretching all nonchalant-like when SHE walked in. Slightly sweaty like maybe she had been working out BEFORE class. Cute as a button. And very much pregnant.

Aw, heck naw. I've been dethroned.

will the real june cleaver please stand up?

I got a sweet note from a friend after my last blog entry thanking me for being "real" on my blog. She said other bloggers (and I'm sure other moms on the playground and in books and magazines and on TV shows) sometimes made her feel that she is falling short of some "good mom" goal and she appreciated reading that someone else might not have it all together either but still managed to get by, maybe even joyfully.

Here's what I want to know: where are they?

Where are all of these "got it together" mamas that we hold ourselves up to and constantly, helplessly, obviously fall short of? I’m sure even those intimidating women I see at the gym with their huge rings and coordinating gym clothes and mammoth SUVs and daughters with matching hairbows feel like they are falling short somewhere. Because most of the women I talk to - real women with real children and lives and husbands and houses that get dirty and laundry that's not done and frozen pizza for dinner - rarely ever seem to feel that they've "got it together". But what does that mean? Where do we get the idea from that mothering has anything to do with being "together"? In my opinion, it has much more to do with just being PRESENT.

Shortly after reading my friend's message, I read another blog entry about very much the same thing. Another mom who might not have a house that looks like the photos in a Real Simple article, but who has identified priorities for herself and her children. Her post centers, to me, around this little snippet of wisdom:

"And then I remember what my most important parenting job is. And that is to teach my children how to deal with being human. Because most likely, that’s where they’re headed. No matter what I do, they’re headed towards being jacked-up humans faster than three brake-less railroad cars.There is really only one way to deal gracefully with being a jacked-up human, and that is this: Forgive yourself."

Can I get an "amen"? How can we teach our children how to gracefully navigate life, mistakes and all, if we pretend to never make them?

At the end of her entry, this blogger asks her readers to leave comments telling what makes them a good mom. Not what they need to fix or forget to do or think that the lady in front of them at carpool does better, but what they do well all on their very own. I think for me it is that I do recognize every day that I am not a perfect mother or wife or housekeeper. My living room rug is currently host to enough dog hair to cover another good sized dog and there is laundry on the bedroom floor that has been there for at least a day or two. I'm not sure what we're having for dinner and it may very well come out of the freezer. But I love my daughter. I love being her mother. She makes me laugh every single day. And what I am good at is allowing myself to fall short of perfect so that I can find joy in those fleeting moments. I’ve found that for me to be a happy, and therefore I think a “better” mother, it's more important to me to BE together than to HAVE IT together.

Happy Mother’s Day, mamas. You’re all awesome.

a likely story

If I write another blog entry about how I'm going to be better about writing more consistent blog entries, I'm going to be annoyed with myself. So suffice it to say that I really have no excuse other than my long queue on Hulu and a strong desire for afternoon naps. I would say that I also suffer from a lack of interesting things to blog about lately, but some of my most favorite bloggers post nearly every day and always seem to make themselves seem interesting, funny, thoughtful, or all of the above. Plus I have pretty much the most adorable genius baby (eek... I guess I should say toddler... that little stinker will be EIGHTEEN MONTHS old next week) ever in life, so writing about her alone should provide blog fodder for all eternity. I guess I just need to start looking at life through blog-colored glasses. Or just take a healthy dose of ego and assume that everyone finds my life fascinating.

Today I got to be a single mom for a day since Joe went to Augusta for his cousin's med school hooding (YAY Kate!). MAD PROPS to all the single mamas out there. On days when I don't leave home early to teach Joe doesn't usually come home until 5:30ish anyway, but those few hours of having both of us home to share parenting duties is such a joy, not to mention a relief. I just like having someone else there to make decisions, even if it's just what to make Laine for dinner. It's also much harder to be a single CAR-LESS mom, but Laine and I rocked it out today and filled our afternoon with an impromptu playdate with one of her many gentleman callers, a walk to the park (on top of my hour and a half at the gym this morning... wham bam thank you MA'AM... and you bet your fanny I'm bragging on my walrus-y pregnant self), peanut butter and "chocolate" (nutella) for dinner, and a late bedtime because Mommy is a sucker for "again" when it comes to lullabies. I like days when I feel like I am on top of my mommy game, because I know our little world is about to be rocked in approximately 4 months time. Sometimes that seems like an eternity, but on days like this when I did most things right and got some exercise and took a nap and I can sink onto the couch exhausted and satisfied with a quietly sleeping toddler and a sink empty of dishes at 7:30 ready to watch some American Idol... I think 4 months might be just long enough.

IT'S A...

Because we can't do anything the "normal" way. And because my students are incredible.



Can't wait to meet you, little man. We love you already.

tina fey's prayer

(Sadly,) I am not Tina Fey. And so, since I can not be any funnier, more concise and direct, or find a better way to combine heartfelt pleading with wit and light-heartedness, I will just post her prayer for her daughter here. And then probably tape it to my bathroom mirror.

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.