Geez, people.  CAN’T OUR MOM BRAINS GET JUST ONE WEEK OFF?!  First the hot chick on TIME breastfeeding her kid, now this.  I feel like I’m about 2.5 seconds away from imploding from the sheer exhaustion of swirling around the media’s porcelian bowl.  On the other hand, this topic totally sparks my interest because we’re in that stage right now where we’re molding our little family, deciding what works for us.

I love Doug & Harrison in unique ways to what they bring to my life.  I love them for the different people that they are.  I love Doug for the strong partner he is & that’s not something Harrison can provide.  But I love Harrison for softness he gives my life & that’s not something Doug can do for me.  If there was a burning fire & I could only save one of them, I’d stand & sob that I couldn’t choose until Doug told me that he wants me to save Harry.

I’d do that because I know that’s what Doug would want, what I would want if it was Doug having to choose, but I wouldn’t be okay with it.

On the other hand, I put Doug first in our family & I hope that Harrison understands & respects that.

When Doug walks in the door, my goal is to greet him.  When Doug needs to talk, I give Harrison an independent activity.  If I’m serving up dinner, I serve Doug’s plate first.  (Doug does the same for me.)  I don’t always do it perfectly & I get distracted & sometimes Harrison is sick & demands my full attention.  Little spurts of life happen, but I try to focus on the bigger picture of our relationships.

I remember as a little girl watching my parents do the same & it never filled me with resentment, but rather a peace knowing that no matter what happened, my parents would be there together.  Their solid marriage was a comfort & coming home was a comfort.

For me, putting our marriage before children says “Hey babe, I know this is rough but I’m on your side.”  Parenting is work. Marriage is work, hard work.  So in the hustle & bustle of coming years, from more babies to new houses & soccer practices, I remind myself that it will all fade soon.  My babies will grow & take on their own life adventures & their own families; once again, it will just be me & Doug.

I don’t want to wonder in 20 years who I’m married to & whether he only liked me because I was the mother of his children.  I don’t want to wish back these years of babies & cling to the past.

I want to look at him & say, “Holy cow.  Look at this life we built together.”

I don’t know if you’re liberal or conservative or Christian or agnostic.  I don’t know whether you put signs in your front yard or prefer to keep quiet about political opinions.

I don’t usually talk about politics or religious theories because I never feel like I know enough .  If you’ve been reading here for awhile, it should not come as a shock to you that I am a registered Republican.  You know that I am a Christian, a Jesus-lover that also adores wine & a properly placed curse word.  I’m still growing up in my faith & political beliefs, know that they are firming & changing as I experience more of life.  But I do believe in love & equality & fairness of citizenship.

Today, North Carolina citizens will vote for or against an amendment to our consitution which will state that one man & one woman form the only legally recognized union in North Carolina.

When I see signs in yards that state “Another family FOR Amendment One!” I wonder if they feel this way because of a religious belief?  If it is solely based upon religious belief, how would they feel if the tables were reversed & the government forced an Islamic or Jewish or Hindu belief upon citizens?  Do they recognize it as prejudice & hate against a group of people?  What is so terrifying about gay marriage when there are children dying of starvation & young men being murdered for race & Britney Spears marries in a Vegas chapel for a few hours?

I believe in Jesus.
I do not believe the government should be ruled by religious agendas.
I believe that the greatest commandment Jesus gave was to love.
I do not believe that the people voting for this amendment in the name of Jesus are exemplifying the love & grace He asks His followers to show.

 I will be voting AGAINST Amendment One.

For more information:
yes for amendment one  |  no for amendment one

“So I unload the top of the dishwasher, then peek out to check. Unload the bottom dishwasher & peek out to check. Wipe down the counters & brew a cup of coffee & head outside for another 30 minutes.” ~from my Babble.com post

The comments poured in, different opinions & questions & then first neglect, then abuse.  oh, the rage.  It was strong.  Not because someone disagreed with my parenting choices or felt they were wrong – I highly expect that for every decision I make regarding my child.  I formula fed & suffered postpartum depression & don’t spank my child so if you think I still have a thin skin regarding parenting choices, try again.

My rage came from blatantly flippant use of the words “abuse” & “neglect.”

Definition of child abuse (per dictionary):
mistreatment of child: severe mistreatment of a child by a parent, guardian, or other adult responsible for his or her welfare, e.g. physical violence, neglect, sexual assault, or emotional cruelty

Definition of child neglect (childhelp.org):
Failure to provide for a child’s physical needs. This includes lack of supervision, inappropriate housing or shelter, inadequate provision of food and water, inappropriate clothing for season or weather, abandonment, denial of medical care and inadequate hygiene.

My child playing 10 feet away where I can hear & see him easily is not severe mistreatment.  Him learning independent play in a secure environment where I am seconds away is not careless disregard.

It makes me wonder if those that throw those harsh words around so easily have ever seen true neglect & abuse first-hand.  If they’ve ever lived with a nine-year-old boy that only weighs 40 lbs because his mother bought drugs instead of food.  If they’ve ever had to carry a hyperventilating six-year-old out of a store because a piece of glitter landed on her hand & she had a flashback to years of child pornography.  If they’ve ever sat with social workers for hours as part of a home study & heard a little boy say he was given to the devil.  Because I have & those are memories that marked my heart forever to where the word “abuse” is as strong as a racial slur or the R-word.

Child abuse & neglect are powerful words, real words that are real in our society.  They are the children that are starved & beaten & locked in closets, torn apart at the hands of people they know, molested & left for days.  Every ten seconds, a report of child abuse is made.  More than five children die every day as a result of abuse.  Child abuse is serious & it is a serious allegation.

I beg you to be mindful of the words used to describe another parent’s actions.  Are they truly abusing their child, causing danger to the child’s overall well-being?  Or is it a simple heated discussion where you feel you are right, by golly? 

Let’s talk about parenting.  Let’s share ideas & concerns & hopes & fears.  Feel free to disagree with me respectfully & accept that I may defend my stance.  But let’s have this parenting discourse responsibly.

If you do see child abuse & neglect happening, please call the National Child Abuse Hotline at 1-800-422-4453.

Hi. I'm wearing old jeans & an oversized sports shirt but my hair is clean & I'm wearing a bra.

This past week, Curvy Girls Guide posted a guest piece on “Why I’m Not a ‘Dirty Mom’.”  You know, the moms that roll up in sweatpants & three-day hair under a baseball cap on the regular because there’s nobody to impress in the carpool lane.  To sum it up, there was this gal that wrote a piece about how we females should dump the frump & put on some eyeliner to show ourselves & society some respect.

I read this piece in yoga pants stuffed into my beloved UGG boots with second-day hair & no make-up.

Oops.

Then there were the comments (because everyone knows the most entertaining part of blogging is the comments), ranging from “ROCK ON!” to “YOU SELF-IMPORTANT BITCH, I AM TRAINING MY CHILDREN TO BE FUTURE WORLD LEADERS SO STEP OFF MY NON-COVERGIRL NUTS.”   I know it’s the kiss of death in blogging to sit on the fence, but I admit that on this topic?  I’m straddling the fence & hoping I don’t get a camel toe from it.

...but sometimes I look like this.

I’m a total crap-shoot as a mom when it comes to fashion.  I either look cute or I look like a dog& there’s really not too much in-between.  I could blame my workload but I’m going to be honest – my physical appearance is usually a good indicator of my mental health.  If I look pretty, it means it’s a good day & I’m feeling self-confident & in control. My to-do list is being checked off, dinner is planned, & the kid’s face is scrubbed.  If I’m in yoga pants, it’s probably because they were the first thing on top of the laundry pile that I managed to recognize.  But sometimes, even when all I want are Doug’s tshirts & to never see a bottle of shampoo again, I put on jeans & a flannel & a little blush.  It’s not much, but it does make me feel human & doesn’t send me into a spiral of shame when I run into a neighbor at Target.

So I smell what K.C. Wells is steppin’ in.  Putting effort into myself tells me & society that “hey! I care about myself!  I’m more than a momma in a carpool lane!”  I think it’s important to put my best & freshest face forward on the regular & at the risk of feminist backlash, I think it’s nice for my husband to see me in more than a ponytail when he loves my hair down & curly.

On the other hand, she should have used a different word than “dirty.”  Getting primped isn’t something I necessarily enjoy.  I like getting my hair cut & I desire to be pretty, but I have never had the patience for a hairstyle that takes more than 5 minutes or a make-up routine that requires sponges & brushes.  But I’m not “dirty.”  I shower on the regular & I shave my legs & visit the dentist every six months.  I would simply rather be chasing Harrison outside than curling my hair & I’ll always choose reading a book over painting my nails.  That doesn’t make me a better mom, nor does it make me dirty.  It just makes me…me.

So sometimes I’m a walking commercial for Ann Taylor & sometimes I look like I’m headed to the gym when in truth, I haven’t had a gym membership since 2007.

But I promise if you hug me, I don’t smell.

He burries his nose further into my neck, shifting in my lap until his legs drape down across the sides & I think back to flannel swaddling blankets.  His hand grabs my pajamas & finds it’s way into my shirt until his little palm rests upon my belly, soft from pregnancy & motherhood.  He snuggles down further until his head rests against my chest & he’s listening to my heartbeat & comforted.  He knows me inside & out, the same way I know him.

I think back to the times when I was told that this bonding would not happen as long as he fed from a bottle.  I remember the comments about how nothing could compare to the bond between a child & nursing mother & I wonder why I take that phrase so personally.  How two years later, those thoughts still sting me because I love my baby, too & I think we’re pretty okay together.  I worried I would never experience my child needing me physically & now he finally calms as his head rests against the breasts that never fed him, & I know that bonding flows deeper than milk in all mothers & babies.

It’s called a toddler that decided sleep is for the birds.

That was at 4am.  He finally conked out at 4:30am.

He has two nightlights.
It’s not night terrors (those have an entirely different cry).
He has loveys.
He’s not hungry or thirsty.
He really doesn’t need to drop his nap because he’s not napping 50% of the time anyway.

Basically?  He wants to eff with us.  Which might be a strong sentiment except I’ve only had one cup of coffee & four hours of sleep.

(also, the difference between a newborn being awake all hours &  a toddler being awake all hours is the amount of noise. when a newborn is awake, at least one parent can sleep.  when a toddler is awake, even folks in china hear him.)

It started innocently right around the time I lost my job & we feel for the little guy because it’s obvious he feels the stress in the house.  There have been a lot of changes in his wee world over the past few months & my heart goes out to him.  First Daddy was home a bit, then we were both at work, then Momma came home & he’s overjoyed but missing his Auntie & why isn’t anything the same anymore?!  But Momma needs her REM cycle back & more importantly, the kiddo does too.  After nights of rocking & rocking & rocking in the small hours of the day & Doug camping out on a pallet in his room, & purchasing a star turtle & giving him warm milk, we realized yesterday that it was time to pull out the big guns.  All three of us were at each other’s throats constantly from pure exhaustion.  I snapped at Harrison, something I very rarely do.  So Doug & I shook hands & decided that last night was the night.

We dusted off our Ferber book & got the stopwatch on my iPhone working.

We turned Harrison’s lock around so that we could lock him in, thereby taking back control of his ability to leave his room.  (shall I pause here & clarify that we still go to him, but it means homeboy can’t sneak out at 3am?  good.)

We took out his workbench & garbage trucks.

I turned off his light at the fan so that he can’t party all night long under a ceiling light.  (oh buddy, did that piss him off!)

& we hit the sack by 9pm.

I got a pretty awesome workout going back & forth to his room last night, calmly telling him to “Get back in bed, it’s night-night time.”  Tuck him in, give him a pat on the back, & close the door behind me.  I’m hoping that tonight it won’t take 2 1/2 hours for it to sink in that Momma ain’t fooling around.  Also, this is what we woke up to this morning:

I think it’s fair to say he was pretty ticked that Harrison Rave 2012 was thwarted.

____________________________

& in good news, the reason that Momma can’t hang at 4am anymore is because I got an offer from Microsoft as a contract for their marketing department.

SAY WHAT?!

It’s a contract so I’m still on the hunt for a full-time job with bennies.  The great news is that the contract is on my terms as far as how many hours I work per week & when the contract ends & they fully understand that I am still looking for a job.  So Harry is with his Auntie a few hours per week so I can log in some hours at home & take conference calls & keep interviewing with other companies.  What’s that you say, Charlie?  WINNING.

Remember how you didn't want me as an admin? That's cool. Microsoft thinks I'm worth bringing in to their marketing department. So have a seat, please.

So when Harrison starts screaming at bedtime & I’ve told him firmly to get back in bed three separate times, he stares up at me with tears falling & says, “Up!!”  oh, my heart.

I find myself all sternly inner-dialoguing how I’m setting us up for failure when he’s three as I make my way to the rocking chair.  But then I remember how I’m knee-deep in my uterus & how soon, Harry will be going to sleepovers where he will be embarrassed to ever admit he was rocked to sleep & I can’t help myself.  I sit & I rock & tell him stories about the man on the moon until he’s calm.  His heartbeat slows & his breathing steadies & I know he’s asleep because that’s the kind of thing that mother’s just know.

He’s drooling on my shoulder.  It’s time to put the kiddo to bed, but in his earlier rage, all blankets & pillows ended in a pile on the floor.  Which means that I have to get up from the chair & put the bedding back together with 30 lbs of live ammunition on my shoulder.  Doug to the nursery, I think into the universe.  I wait a few minutes.  Hey, buddy.  To the nursery for pillow recon.

I contemplate the length of my legs, wondering if I can grab the pillow corner with my toes & toss it into the bed.  If I can do that, then I’ll have a legit excuse to run away with the circus.  I feel the drool seeping through my jammies.  The kid stirs & I freeze & send imaginary red flares into the sky. & I’m all WHY IS HE NOT READING MY ESP?!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!

What good is being married almost six years if he can’t read my mind?

We began talking about blogging – conferences, sponsorships, traffic & posts & the urge to grow despite the pressure to succeed.  It’s a hard balance.

I worry about being irrelavent.

I fear nobody understanding or taking my words wrong; some nights, I feel anxiety over that blue “Publish” button.

I care about stats & yes, that summer slow-down where traffic goes belly-up while everyone is on vacation.  Even though I don’t want to care.

So I make resolutions not to check stats.  Then I break that resolution.

I doubt my ability by comparing myself to others.

I feel twinges of envy when a friend of mine gets a specific sponsor, opportunity, free lance gig, email, etc.

I hope to make Babble’s Top lists, even though I’ve never made one.

I tell myself that blog post isn’t good enough, funny enough, just…enough.  I get writer’s block from those thoughts.

I’m guilty of saying, “Just five more minutes…” on Twitter at the end of the night.

I think Neville is hot.  oops, I don’t know how that one got in there.

The point is, I think we’re all the same the moment we sit down to type out words.

Especially how velvety her ears are.  I’m a firm believer that all that is bad in the world could be made right if we would all just rub a pup’s ears while discussing religion, politics, & the Cry It Out method.

She is so good to Harrison.  She stayed by my side throughout the flu.  She’s my co-pilot on our awful commutes (since the house is on the market, she stays at The Momma’s house during the day).

Plus, she’s really coming into her own these days.  She’ll be six in May, so it’s about time the ol’ girl showed some maturity to match the greying on her muzzle.

Since it is cold outside & she began sleeping in past 5:30am, we let her back in the bedroom.  She took that as an invite to make herself comfy.

Granted, I’d appreciate it if she’d stop freaking the eff out whenever she sees the leash.  Despite what the trainer said, I have proof that a dog can still properly freak the eff out with it’s rump firmly planted on the ground.

Also, I don’t know if bile actually “chunks,” but I was typing furiously.

Dear Silver Fox,

For so many years, I swooned over you, applauded you, admired your journalism, & calculated the many ways to seduce you.  You are a smart hunk of fine man-meat. But I think I’m going to end this relationship and trust me, it’s you.  Not me.

Listen, this horrible battle between stay-at-home mothers and working mothers is just old and pathetic and so message-boards-circa-2009.  Nobody wins that war — we all just end up with cat scratches and hurt feelings to lick.  Then you had to sensationalize it by adding the title, “Are Stay-At-Home Moms Lazy?” and I swear, chunks of bile rose in my throat…

you can read more about why I turned down an invite to seduce Anderson in a coat closet.